Title: Eline Vere
Author: Couperus, Louis
Language: English
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                         Holland Fiction Series

                               ELINE VERE


                      TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH OF
                             LOUIS COUPERUS

                                   BY
                              J. T. GREIN

                          WITH AN INTRODUCTION
                            BY EDMUND GOSSE


                                NEW·YORK
                          D. APPLETON AND CO.
                                  1892



INTRODUCTION.

THE DUTCH SENSITIVISTS.


In the intellectual history of all countries we find the same
phenomenon incessantly recurring. New writers, new artists, new
composers arise in revolt against what has delighted their grandfathers
and satisfied their fathers. These young men, pressed together at
first, by external opposition, into a serried phalanx, gradually win
their way, become themselves the delight and then the satisfaction of
their contemporaries, and, falling apart as success is secured to them,
come to seem lax, effete, and obsolete to a new race of youths, who
effect a fresh æsthetic revolution. In small communities, these
movements are often to be observed more precisely than in larger ones.
But they are very tardily perceived by foreigners, the established
authorities in art and literature retaining their exclusive place in
dictionaries and handbooks long after the claim of their juniors to be
observed with attention has been practically conceded at home.

For this reason, partly, and partly also because the mental life of
Holland receives little attention in this country, no account has yet
been taken of the revolution in Dutch taste which has occupied the last
six or seven years. I believe that the present occasion is the first on
which it has been brought to the notice of any English-speaking public.
There exists, however, in Holland, at this moment, a group of young
writers, most of them between thirty-five and twenty-five years of age,
who exhibit a violent zeal for literature, passing often into
extravagance, who repudiate, sometimes with ferocity, the rather sleepy
Dutch authorship of the last forty years, and who are held together, or
crushed together, by the weight of antiquated taste and indifference to
executive merit which they experience around them. Certain facts seem
to be undeniable: first, that every young man of letters in Holland,
whose work is really promising, has joined the camp; and secondly,
that, with all the ferment and crudity inseparable from prose and verse
composed in direct opposition to existing canons of taste, the poems
and the stories of these young Dutchmen are often full of beauty and
delicacy. They have read much in their boyhood; they have imitated
Rossetti and Keats; they have been fascinated by certain Frenchmen, by
Flaubert, by Goncourt, particularly by Huysmans, who is a far-away
kinsman of their own; they have studied the disquieting stories of
Edgar Poe. But these influences are passing away, and those who know
something of current Dutch belles-lettres can realize best how
imperatively a ploughing up of the phlegmatic tradition of Dutch
thought was required before a new crop of imagination could spring up.

Rejecting the conventional aspects of contemporary Dutch literature, I
will now attempt to give some sketch of the present situation as it
appears to a foreign critic observing the field without prejudice. The
latest novelist of great importance was Madame Gertrude
Bosboom-Toussaint, who was born in 1821. After having written a long
series of historical romances for nearly forty years, this intelligent
woman and careful writer broke with her own assured public, and took up
the discussion of psychological questions. She treated the problem of
Socialism in Raymond de Schrijnwerker and the status of woman in Majoor
Frans. Madame Bosboom-Toussaint died in 1886, just too early to welcome
the new school of writers, with whom she would probably have had more
sympathy than any of her contemporaries. Her place in popular esteem
was taken for a short time by Miss Opzomer (A. S. C. Wallis), whose
long novels have been translated into English, In dagen van strijd (“In
Troubled Times”) and Vorstengunst (“Royal Favor”). She had genuine
talent, but her style was heavy and tedious. After the new wind began
to blow, although she was still young, she married, went to Hungary,
and gave up writing novels.

Three authors of importance, each, by a curious coincidence, born in
the year 1826, fill up the interval between the old and new generation.
These are Dekker, Busken-Huët, and Vosmaer. Edward Douwes Dekker, whose
novel of Max Havelaar dates from 1858, was a man of exceptional genius.
Bred in the interior of Java, he observed the social conditions of life
in the Dutch Indies as no one else had done, but his one great book
remained a solitary one. He died in 1887 without having justified the
very high hopes awakened by that extraordinary and revolutionary work.
The career of Konrad Busken-Huët was very different. The principal
literary critic of Holland in his generation, he aimed at being the
Sainte-Beuve of the Dutch, and in his early days, as the dreaded
“Thrasybulus” of journalism, he did much to awaken thought. His volumes
of criticism are extremely numerous, and exercised a wholesome
influence during his own time. He died in Paris in April, 1886. These
two writers have had a strong effect on the prose style of the younger
school of essayists and novelists. They lived long enough to observe
the dawn of the new literature, and their relations with the latest
writers were cordial if somewhat reserved.

What Douwes Dekker and Busken-Huët did in prose, was effected in poetry
by Carel Vosmaer. This estimable man, who died in 1888, was well known
throughout Europe as an art-critic and an authority on Rembrandt. In
Holland he was pre-eminent as the soul of a literary newspaper, the
Nederlandsche Spectator, which took an independent line in literary
criticism, and affected to lead public taste in directions less
provincial and old-fashioned than the rest of the Dutch press. Vosmaer
wrote also several volumes of more or less fantastic poetry, a
translation of Homer into alexandrines, and an antiquarian novel,
Amazone, 1881. But Vosmaer’s position was, above all, that of a
precursor. He, and he alone, saw that a new thing must be made in Dutch
poetical literature. He, and he alone, was not satisfied with the
stereotyped Batavian tradition. At the same time Vosmaer was not, it
may be admitted, strong enough himself to found a new school; perhaps
even, in his later days, the Olympian calm which he affected, and a
certain elegant indolence which overcame him, may have made him
unsympathetic to the ardent and the juvenile. At all events, this
singular phenomenon has occurred. He who of all living Dutchmen was,
ten or fifteen years ago, fretting under the poverty of thought and
imagination in his fatherland and longing for the new era to arrive, is
at this moment the one man of the last generation who is most exposed
to that unseemly ferocité des jeunes which is the ugliest feature of
these æsthetic revolutions. I have just been reading, with real pain,
the violent attack on Vosmaer and his influence which has been
published by that very clever young poet, Mr. Willem Kloos (De Nieuwe
Gids, December, 1890). All that cheers me is to know that the whirligig
of time will not forget its revenges, and that, if Mr. Kloos only lives
long enough, he will find somebody, now unborn, to call him a
“bloodless puppet.”

Of one other representative of the transitional period, Marcellus
Emants, I need say little. He wrote a poem, Lilith, and several short
stories. Much was expected of him, but I know not what has been the
result.

The inaugurator of the new school was Jacques Perk, a young poet of
indubitable genius, who was influenced to some degree by Shelley, and
by the Florence of the Dutch Browning, Potgieter. He wrote in 1880 a
Mathilde, for which he could find no publisher, presently died, and
began to be famous on the posthumous issue of his poems, edited by
Vosmaer and Kloos, in 1883.

The sonnets of Perk, like those of Bowles with us a hundred years ago,
were the heralds of a whole new poetic literature. The resistance made
to the young writers who now began to express themselves, and their
experience that all the doors of periodical publication in Holland were
closed to them, led to the foundation in 1885 of De Nieuwe Gids, a
rival to the old Dutch quarterly, De Gids. In this new review, which
has steadily maintained and improved its position, most of the
principal productions of the new school have appeared. The first three
numbers contained De Kleine Johannes (“Little Johnny”), of Dr. Frederik
van Eeden, the first considerable prose-work of the younger generation.
This is a charming romance, fantastic and refined, half symbolical,
half realistic, which deserves to be known to English readers. It has
been highly appreciated in Holland. To this followed two powerful books
by L. van Deyssel, Een Liefde (“A Love”) and De Kleine Republiek (“The
Little Republic”). Van Deyssel has written with great force, but he has
hitherto been the enfant terrible of the school, the one who has
claimed with most insolence to say precisely what has occurred to him
to say. He has been influenced, more than the rest, by the latest
French literature.

While speaking of the new school, it is difficult to restrain from
mentioning others of those whose work in De Nieuwe Gids and elsewhere
has raised hopes of high performance in the future. Jacques van Looy, a
painter by profession, has published, among other things, an
exquisitely finished volume of Proza (“Prose Essays”). Frans Netscher,
who deliberately marches in step with the French realists, is the
George Moore of Holland; he has published a variety of small sketches
and one or two novels. Ary Prins, under the pseudonym of Coopland, has
written some very good studies of life. Among the poets are Willem
Kloos, Albert Verwey, and Herman Gorter, each of whom deserves a far
more careful critical consideration than can here be given to him.

Willem Kloos, indeed, may be considered as the leader of the school
since the death of Perk. It was to Kloos that, in the period from 1880
to 1885, each of the new writers went in secret for encouragement,
criticism, and sympathy. He appears to be a man of very remarkable
character. Violent and passionate in his public utterances, he is
adored by his own colleagues and disciples, and one of the most gifted
of them has told me that “Kloos has never made a serious mistake in his
estimate of the force of a man or of a book.” His writings, however,
are very few, and his tone in controversy is acrid and uncompromising,
as I have already indicated. He remains the least known and the least
liked, though the most powerful, of the band. The member of the new
generation whose verse and prose alike have won most acceptance is,
certainly, Frederik van Eeden. His cycle of lyrical verse, Ellen, 1891,
is doubtless the most exquisite product of recent Dutch literature.

For the peculiar quality which unites in one movement the varied
elements of the school which I have attempted thus briefly to describe,
the name Sensitivism has been invented by one of themselves, by Van
Deyssel. It is a development of impressionism, grafted upon naturalism,
as a frail and exotic bud may be set in the rough basis of a thorn. It
preserves the delicacy of sensation of the one and strengthens it by
the exactitude and conscientiousness of the other, yet without giving
way to the vagaries of impressionism or to the brutality of mere
realism. It selects and refines, it re-embraces Fancy, that maiden so
rudely turned out of house and home by the naturalists; it aims, in
fact, at retaining the best, and nothing but the best, of the
experiments of the French during the last quarter of a century.

Van Deyssel greets L’Argent with elaborate courtesy, with the respect
due to a fallen divinity. He calls his friends in Holland to attend the
gorgeous funeral of naturalism, which is dead; but urges them not to
sacrifice their own living Sensitivism to the imitation of what is
absolutely a matter of past history. It will be seen that Dutch
Sensitivism is not by any means unlike French Symbolism, and we might
expect prose like Mallarmé’s and verse like Moréas’s! As a matter of
fact, however, the Dutch seem, in their general attitude of reserve, to
leave their mother-tongue unassailed, and to be as intelligible as
their inspiration allows them to be.

To one of these writers, however, and to one of the youngest, it is
time that I should turn. The first member of the new Dutch school to be
presented, in the following pages, to English readers, is Louis Marie
Anne Couperus. Of him, as the author of this book, I must give a fuller
biography, although he is still too young to occupy much space by the
record of his achievements. Louis Couperus was born on the 10th of
June, 1863, at the Hague, where he spent the first ten years of his
life. He was then taken in company with his family to Java, and resided
five years in Batavia. Returning to the Hague, where he completed his
education, he began to make teaching his profession, but gradually
drifted into devoting himself entirely to literature. He published a
little volume of verses in 1884, and another, of more importance,
called Orchideeën (“Orchids”), in 1887, Oriental and luscious. But he
has succeeded, as every one allows, much better in prose. His long
novel of modern life in the Hague, called Eline Vere, is an admirable
performance. Of Noodlot (literally to be translated “Fate” or
“Destiny”) our readers will judge for themselves at a later date. Such
is the brief chronicle of a writer from whom much is expected by the
best critics of his own country.


    Edmund Gosse.



ELINE VERE.


CHAPTER I.


They were close to each other in the dining-room, which had been turned
into a dressing-room. In front of a mirror stood Frédérique van
Erlevoort, with her hair hanging loose, looking very pale under a thin
layer of powder, her eyebrows blackened with a single stroke of the
pencil.

“Do hurry up, Paul! We shall never get ready,” she said, a little
impatiently, glancing at the clock.

Paul van Raat was kneeling at her feet, and his fingers draped a long
thin veil of crimson and gold in folds from her waist. The gauze hung
like a cloud over the pinkness of her skirt; her neck and arms, white
as snow with the powder, were left free, and sparkled with the glitter
of the chains and necklaces strung across one another.

“Whew, what a draught! Do keep the door shut, Dien!” Paul shouted to an
old servant who was leaving the room with her arms full of dresses.
Through the open door one could see the guests—men in evening dress,
ladies in light costumes: they passed along the azaleas and palms in
the corridor into the large drawing-room; they smiled at the sight of
the old servant, and threw surreptitious glances into the dining-room.

They all laughed at this look behind the scenes. Frédérique alone
remained serious, realizing that she had the dignity of a princess of
antiquity to keep up.

“Do make haste, Paul!” she pleaded. “It’s past half-past eight
already!”

“Yes, yes, Freddie, don’t get nervous; you’re finished,” he answered,
and adroitly pinned a few jewels among the gauze folds of her
draperies.

“Ready?” asked Marie and Lili Verstraeten, coming out of the room where
the stage had been fixed up, a mysterious elevation almost effaced in
semi-darkness.

“Ready,” answered Paul. “And now calmly, please,” he continued, raising
his voice and looking round with an air of command.

The warning was well needed. The three boys and the five girls who did
duty as ladies’-maids, were rushing about the room laughing, shouting,
creating the greatest disorder. In vain Lili tried to save a gilt
cardboard lyre from the hands of the son of the house, a boy twelve
years old, while their two rascally cousins were just on the point of
climbing up a great white cross, which stood in a corner, and was
already yielding under their onslaughts.

“Get away from that cross, Jan and Karel! Give up that lyre, you
other!” roared Paul. “Do look after them, Marie. And now, Bet and Dien,
come here; Bet with the lamp, Dien at the door; all the rest out of the
road! There’s no more room; look on from the garden through the window
of the big drawing-room; you’ll see everything beautifully, at a
distance. Come along, Freddie, carefully, here’s your train.”

“You’ve forgotten my crown.”

“I’ll put it on when you’re posed. Come on.”

The three girls hurried to get away, the boys squatted in a corner of
the room, where they could not be seen, and Paul helped Freddie to
climb on to the stage.



Marie, who, like Lili, was not yet draped, talked through the closed
window with the fireman, who was waiting, muffled up, in the snowy
garden, to let off the Bengal light. A great reflector stared through
the window like a pale, lustreless sun.

“First white, then green, then red,” Marie called out, and the fireman
nodded.

The now deserted dressing-room was dark, barely lit by the lamp which
Bet held in her hand, while Dien stood at the door.

“Carefully, Freddie, carefully,” said Paul.

Frédérique sank down gently into the cushions of the couch; Paul
arranged her draperies, her chains, her hair, her diadem, and placed a
flower here and there.

“Will that do?” she asked with tremulous voice, taking up the pose she
had studied beforehand.

“You’re delicious; beautiful! Now then, Marie, Lili, come here.”

Lili threw herself on the floor, Marie leaned against the couch with
her head at Frédérique’s feet. Paul draped both girls quickly in
coloured shawls and veils, and twisted strings of gems round their arms
and in their hair.

“Marie and Lili, look as if you were in despair. Wring your hands more
than that, Lili! More despair, much more despair! Freddie, more
languishing, turn your eyes up, set your mouth in a sadder expression.”

“Like that?”

Marie screamed.

“Yes, that will do! That’s better; now be quiet, Marie. Is everything
ready?”

“Ready!” said Marie.

Paul arranged one or two more things, a crease, a flower, doubtful
whether everything was right.

“Come, let’s start,” said Lili, who was in a very uncomfortable
position.

“Bet, take away the lamps; Dien, shut that door, and then come here,
both of you, one on each side of the folding doors of the big room.”

They were all in the dark, with beating hearts, while Paul tapped at
the window, and joined the boys in the corner.

Slowly and doubtfully the Bengal light flamed up against the reflector,
the folding doors opened solemnly, a clear white glow lit up the
tableau.



Smiling and bowing, while the conversation suddenly changed into a
muffled murmur, the guests pressed forward into the large drawing-room
and the conservatory, blinded by a burst of light and colour. Men got
out of the way of a couple of laughing girls. In the background boys
climbed on the chairs.

“The death of Cleopatra!” Betsy van Raat read out to Mrs. Van
Erlevoort, who had handed her the programme.

“Splendid! magnificent!” one heard on every side.

Ancient Egypt seemed to have come alive again in the white glow of the
light. Between luxurious draperies something like an oasis could be
perceived, a blue sky, two pyramids, some palms. On her couch,
supported by sphinxes, lay Cleopatra, at the point of death, an adder
curling round her arm. Two slaves were prostrate in despair at her
feet. The parti-coloured vision of oriental magnificence lasted a few
seconds; the poetry of antiquity revived under the eyes of a modern
audience.

“That’s Freddie,” said Betsy. “How lovely!” and she pointed out the
dying queen to Mrs. Van Erlevoort, who was dazzled by all this luxury.
Now, however, the mother recognized her daughter in the beautiful
motionless statue lying before her.

“And that’s Marie, and the other—oh, that’s Lili—irrecognizable! What
beautiful costumes! how elaborate! You see that dress of Lili’s, violet
and silver? I lent her that.”

“How well they do it,” murmured the old lady.

The white glow of the light began to flicker, the doors were closed.

“Splendid, auntie, splendid!” Betsy cried, as Mrs. Verstraeten, the
hostess, passed her.

Twice the tableau was recalled, first in a flood of sea-green, then in
fiery red. Freddie, with her adder, lay immovable, and only Lili
quivered in her forced attitude. Paul looked out from his corner with a
beaming face; everything was going well.

“How quiet Freddie lies! And everything is so rich, and yet not
overdone. Something like a picture of Makart’s,” said Betsy, opening
her feather fan.

“Your daughter is tired of life very early, madam,” lisped young de
Woude van Bergh, bowing towards Mrs. van Erlevoort, Freddie’s mother.



After the third repetition of the tableau Mrs. Verstraeten went to the
dressing-room. She found Frédérique and Lili laughing while they got
out of their Egyptian attire, looking for endless pins in every fold.
Paul and Marie stood on the steps, and, lighted by two of the servants,
pulled Cleopatra’s dress to pieces. Dien fussed about, picking up the
dropped draperies and the fallen chains. The three boys rolled over one
another on a mattress.

“Was it pretty, mamma?” cried Lili.

“Was it pretty, madam?” cried Frédérique, at the same time.

“Beautiful! They would have liked to see it again.”

“What again! I’m nearly dead already,” cried Lili; and she tumbled into
an arm-chair, throwing a great bundle off it upon the floor. Dien gave
way to despair; at that rate she would never get done.

“Lili, rest yourself,” cried Paul, from the top of his steps in the
other room; “you’ll get tired in that attitude. Aunt Verstraeten, tell
Lili to rest herself,” and he threw some coloured carpets off the cords
on which they had been hanging. Dien went on folding up.

“Dien, white sheets and white tulle this way, quick,” cried Marie. Dien
misunderstood her, and came back with the wrong article.

Then all began to talk at once, and every one asked for something else,
and there arose a very Babel of confusion. At the top of the staircase
Paul made a gesture of despair, but no one took any notice.

“I am utterly worn out!” said he, crouching down in impotent rage. “No
one does anything. It all falls to my lot!”

Madame Verstraeten, having in her turn begged Lili to rest herself, had
gone to tell the servants not to forget the youthful artistes. As a
result, the men soon came in, carrying big trays laden with glasses of
wine and lemonade, pastry and sandwiches. The confusion only increased.
The three boys were served with various good things on their mattress,
over which one of the servants spilt a stream of lemonade. Up flew
Marie, in a torrent of rage, and with Dien’s assistance quickly pulled
the mattress away from under the boys, into the next room.

“Frédérique, do give a hand there,” cried Paul, in a voice shrill with
irritation. As for keeping any further sort of control over the three
lads, that he had given up as hopeless. Ere long, however, the noisy
young customers were driven, loudly shrieking and stumbling one over
another, out of the room by Dien.

Then there was a little more quietness, but everybody was doing
something, except Lili.

“There’s a muddle!” she muttered to herself. Then she sat down and
brushed her hair, wavy and blond cendré, and that done, she took up her
powder-puff, and sprinkled a snowy layer over her arms.

Dien returned, very much out of breath, shaking her head, and with a
kindly smile on her face.

“Dien, white sheets and tulle quickly,” Freddie, Marie, and Paul all
cried together. Paul came down from his place on the stairs, placed the
big cross, the weight of which nearly crushed him, on the platform, and
at the foot he laid the mattress and a snug arrangement of pillows.

“Dien, white sheets and tulle; all the tulle and muslin you can find.”

And Dien and the other servants brought it, one soft mass of white.



Madame Verstraeten sat down beside her niece, Betsy van Raat. She was
married to Paul’s elder brother.

“What a pity Eline is not here! I had so depended on her to fill up the
long intervals with a little music. She sings so nicely.”

“She was really not feeling well, aunt. She is very sorry, you may be
sure, that she can’t be here, in honour of uncle’s birthday.”

“What is the matter with her?”

“I don’t quite know. Nerves, I think.”

“She really ought not to give herself up to these fits. With a little
energy she could easily get over that nervousness.”

“Well, you see, aunt, this nervousness is the modern bane of young
women, it is the fin de siècle epidemic,” said Betsy, with a faint
smile.

Madame Verstraeten sighed and nodded.

“By the bye,” said she, “I suppose the girls will be too tired
to-morrow evening to go to the opera. Would you care to have our box?”

Betsy reflected for a moment.

“I have a little dinner to-morrow, aunt; but still I should like the
box. It is only the Ferelyns and Emilie and Georges who are coming, but
the Ferelyns are going early because little Dora is not well, so I
could easily go with Emilie and Georges, and be in time to see an act.”

“Well, that is settled then. I shall send you the tickets,” said Madame
Verstraeten rising.

Betsy rose too. George de Woude van Bergh was just about to speak to
her, but she took no notice. She thought him a terrible bore that
evening; he had spoken to her twice, and each time said the same thing,
something about the tableaux. No; there was no conversation in him at
all. And to-morrow night too she would have to meet him again; what an
enjoyable prospect! Aunt’s box was quite a godsend. There stood her
husband, in the conservatory, together with some gentlemen, Mr.
Verstraeten, Mr. Hovel, Otto and Etienne van Erlevoort, they talking
and he listening, his heavy body crushing the leaves of a palm, a
somewhat stupid smile playing about his expressionless, good-humoured
face. Oh, how he bored her! She thought him insufferable. And what a
figure he cut in a dress coat! In his great-coat at all events he had a
manly appearance.

Walking towards him she said, “Do say something to somebody, Henk. You
look like a fixture in that corner there. Can’t you move? you do appear
to enjoy yourself. Your necktie is all on one side.”

He muttered something and fumbled about his neck. She turned away and
was soon at her ease in the midst of a noisy little group. Even
melancholy Madame van Ryssel, Freddie’s sister, formed one of them.
Emilie de Woude was unmarried and bore her thirty-eight years with an
enviable grace: her pleasant, animate features charmed all who met her.
She was much like her younger brother George, but about her there was
something genial—a great contrast to his studied ceremoniousness.

Attracted by her amusing anecdotes, Emilie sat, the central figure in a
joyous little group. She was just telling them of her recent fall on a
patch of frozen snow, at the feet of a gentleman who had remained
motionless, staring at her, instead of helping her to her feet.

“Just fancy my muff on the left, my hat on the right, myself in the
centre, and right in front of me a man staring at me with open-mouthed
amazement.”



There was the tinkling of a bell; Emilie broke off her story and ran
away from her audience. The folding doors were opened, and there was a
general rush to the front.

“I can’t see at all,” said Emilie, rising on tiptoe.

“Come here on my chair, miss,” cried a young girl behind her.

“You are a little dear, Toos, really. Will you allow me to pass by,
Madame van der Stoor? your daughter has come to my aid.”

Madame van der Stoor, who, under a pseudonym, dabbled much in poetry,
moved a step back, with an acrid smile about her lips. She felt a
little disgusted at Emilie’s sans-gêne; she herself never made an
attempt to get a better view, it was not the thing to show an
unfashionable interest in the entertainment.

Emilie and Cateau van der Stoor were soon standing on one chair,
holding each other’s waists.

“Oh, how pretty!” cried Emilie, and then remained silent in rapt
attention. From out of the billows of a foaming sea arose a rough-hewn
cross of marble whiteness, round the base of which a fragile fair woman
clung in mortal agony, whilst a heaving wave of tulle covered her feet;
and with the fierceness of despair her slender fingers grasped the Rock
of Ages.

“It is Lili,” was heard here and there.

“How graceful she is, that Lili!” whispered Emilie to Cateau. “But how
can she hang there like that? How can she bear it so long?”

“She is surrounded with pillows; but still it must be very tiring,”
said Toos. “Of course you can’t see anything of the pillows, miss.”

“Of course not. But it is very nice; I have never seen anything so
poetic before.... Say, Toos, I thought you were going to take part?”

“So I am, but only in the last tableau, with Etienne van Erlevoort. I
shall have to be going soon to dress.”

Quickly she got down from her chair. The light grew dim, the folding
doors were closed. Applause rang throughout the room. But ere long the
white vision of surging foam was repeated, and an angel hovered over
the cross, and held out her hand to the swooning woman.

Stronger and stronger grew the applause.

“Of course Marie cannot keep a serious face again,” said Emilie,
shaking her head. “She will burst out laughing in a moment.”

And really something like a smile seemed to be trembling about the
little mouth of the angel, the nervous twitching of the eyebrows
contrasting very oddly with the pathetic expression of her features.



Although it was evident enough that the artistes were tired, not one of
them being able to remain perfectly motionless, the last tableau was
received with enthusiastic cheers. It was encored again and again. The
tableau consisted of an allegorical representation of the Five Senses,
the parts being taken by the four young girls, attired in rich
dresses—cloth of gold, brocade ermine—and by Etienne, Frédérique’s
youngest brother, who, in the garb of a minstrel, represented the sense
of Hearing.

The tableaux were concluded.

It was now two o’clock, and Mr. and Madame Verstraeten received the
thanks of their guests as they left them.

“Do you remain to supper with Cateau?” said Madame Verstraeten to
Madame van der Stoor; “quite sans cérémonie, you know.”

Madame van der Stoor, however, feared it was too late; she would just
wait for her daughter.

The artistes who had doffed their costumes entered the room and were
overwhelmed with the thanks of those guests still remaining, while
Emilie played a march on the piano. As an intimate friend she stayed to
supper with van Raat and Betsy.

“You are coming to-morrow, are you not, Toos? the photographer is
coming at two,” said Marie.

“Yes,” said Cateau, “I shall be here.”

Utterly worn out, the artistes flung themselves down in the comfortable
chairs in the conservatory, where a dainty little supper was served.

“What was prettiest? What was prettiest?” all cried together

Then there was a general expression of opinion, to the accompaniment of
clattering plates and forks, and the jingling of glasses.



CHAPTER II.


It was half-past two when the van Raats returned from the supper to the
Nassauplein. At their house all was in darkness. While Henk drew the
bolt across the door Betsy thought she would take a look at her
sleeping boy, snugly ensconced in his little white cot up-stairs. She
took up her candle and went up-stairs, whilst he, laden with papers,
walked into the breakfast-room, where the gas was still burning.

Arrived in her dressing-room, she removed her cloak from her shoulders.
In the small grate the flame curled upward like the fiery tongue of a
dragon. There was something indefinably soothing in the atmosphere of
the room, something like a warm vapour, mingled with the sweet faint
odour of violets. After giving a glance at her child, she sat down with
a sigh of fatigue, in an arm-chair. Then the door opened, and Eline, in
a dressing-gown of white flannel, her hair falling in thick waves down
her back, entered.

“What, Elly, not in bed yet?”

“No, I—have been reading. Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Oh yes, it was very nice. I only wish that Henk had not been such an
awful bore. He never said a word, and with his stupid face he sat there
fumbling at his watch-chain until he could go and take his hand at
whist.”

Then with a somewhat angry movement Betsy kicked her dainty little
shoes from her feet.

Eline sighed languidly.

“Did you tell Madame Verstraeten that I was not well?”

“Yes; but you know when I come home at night I like to go to bed. We
can talk to-morrow, eh?”

Eline knew that her sister when she returned home at night was always
more or less irritable. Still she was tempted to give her a sharp
answer, but she felt too unnerved for it. With her lips she lightly
touched Betsy’s cheek, and quite unconsciously laid her head on her
sister’s shoulder, in a sudden and irresistible longing for tenderness.

“Are you really ill, eh, or——?”

“No. Only a little—lazy. Good-night.”

“Pleasant dreams!”

Eline retired with languid steps. Betsy proceeded to undress.



Arrived in the hall, Eline experienced the uncomfortable feeling of
having been an unwelcome visitor to her sister. All the evening, giving
herself up entirely to a fit of indolence, she had been in solitude,
and now she longed for company. For a moment she stood undecided in the
dark corridor, and then carefully feeling her way she descended the
stairs and entered the breakfast-room.

Henk, divested of his coat, stood by the mantelpiece in his
shirt-sleeves, preparing his grog, by way of night-cap, and the hot
fumes of the liquor filled the room.

“Hallo, girl, is that you?” he said, in a jovial tone, whilst in his
sleepy blue-gray eyes and about his heavily fair-bearded mouth there
played a good-humoured smile. “Did you not feel terribly bored, left to
yourself all the evening?”

“Yes; just a little. Perhaps you did even more?” she asked with a
pleasant smile.

“I? Not at all. The tableaux were very pretty.”

Then with his back leaning against the mantelpiece he began sipping his
grog.

“Has the youngster been good?”

“Yes; he has been asleep. Are you not going to bed?”

“I just want to look at the papers. But why are you still up?”

“Oh—just because——” With a languid, graceful movement she stretched her
arms, and then twisted her heavy locks into a glossy brown coil. She
felt the need to speak to him without constraint, but the words would
not come, and not the faintest thought could she conjure up to take
shape within her dreamy mind. Gladly would she have burst into tears,
not because of any poignant sorrow, but for the mere longing of hearing
his deep solacing tones in comforting her. But she could find no words
to give expression to her feelings, and again she stretched forth her
arms in languid grace.

“Is anything wrong, eh, old girl? Come, tell me what it is.”

With a vacant stare she shook her head. No, there was nothing to tell.

“Come, you can tell me all about it, you know that.”

“Oh—I feel a little miserable.”

“What about?”

Then with a pretty little pout, “Oh—I don’t know. I have been a little
nervous all day.”

He laughed—his usual soft, sonorous laugh.

“You and your nerves! Come, sis, cheer up. You are such good company
when you are not so melancholy; you must not give yourself over to
these fits.” He felt conscious that his eloquence would not hold out to
argue the matter further, so with a laugh he concluded, “Will you have
a drop of grog, sis?”

“Thank you—yes, just a sip out of your glass.”

She turned to him, and laughing in his fair beard, he raised the
steaming glass to her lips. Through the half-closed eyelids he saw a
tear glistening, but she kept it back. All at once, with sudden
determination, he set down his glass and grasped her hands.

“Come, girl, tell me; there is something—something has occurred with
Betsy, or—come now, you generally trust me.” And he gave her a
reproachful glance with his sleepy, kindly, stupid eyes, like those of
a faithful sheep-dog.



Then in a voice broken with sobs, she burst forth in a stream of
lamentations, though without apparent cause. It was her heart’s inmost
cry for a little tenderness and sympathy. What was her life to her? to
whom could she be of the slightest use? Wringing her hands, she walked
up and down the room sobbing and lamenting. What would she care did she
die within the hour? it was all the same to her—only that aimless,
useless existence, without anything to which she could devote her whole
soul; that alone was no longer bearable.

Henk contradicted her, feeling certainly somewhat abashed at the scene,
which for the rest was but a repetition of so many previous ones. To
give a new turn to her thoughts he began to talk about Betsy, and Ben
their boy, about himself—he was even about to allude to a future home
of her own, but he could not bring it so far. She on her part shook her
head like a sulking child, which, not getting what it wants, refuses to
take anything else, and with a passionate movement she all at once
threw her head on his shoulder, and with an arm round his bull-dog
neck, she burst into a fresh torrent of sobs. Thus she went on
lamenting in wild and incoherent words, her nerves overstrained by the
evening’s solitude and the hours of brooding in her over-heated room.
Over and over again she reverted to her aimless life, which she dragged
along like a wretched burden, and in her voice there was something like
a reproach to him, her brother-in-law. He, confused and deeply touched
by the warmth of her embrace, which he certainly could scarcely return
with such tenderness, could find nothing to stem that wild torrent of
incoherent sentences but a few common-places.

Slowly, softly, like rose-leaves falling gently on the limpid bosom of
a summer stream, she let her melancholy broodings glide away on the
full low tones of his deep voice.

At length she stopped and heaved a sigh, but her head still rested on
his shoulder. Now that she was somewhat calmer, he thought it right to
show a little anger at her behaviour. What a folly it was, to be sure!
What stupidity! What a fuss to get into about nothing!

“No, Henk, really——” she began, and lifted her tear-stained face to
his.

“My dear girl, what rubbish you talk about your aimless life, and all
that sort of thing. What puts those things into your head? We are all
fond of you——” and remembering his unspoken thought of before, he
proceeded, “A young girl like you—talking about an aimless——Sis, you
are mad!”

Then, as though tickled at the thought, and besides, thinking that the
philosophic condition had lasted long enough, he suddenly gave her arm
a sharp twist, and pinched her about the pouting lips. Laughingly she
resisted; his movement had somewhat restored to her her broken
equilibrium.

When a few moments later both went up-stairs together, she could
scarcely restrain herself from bursting out in laughter, as he suddenly
lifted her up in his arms to carry her, while she, fearing he would
stumble, in a voice half beseeching, half commanding, said—

“Come, Henk, let me go; do you hear? Don’t be so foolish! Henk, let
go!”



CHAPTER III.


Eline Vere was the younger of the two sisters, darker of hair and eyes,
slenderer, with a figure less maturely developed. Her deeply-shaded
dark brown eyes, and the ivory pallor of her complexion, together with
the languor of some of her movements, gave her somewhat of the dreamy
nature of an odalisk of the harem. The beauty with which she had been
endowed, she prized like a precious jewel, and indeed she was at times
half intoxicated with the glamour of her own fascinations. For several
moments at a time she could stand looking at her own image in the
glass, her rosy-tipped fingers gently stroking the delicate arch of the
eyebrow or the long silken lashes, or arranging the wealth of brown
hair about her head, in the wild luxuriance of a gay gitana. Her toilet
afforded her endless employment, continuous and earnest meditation, in
testing the effects, harmonious or otherwise, of the softened tints of
satins, and the warmer colourings of plush, and the halo of tulle and
gauze, muslin and lace, that surrounded it all. In short, everything
about her, from the faint clinging odour of violets, to the shimmer of
soft draperies, was full of refined, charming suggestion.



Somewhat dreamy and romantic by nature, there were times when, in a fit
of languor, she thought with a certain lingering regret of her
childhood, recalling to mind all sorts of memories of those days, and
treasuring them up like so many precious relics. It was then that
consciously or unconsciously she imparted a fresh colour of sentiment
to those faded recollections of days gone by. In this way, the most
trivial episode of her childhood became idealized and suffused with a
charm of poetry. Betsy, with her practical turn of mind, never missed
an opportunity rightly or wrongly to discount anything that bore but
the faintest resemblance to idealism; and Eline, in her transient state
of half happiness, half melancholy, usually succeeded, after her
sister’s practical demonstrations, in distinguishing the actual state
of things from the luxuriant fantasies conjured up by her own
imagination.

At times her memory went back to her father, a painter, of refined and
artistic temperament, elegant, but without the strength of a creative
faculty, married whilst but a youth to a woman many years his senior,
and by far his superior in strength of will and individuality. To her
master hand, his pliant nature readily yielded, for his was a
fine-strung temperament which, like the chords of a precious
instrument, would have trembled under her rude touch, just as that of
Eline sometimes trembled under the touch of her sister. She recalled to
mind that father, with his complexion of yellow ivory, and his
bloodless transparent fingers, lying down in listless languor, his
active brain thinking out some great creation, only to be cast aside
after the first few touches of the brush. Her he had often made his
confidante, and the trust he placed in her caused her childish nature
to regard him with a mixture of affectionate devotion and worshipful
reverence, so that in her eyes he assumed the appearance of a poetical,
dreamy-eyed, long-haired Rafael. Her mother, on the other hand, had
always inspired her with a certain amount of fear, and the remembrance
of the disillusionizing trivialities of daily life, with which the
figure of her mother became inseparably interwoven, rendered it
impossible for Eline to idealize her in her thoughts.

She remembered, after the death of her father, at a still early age,
but still after many years of half-hearted effort and dismal failures,
and after the demise of her mother, felled by a sudden attack of heart
disease, spending the days of her early girlhood under the guardianship
of a widowed aunt. Old-fashioned, reserved and prim, with saddened
regular features, the ruins of a once beautiful woman, she well
remembered those two bony hands in perpetual motion over four bright
glistening knitting-needles. There she lived, in that big room, in
nerveless ease and placid luxury, in a paradise of cosy comfort, amid a
wealth of soft draperies and carpets, and all that was pleasing and
soothing to the senses.

The two sisters growing up side by side under the same training, under
the same surroundings, developed within themselves a somewhat similar
mental and moral condition, which, however, as years went by followed
the bent of their different temperaments. In Eline, who, of a languid
and lymphatic nature, felt the need of tender support, and gentle
warmth of affection, and whose nerves, delicate as the petals of a
flower, even in their soft, velvet-clad surroundings, were often too
rudely handled by the slightest opposition, there developed a kind of
timid reserve, which filled her mind with thousands of small tokens of
a secret grief. Then when her measure of half-imaginary sorrows was
full, it would relieve itself in one overwhelming, foaming wave of
tearful passion. In Betsy’s more sanguine nature there grew, nurtured
by Eline’s need of support, a desire for domineering, by means of which
she could force her whole psychological being into that of her pliant
sister, to whom, after the first shock, it always brought a feeling of
rest and contentment. But neither Eline’s fear of wounding her
fine-strung temperament, nor Betsy’s over-ruling egoism, could ever
have led to a tragic crisis, as the sharp contrasts of each character
became, in the soft enervating atmosphere of their surroundings,
blended and dissolved in one dull tint of neutral gray.



After one or two dances, where Eline’s little white-satined feet had
glided along in rhythmical accompaniment to a dazzling harmony of
brilliant light and colour, soft strains of melody and dulcet tones of
admiration, she received two offers of marriage, each of which she
declined. Those two proposals remained still in her memory as two
easily-gained triumphs, but at times the recollection of the first
would call forth a faint sigh from her bosom. It was then that she met
Henri van Raat, and ever since she asked herself how it could possibly
be that such a mass of stolidity as she called him, with so little
resemblance to the hero of her dreams, appealed so strongly to her
sympathies, ay, to such an extent that frequently she was overtaken
with a sudden, irresistible impulse to be near him. The heroes of her
dreams bore some resemblance to the idealized image of her father, to
the conceptions of Ouida’s fanciful brain. But they had nothing in
common with van Raat, with his sanguine, equable, complacent
temperament, his soft sleepy gray-blue eyes, his laboured speech and
heavy laugh. And yet in his voice, in his glance, there was something
that attracted her, as in his unstudied bonhomie. In all this she found
support, so that at times she felt conscious of the vague desire to
rest her weary head on his shoulder. And he too felt conscious, with a
certain pride, that he was something to her.

But this pride vanished, however, the moment that Betsy came between
them. Towards Eline’s sister he felt conscious of such a moral
inferiority, that often he was at a loss to reply to her light and airy
banter. At such times, she thought it an exquisite pleasure, cruel as
it was, to draw him out, and tempt him to say things for which she
overwhelmed him with false admiration, only to ridicule them afterwards
to his face, which usually had the effect of reducing his sluggish mind
to abject confusion. Then she would burst out laughing, and the sound
of that full hearty laugh, full of mockery and self-confidence, fired
his imagination even more than did the tender feminine charm of Eline’s
presence. Hers was the charm of a weeping soft-eyed siren, raising her
arms in tempting languor from out of the blue of ocean, only to be
again drawn to the depths below with irresistible force; that of
Betsy’s, however, was the impetuous witchery of a gay Bacchante,
enchaining his senses with tangled vines, or dashing her brimming,
foaming cup in his face, and intoxicating him with the wild impetuosity
of her joyous nature.



And so it came about—how he could not really say—but one evening in the
dim light of late autumn, he as with a sudden impulse asked her to be
his wife. It had indeed been a strange evening to him. The one thing he
had felt conscious of was that he was as though driven to it, as though
hypnotized by an indefinable something in Betsy’s eyes; he could not
but ask her what he eventually did. She, calm and collected, accepted
his offer, taking care to conceal her inward joy at the prospect of
having a home—and more especially a dominion of her own—under an
outward appearance of calm indifference. She longed for a different
atmosphere than that of the staid stuffiness of the big room, with the
stately old furniture and dignified surroundings. But when Eline came
and offered him her innocent congratulations, he became suddenly aware
of such an inward surprise and dissatisfaction with himself that he
could find no speech in answer to her sisterly good wishes. And Eline,
rudely shaken as she was by this rapid succession of events, shrunk
back in sudden terror of Betsy into her melancholy reserve, at the same
time making every effort—only resulting in the loss of her own peace of
mind—to resist the domineering influence which she had so long allowed
her sister to exercise over her mind.



Betsy and Henk had been married a twelvemonth when aunt died. It was
then that, urged by her, he had looked out for some occupation, for
with his eternally calm good-natured indolence he often bored her much
in the same way as a faithful dog, which, ever to be found at his
master’s feet, receives many a kick which a less devoted creature would
have escaped. He too felt in a vague way that a young fellow, be his
income ever so comfortable, ought to do something. However, although he
sought, he found nothing, and in the meantime his ardour had
considerably cooled down, now that Betsy herself did not longer worry
him about it.

And certainly he did not trouble her very much. In the morning he was
generally away, taking what exercise he could on horseback, followed by
his two gray boarhounds; in the afternoon, yielding to his wife’s
requests, he accompanied her on sundry calls, or when relieved of that
duty, he visited his club; the evenings being generally spent by him in
accompanying his butterfly wife to concerts and theatres, where he did
duty much after the fashion of Becky Sharp’s faithful sheep-dog, a
burdensome but indispensable adjunct. He adapted himself as well as he
could to this much too excited a life; he knew his will was not strong
enough to resist that of Betsy, and he found it suited his temperament
much better quietly to dress and accompany his wife, than to disturb
the domestic peace by an intrusion of his own ideas. Then again the few
evenings she spent at home afforded him, with his instinctive love of
sociability, a certain sensuous dreamy happiness, which in the end did
more to win his love than when he beheld his wife beyond his own reach,
the most brilliant figure in the grandest ballroom. That only made him
peevish and morose. To her, however, the few evenings she spent at home
were a terrible bore. The singing of the gas-flame made her drowsy, and
from her corner on the sofa she would cast many an angry glance at her
husband, as he sat turning the pages of the illustrated paper or lazily
sipping his tea. At such a moment she would feel an irresistible
impulse to urge him on in heaven’s name to look for some occupation, to
which he, astonished at being aroused in such a way from his dolce far
niente, would reply in incoherent heavy sentences.

She, however, was at heart very happy. For was it not glorious to be
able to spend as much as she chose on her dress? And at the end of the
week she would ofttimes remember, with a smile of happiness, that she
had not spent a single evening at home.

Eline meanwhile had passed the year in melancholy solitude at Aunt
Vere’s. She read much, feeling especially charmed with Ouida’s
luxuriant phantasmagory of an idealized life, sparkling with a wealth
of colour, and bathed in the golden sunshine of Italian skies, vivid
and glowing as a glittering kaleidoscope. She would read and literally
devour those pages until, dog-eared and crumpled, they would flutter
out of her grasp. Even at her aunt’s sick-bed, where with a certain
feeling of romantic satisfaction she sat watching night after night,
she would read them, again and again.

In the atmosphere of that sick room, permeated as it was with an
ætherealized odour of drugs, the virtues and prowess of the noble
heroes, the spotless beauties of the arch-wicked or divinely righteous
heroines, became endowed with an irresistible charm of tempting
unreality; and Eline often felt a passionate longing to be in one of
those old English mansions, where earls and duchesses were engaged in
such exquisite love-making, and had such romantic meetings under the
moon-lit trees of a grand old park. Aunt died, and Henk and Betsy
invited Eline to make their house her home.

At first she refused, overcome by a strange sadness at the thought of
the relationship of her brother-in-law to her sister. But with an
immense exercise of will power she at length conquered those feelings.
Had she not always wondered at the mysterious attraction she felt for
Henk? And now that he was her sister’s husband, there suddenly arose to
her mind such an insurmountable obstacle between them, an obstacle
raised by the laws of decency and custom, that she could, without any
risk, give herself over to sisterly sympathy, and therefore she thought
it very childish to allow the memory of the past, and feelings that she
never really had understood, to stand between her and the prospects of
a comfortable home.

In addition to this, there was the fact that her guardian uncle, Daniel
Vere, who lived in Brussels, and was a bachelor, was too young a man to
offer a girl in her teens a home with him.

In the end, Eline waived her objections, and with the stipulation that
she should be allowed to contribute a trifle towards her board, took up
her abode at her brother-in-law’s. Henk had at first refused to agree
to such a condition, but Betsy remarked that she could quite understand
it; had she been in Eline’s place she too would have done the same for
her own independence’ sake. From the sum settled on her by her parents
Eline derived a yearly income of about £160, and by putting into
practice the lessons of economy she had been taught by her aunt, she
managed to dress as elegantly on that, as did Betsy who always had a
well-filled purse at her disposal.

And thus three years of monotonous existence passed by.



CHAPTER IV.


When, the morning after her passionate outburst, Eline came down to
breakfast, Henk had already gone out, bound for the stables, to look
after his horses and hounds. In the breakfast-room there was no one but
little Ben, eating, or rather playing with a slice of bread-and-butter.
Betsy she could hear running to and fro with much animation, and giving
her hurried instructions to the cook.

Frans and Jeanne Ferelyn, and Miss de Woude van Bergh and her brother,
were coming to dinner that day.

Eline was looking very neat and dressy in a gown of dark gray woollen
material, a gray ribbon round her waist, and a small golden arrow
glittering at her throat. She wore neither rings nor bracelets. About
her forehead curled a few fine locks, in frizzy garlands, soft and
glossy as frayed silk.

With a friendly nod she walked round to where the child was seated, and
lifting up his face with both hands pressed a loving kiss on his
forehead. Then she sat down, feeling well at ease with herself, her
senses agreeably soothed by the soft warmth thrown out from the glowing
hearth, while outside the snow-flakes were silently wrapping a
down-like mantle around them. With an involuntary smile of satisfaction
she rubbed her slim white hands, and glanced at her rosy, white-tipped
finger-nails; then casting a glance outside, where an old woman, almost
bent double, was pushing a barrow of snow-covered oranges in front of
her, she cut open a little breakfast-roll, the while listening, with
amused indifference, to the angry dispute going on between Betsy and
the cook.

Betsy entered, an ill-humoured expression in her heavily-shaded,
twinkling eyes, her short thick lips compressed with annoyance. She
carried a set of cut-glass dessert trays, which she was about to wash,
as the cook had broken one of them. Carefully, notwithstanding her
anger, she placed the trays on the table, and filled a basin with warm
water.

“That fool of a girl! Fancy washing one of my fine glass dishes in
boiling water! But it serves me right for trusting those idiots to do
anything.”

Her voice sounded harsh and rasping, as she roughly pushed Ben out of
the way. Eline, in unusually good humour, offered her assistance, which
was readily accepted by Betsy. She had a great many things to do yet,
she said; but all the same she sat down, watching Eline carefully
washing and drying the dishes one by one, with light graceful
movements, without moistening her fingers or spilling one drop; and she
was conscious of the contrast between her own rough-and-ready way of
doing things—the outcome of robust health—and Eline’s languid grace,
mingled as it was with somewhat of fear of tiring or bespattering
herself.

“By the bye, when I was at the Verstraetens’ yesterday, I heard they
were not going to the opera this evening, as they were tired from last
night; aunt asked me if I would like the box. Do you care to go to the
opera?”

“And what about your visitors?”

“Jeanne Ferelyn is going early, because her child is unwell, and I
wanted to ask Emilie and her brother to come too. Henk can stay at
home. It is a box for four, you know.”

“Very well; I don’t mind.”

Well satisfied with herself, Eline was just putting down the last tray,
when all at once a violent altercation broke out in the kitchen,
accompanied by the silvery clattering of forks and spoons. It was Grete
and Mina engaged in rather forcible argument. Betsy hurried out of the
room, and very soon, curt commands and impudent answers followed each
other in rapid succession.

Ben in the meantime remained standing open-mouthed, and somewhat
drowsily, on the spot where his mother had pushed him, full of silent
alarm at all the hubbub.

“Come, Ben, to auntie’s room,” said Eline, and smilingly she held out
her hand towards him. He came, and both proceeded up-stairs.

Eline occupied two rooms on the ground floor, a bedroom and a boudoir.
With the economy and good taste which were common to her nature, she
had succeeded in imparting to these rooms a semblance of luxury, with
somewhat of an artistic polish. Her piano occupied an angle in the
wall; the heavy foliage of a giant azalea cast a softening shade over
the low, damask-covered couch. In a corner stood a small table laden
with innumerable precious trifles. Statuettes, pictures, feathers, palm
branches, filled every nook. The pink marble mantelpiece was crowned
with a miniature Venetian mirror, suspended by red cords and tassels.
In front stood an Amor and Psyche, after Canova, the group depicting a
maiden in the act of removing her veil, and a love-sick, light-winged
god.

When Eline entered with Ben, the ruddy glow from the hearth shone on
her cheeks. She threw the child a few tattered volumes of engravings,
and he settled himself on the sofa, soon absorbed in the pictures.
Eline entered her bedroom, the windows of which were still covered with
daintily-formed leaves and flowers, the effect of the night’s frost.
Yonder stood a toilette duchesse—a vision of tulle and lace—touched up
here and there with the satin bows of old ball bouquets, and laden with
scent phials of Sèvres and fine cut-glass. In the midst of all this
wealth of pink and white the mirror glittered like a sheet of burnished
silver. The bedstead was hidden among red draperies, and in the corner
against the door a tall cheval glass reflected a flood of liquid
sunshine.

For a moment Eline glanced round, to see if her maid had arranged
everything to her satisfaction; then shivering in the chilly atmosphere
she returned to her sitting-room and closed the door. With its
semi-Eastern luxury the room was a most pleasant one, its comfort
seemingly enhanced by the cold white glare reflected from the snow
outside.



Eline felt as though brimming over with melody—a feeling which could
only find adequate expression in song. She chose the waltz from
Mireille. And she sang it with variations of her own, with modulations
now swelling into a full, rich volume of melody, now melting away into
the faintest diminuendo, with brilliant shakes and roulades clear as
those of a lark. She no longer thought of the cold and snow outside.
Then suddenly remembering that she had not practised for three days,
she commenced singing scales, brightening her high notes, and trying a
difficult portamento. Her voice resounded with a metallic ring,
somewhat cold, but clear and bright as crystal.

Ben, though well used to these jubilant tones, which reverberated
through the whole house, sat listening in open-mouthed wonder, without
bestowing a further glance on his pictures, now and again giving a
sudden start when some exceptionally shrill high si or do would
penetrate his ears.

Eline was herself at a loss to account for her sadness of yesterday.
How and whence came that fit of melancholy, without any definite cause?
what was the overwhelming joy too that could have so suddenly chased
those clouds away?

To-day she felt animated, happy, joyous; she was sorry that she had not
seen the tableaux yesterday, and she feared that Mr. and Madame
Verstraeten did not take her indisposition au sérieux. What a nice,
pleasant man he was, Mr. Verstraeten, always full of fun! and Madame
Verstraeten, what a dear good soul! She knew no one like her, so
charming and kind. And then, seated at her piano, now practising a
shake, then a chromatic scale, she allowed her thoughts to wander to
other nice people amongst her acquaintances. Yes; all had their good
qualities: the Ferelyns, Emilie de Woude, old Madame van Raat, Madame
van Erlevoort, even Madame van der Stoor. As for Cateau she was a doll.

And the idea struck her that she would rather like to join that company
of players. Yes; they had an admirable conception of the amenities of
life. Frédérique, Marie, Lili, Paul and Etienne, ever gay, ever
together, full of droll plans for their amusement. Indeed, it must be
very nice, prettily arrayed in romantic costumes, to be the objects of
general admiration. Paul had a very pretty voice, it would be splendid
to sing duets with him. It quite slipped her memory that only a few
days ago she had assured her singing-master that his voice was
absolutely void of tone. But to-day she was in a pleasant humour, and
sang a second waltz, that of “Juliette” in Gounod’s opera. She adored
Gounod.

It had just struck half-past ten when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she cried, and looking round she let her slender fingers
rest on the keyboard. Paul van Raat entered.

“Bon jour, Eline. Hallo, young rascal!”

“What, Paul, you?” She rose, somewhat surprised to see him. Ben ran
towards his uncle and hoisted himself up on his knees.

“How early you are! I thought you were coming to sing this afternoon.
But you are welcome all the same; do you hear? Sit down and tell me
about the tableaux,” Eline exclaimed with much animation; then,
remembering her illness of the previous day, she continued in a languid
voice—

“I was awfully sorry I was so ill yesterday. Had a terrible headache.”

“You don’t look much the worse for it.”

“It’s true, Paul, really. If I had been well, don’t you think I should
have come and admired your talent? Come, tell me—tell me all about it,”
and she drew him with her to the sofa and threw the pictures on the
floor.

Paul had some difficulty in freeing himself from Ben, who clung to his
legs.

“Come, let go, Ben. And is the headache better now?”

“Oh yes; quite gone. This afternoon I’ll go round to Mr. Verstraeten to
give my congratulations. But, Paul, do tell me——”

“I was just about to tell you that I was not coming to sing this
afternoon; do you hear, Elly? I couldn’t bring out a note; I am quite
hoarse with the howling and screaming of yesterday. But we managed
splendidly,” and he commenced describing the tableaux.

It was all his idea, and much of it the work of his own hands; but the
girls too had been hard at it for the last month—getting up the
dresses, attending to a thousand trifles. That afternoon Losch was
coming to take a photograph of the last group; so that, even had he
been in good voice, he could not have come to sing. And how stiff in
his joints he felt! for he had slaved away like a navvy, and the girls
must be quite exhausted also. No; he had formed no part in the
grouping, he was too busy making all the arrangements. He fell back a
little on the rich damask cushions of the sofa, under the shading
branches of the azalea, and stroked his hair.

Eline thought how much he resembled Henk, although he was ten years
younger, more slender in figure, livelier, with more delicate features,
and an expression of much greater intelligence. But a simple gesture or
movement, a raising of the eyebrows, would now and again very
distinctly illustrate that resemblance, and although his lips were
thinner under his light moustache than Henk’s heavily-bearded upper
lip, his laugh was deep and full as that of his brother.



“Why don’t you take painting lessons of a good master, Paul?” asked
Eline. “Surely if you have talent——”

“But I have not,” he laughed. “It would not be worth the trouble. I
just dabble a bit in it, just as I do with my singing. It amounts to
nothing at all, any of it.” And he sighed at his Lick of energy to make
the most of the little talent he might possess.

“You remind me of papa,” she said, and her words assumed a tone of
sadness, as the idealized image of her father rose to her memory. “Yes;
he had great talents, but latterly his health failed him, and he could
not produce the great creation of which his soul was capable. I well
remember that he was engaged on an immense canvas, a scene from Dante’s
Paradiso I believe, when—when he died. Poor papa! But you are young and
strong, and I can’t understand why you don’t do something great,
something out of the common.”

“You know, I suppose, that I am going to be engaged at Hovel’s. Uncle
Verstraeten has arranged it for me.”

Hovel was a barrister, and as Paul had, at a somewhat early age, and
after a period of alternate studying and idleness, passed the law
examination, Uncle Verstraeten thought he would be doing the young
barrister a good turn if he recommended him to his friend. It had
therefore been arranged that Paul should continue working at Hovel’s
office, until he could go in practice for himself.

“At Hovel’s? A very nice man; I like his wife very much. Oh, that will
be splendid, Paul.”

“I hope so.”

“But still, if I were a man I should try and become famous. Come, Ben,
don’t be troublesome now; go and look at the nice pictures on the
floor. Wouldn’t you think it splendid to be famous? Really, if I
weren’t Eline Vere I should become an actress.” And she gave vent to a
series of brilliant shakes, which fell from her lips like a sparkling
chain of diamonds.

“Famous!” and with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. “What a silly
idea, to be sure. Famous! No; I don’t want to be famous, not a bit. But
for all that I should like to paint well, or sing well, or something.”

“Then why don’t you take lessons, either in painting or music? Shall I
speak to my master?”

“No, thanks; not that old growler of a Roberts, if I can help it. And
besides, Eline, it isn’t really worth while; I should never be able to
keep it up whatever it was. I am subject to sudden fits, you see. Then
I think I can do anything, then I am anxious to hit upon some great
subject for a picture——”

“Like papa,” she interrupted with a sad smile.

“At other times the fit moves me to make the most of what voice I have;
but before long all those grand ideas have died their own death of
sheer inanition, and then I continue in the same old jog-trot as
before.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Henceforth I shall go and hide the aspirations of my genius in law
cases,” he answered with a laugh, as he rose from his seat. “But now I
must be off to the Princesse-gracht, to the Verstraetens’. So don’t
expect me this afternoon; we have several details to arrange yet before
Losch comes. Adieu, Eline; bye-bye, Ben.”

“Bon jour; I hope you’ll soon get over your hoarseness.”

Paul went, and Eline once more sat down at the piano. For a while she
sat thinking what a pity it was Paul had so little energy, and from him
her thoughts reverted again to Henk. But she felt altogether too
light-hearted this morning to do much philosophizing, and, full of
exuberant spirits demanding an outlet, she continued her singing, until
the mid-day gong summoned her and Ben down-stairs.



Paul had told his mother that he would not be home that afternoon for
coffee, as he would be at the Verstraetens’. He lodged at Madame van
Raat’s, in the Laan van Meerdervoort. Madame van Raat, an elder sister
of Madame Verstraeten, was a stately dame, with pensive, light-blue
eyes, and hair of silver gray, dressed in old-fashioned style, whilst
over her whole being there was suffused, as it were, a calmness, a
placid resignation, that unmistakably spoke of former days free from
troubles and disappointments. As walking exercise was becoming irksome
to her, she was mostly to be found seated in her high-backed arm-chair,
the dull-gray head drooping on her bosom, the blue-veined hands folded
in her lap. Thus she continued to lead a quiet, monotonous existence,
the aftermath of a placid, all but cloudless life, by the side of her
husband, on whose portrait she frequently allowed her eyes to dwell, as
it hung before her yonder, in its smart general’s uniform; a
good-looking, frank, manly face, with a pair of truthful, intelligent
eyes, and an engaging expression about the firm, closed mouth. To her,
life had brought but few great sorrows, and for that, in the simplicity
of her faith, she felt piously grateful. But now, now she was tired,
oh! so tired, her spirit quite broken by the death of that husband to
whom, to the last, she had clung with an affection constant and calm as
the bosom of a limpid stream, into the placid waters of which the
impetuous waves of her youthful love had flowed away. After his death,
she began to worry over every trifling circumstance, petty vexations
with servants and tradespeople. All these she connected, until to her
mind they formed an unbroken chain of irksome burdens. Yes, she felt
she was growing old; time had little more to give her, and so, in
silent egoism, she mused her life away in the long-vanished poesy of
the past. She had had three children: her youngest, a girl, was dead.

Of her two sons, her favourite was Henk, who, strong and big, reminded
her the most of his father, whilst in her eyes his sleepy good-nature
had more of open, frank manliness, than Paul’s finer-strung fickleness
and airy geniality. Paul she had always found too unsettled and
nervous: formerly, in his constantly interrupted studies at Leyden—at
last, thanks to a little moral pressure on the part of Uncle
Verstraeten, crowned with promotion—as well as now with his staying out
late at night, his rage for painting, tableaux-vivants and duets, or
his fits of indolence, when he would lounge away a whole afternoon on
the sofa, over a book he did not read.

Before his marriage, Henk, being of a more staid and homely character
than Paul, felt himself better at ease in his mother’s house; although
he was quiet, his silence never irritated her; it was like the silence
of a faithful dog, watching with half-closed eyes over his mistress.
She felt so at her ease with Henk. She disliked being alone, for it was
in solitude that the memories of the past contrasted in their rosy
brightness too sharply with the leaden-gray that was the prevailing hue
of her present life, and Paul she saw but rarely, except when hastily
swallowing his dinner, in order to keep an appointment. She seldom went
out, unaccustomed as she had grown to the noisy traffic of the streets,
and the hum of many voices.

Henk was her pet, and with her mental vision unimpaired, wherever at
least her son was concerned, she regretted his marriage with Betsy
Vere. No; she was not a fit wife for her child, and knowing that, she
could not bring herself to give him her hearty approval or her parental
blessing, when he told her of his engagement. Still, she refrained from
opposing her beloved son in his choice, fearing lest she should be the
cause of unhappiness; it was therefore under a false assumption of
frankness, at which she was surprised herself, that she had concealed
her ill-feeling against the intruder, and welcomed her as her daughter.
All the same, she felt deeply concerned about Henk. Madame Vere she had
known slightly; passionate and domineering, she never found anything
attractive in such a personality, and this daughter reminded her too
much of that mother. Although, in her eyes, Henk was possessed of much
more firmness of character than Vere, of whom she could not think but
as a pallid, ailing sufferer, only too glad to allow his wife to think
and act for him; although Henk, as she thought, had all the frank
manliness of character of his father, and would not allow himself to be
domineered over; still, happy as she had been with van Raat, it would
never be his lot to be. And at that thought she would sigh and her eyes
would grow moist; her mother’s love, despite her blindness to his
failings, was the instinct which gave her an inkling of the truth, and
if she could have taken his place, she would gladly have given up her
own former happiness to her son, and have suffered for him.

Her thoughts ran away with her as she saw Leentje, the servant, laying
the cloth for lunch for herself alone, and with a weary resignation at
the hateful loneliness of her days, she sat down. To-morrow would be to
her as to-day; what remained of her life was but an aftermath of
summer, and though autumn and winter might be free from storms, yet the
only promise they held out was that of a barren, soulless lethargy. To
what end did she live?

And so weary did she feel under the leaden pressure of this
soul-killing loneliness, that she could not even muster up the energy
to scold Leentje for her clumsiness, although she could not help
noticing the damage that was done to one of her old china dishes.



Much earlier than she was wont to go out, Eline went to the
Verstraetens’ that afternoon. It was near the end of November, and
winter had already set in with extreme severity. There was a sharp
frost; the snow, still white and unsullied, crackled under Eline’s
light, regular tread, but her feet preferred to feel the smoothness of
the clean-swept pavement; the delicately-gloved hands were hidden away
in the small muff. At times bestowing a friendly nod, from under her
veil, on some passing acquaintance, she proceeded along the Java-straat
to the Princesse-gracht. She still felt in a happy humour, which was
quite undisturbed by the little tiff she had had with Betsy about some
trifling question with the servants. These little bickerings were not
of such rare occurrence lately, although they always irritated Henk
beyond measure.

But Eline had not taken much notice of Betsy’s words, and had replied
to her with less sharpness than was her wont; she did not care to allow
such trifles to spoil her good-humour: life was too dear to her——

And feeling glad that she had curbed her temper, she turned the corner
of the Java-straat.

At the Verstraetens’ there still prevailed an unusual disorder. Dien
was loth to admit her, but Eline took no notice, and passed inside to
the large reception-room, where she found Madame Verstraeten, who
apologized for being in her dressing-gown. Losch, the photographer,
half hidden under the green cloth of his apparatus, was taking a view
of the group representing the Five Senses. The girls, Etienne, and Paul
smiled their welcome to Eline, who said it was splendid still to be
able to see something of the tableaux. But now, in the chill
snow-reflected daylight, the scene no longer created the vivid, glowing
impression of the previous evening, nor had it the same wealth of
colouring, with which a plentiful application of Bengal fire had
endowed it. The draperies hung in loose and crumpled folds;
Frédérique’s cloth of gold had a smudged, faded tint, her ermine had
more the appearance of white and black wool. Etienne’s fair wig was
decidedly out of curl. Lili, representing the sense of Smelling, lay
half dozing in her pillows.

“I am afraid it won’t come to much,” said Marie, as Losch was arranging
her draperies; but Toosje van der Stoor thought otherwise and remained
lying motionless, with a terribly cramped feeling, owing to her
difficult attitude.

Eline, unwilling to disturb the artistes in their grouping, sat down
beside Mr. Verstraeten. He laid away his book and removed his
eye-glasses, and with his sparkling brown eyes glanced with unfeigned
pleasure at the graceful girl.

“Do you know,” she said, as she unhooked the little fur-lined cloak,
“do you know, I am really jealous of that little group there. They are
always together, always happy and jolly, and full of fun and amusing
ideas—really I feel quite old by the side of them.”

“Just fancy that!” answered Madame Verstraeten, laughing. “You are of
the same age as Marie, three-and-twenty, aren’t you?”

“Yes; but I was never spoilt as Marie and Lili are being now, and yet I
think I should not have minded a bit. You know, of course, when I was a
child—papa was mostly ill, and naturally that threw a damper over us;
and afterwards at Aunt Vere’s house—aunt was a dear, good woman, but
much elder than papa, and not very jolly certainly——”

“You must not say anything about Aunt Vere, Eline!” said Mr.
Verstraeten; “she was an old flame of mine——”

“And you must not laugh at her; I was very fond of her; she really was
a second mother to us, and when that long illness ended in her death, I
felt the loss keenly, I was as alone in the world. You see, all these
things were not exactly calculated to make my youth a very gay one.”
And she smiled a saddened smile, whilst at the thought of all she had
been deprived of, her eyes glistened with moisture. “But when you look
at Paul and Etienne, and the girls, it’s nothing but laughter and
pleasure—really, enough to make me jealous. And that Toos, too, she is
a dear child.”

The artistes came down from the platform. Losch had finished. Paul and
Etienne, with Freddy, Marie, and Cateau came forward, whilst Lili went
to bed, thoroughly exhausted with the excitement of the last two days.

“Good morning, Miss Vere,” said Cateau, as she held out her little hand
to Eline.

Eline felt a sudden, indescribable, unreasoning sympathy for that
child, so simple and so unconsciously engaging, and as she rose to go,
she was obliged to hide her emotion by playfully embracing the child.

“Good-bye, darling,” she said dotingly. “I am going, Madame
Verstraeten; there is still plenty left for you to do, now that all
that excitement is over. Ah! yes—I promised Betsy to ask you for the
tickets. May I have them?”



It was still early, only half-past two, and Eline thought what a long
time it was since she had visited old Madame van Raat, and she knew
that the old lady liked her, and was always glad to have a chat in the
afternoon. Henk never failed to visit his mother every morning after
his ride, and the two boarhounds, whom his wife had banished from his
home, followed him undisturbed up the stairs in his mother’s house. As
for Betsy, of her the old lady saw very little; Betsy was well enough
aware that Madame van Raat did not care for her. Eline, however, had
succeeded in winning her affections, by means of a certain most
engaging manner she had when in the company of aged ladies; in the tone
of her voice, in her little attentions, there was a something, a
delicate flavour of respect, which charmed the old dame.

Eline returned through the Java-straat to the Laan van Meerdervoort,
and found Madame van Raat alone, seated in her high-backed chair, her
hands folded in her lap. And in the young girl’s eyes she appeared such
a picture of mute sadness; over the rich faded furniture there hovered
such a melancholy shadow of past comfort; the whole apartment was
filled with such an atmosphere of sorrow, and about the folds of the
dark green curtains there hung such a mist of melancholy, that on
entering, Eline felt her heart grow cold within her, as though a voice
had told her that life was not worth living.

But she struggled against the feeling. She recalled those thoughts
which in the morning had brought her such lightness of heart. She
smiled, and her tone assumed that vague respect, mingled with somewhat
of love and pity, and with much animation she spoke about Paul, about
the tableaux, about that evening’s dinner, and the opera—and promised
Madame van Raat to send her some books, nice light literature, in which
one looked at the world through rose-coloured glasses.

It pained her to chatter in this way; she would much rather have sat
and cried with the old dame, in sympathetic melancholy, but she
controlled herself, and even plucked up courage to touch upon a more
serious subject. With her engaging, respectful manner, she took Madame
to task for having been discovered by her with moistened eyes, which
now she would not own; she was not inquisitive, but she would so gladly
console and cheer her, if she could; and why did she not again make her
her confidante, as she had done before, and so on.

And the old lady, already placed at her ease by this charm of manner,
smilingly shook her head; really, there was nothing the matter at all;
she only felt a little lonely. Ah, it was her own fault, she feared,
for there was very little in which she still took any interest. Other
old people read the papers and continued to take an interest in things
generally; but not she. Yes, it was all her own fault; but Eline was a
dear girl; why could not Betsy be a little like her?

And with increased animation, she began to talk about her dear husband;
over there was his portrait....

It was past four when Eline hurried away; it was growing dark, it was
thawing, and the lowering clouds threatened to fall upon her and choke
her. That old lady had been happy, very happy.... and she, Eline, was
not happy, even at her age—oh! how would she feel when she too would be
old, ugly, and shrivelled up! To her even the memories of the past
would bring no comfort, nor yet the solacing thought that happiness did
exist, that she had tasted its sweets; to her all would be dull and
leaden as the clouds above! “Oh, God, why live, if life were void of
happiness?—why, why?” she whispered, and she hurried on to dress for
dinner.



It was to be a simple, homely little dinner. At half-past six the
Ferelyns came, and shortly after, Emilie and Georges. Betsy received
them in the drawing-room, and asked Jeanne how the child was.

“She is much easier now, the little dot; the fever is gone, but still
she is not quite better. Doctor Reyer said she was getting on. It’s
very nice of you to have invited us; a little change is really
necessary for me. But you see, I took your word for it that it would be
quite a family party, so I haven’t dressed for it.” And with some
misgiving her eyes wandered from her own plain black dress to Betsy’s
gown of gray satin.

“Really, there is no one else coming but Emilie here, and her brother.
But you told me you would be going home early, so we have arranged,
later on, to look in at the opera, in Uncle Verstraeten’s box. So you
need not be uneasy, you were quite right to come as you are.”

Henk, looking jolly and contented, entered in his smoking-jacket, and
on seeing him Jeanne felt more reassured than by all Betsy’s
protestations. With Emilie, lively as ever, she was on the most
intimate terms, and it was Georges alone, with his immaculate
shirt-front, and his big gardenia, who made her feel somewhat uneasy at
her own simple dress.

Frans Ferelyn, an East-Indian official, was in Holland on furlough, and
his wife was an old school-mate of Eline’s and Betsy’s.

Jeanne seemed a homely little woman, very quiet and depressed under her
domestic troubles. Delicate, emaciated, and pallid, with a pair of soft
brown eyes, she felt crushed under the double burden of pecuniary
embarrassment and anxiety for her three ailing children, and she felt
an irresistible longing for India, the land of her birth, and for the
quiet life she led there. She suffered much from the cold, and numbered
the months she would still have to pass in Holland. She told Emilie of
her life at Temanggoeng in the Kadoe—Frans was Comptroller
first-class—in the midst of a menagerie of Cochin-China fowls, ducks,
pigeons, a cow, two goats, and a cockatoo. “Just like Adam and Eve in
Paradise,” remarked Emilie. Then she told them how each morning she
used to look after her Persian roses and her pretty azaleas, and gather
her vegetables from her own garden, and how her children, immediately
on their arrival in Holland, were taken ill and began to cough. “’Tis
true, in India they looked rather pale, but there at least they were
not obliged to be in constant fear of draughts and open doors.” And she
was sorry that, owing to the expense of the voyage, she had had to come
away without her baboo, Saripa. She was now in service at Samarang, but
she had promised to come back to her “as soon as we are home again,”
and she was to bring her over some pretty frocks from Holland.

Emilie listened attentively, and did her best to set her talking; she
knew how those Indian reminiscences could draw Jeanne out of her usual
quiet reserve. Betsy considered her out of place in company, so when
she did ask her, it was always together with her husband, and if
possible, with one or two others. The fact was, she thought her a bore,
generally ill-dressed, and her conversation flat and uninteresting, but
still she could not help occasionally inviting her, more with a kind of
pity than anything else.

While Frans Ferelyn was speaking to Henk about his forthcoming
promotion to Assistant Resident, and Georges was listening to Jeanne
telling him about Frans’s horse one day stepping right into their room
to fetch his pisang, Betsy lay back in her chair, thinking how long
Eline was. She would have liked to have dined early, so as not to be so
very late at the opera, and she inwardly hoped that the Ferelyns would
not be indiscreet and stay too long. Amusing they certainly were not,
she thought, and she rose, concealing her impatience, to fix a bunch of
peacock feathers in one of the vases, a few of the knick-knacks on the
little centre table; then with her foot she arranged the tiger-skin rug
in front of the flaming hearth, all the time feeling annoyed at Eline’s
delay.

At length the door opened and Eline entered, and Jeanne could not help
noticing how pretty and elegant she looked in her pink rep silk frock,
simple but rich, with a neat little bow here and there on her V-shaped
corsage, on the short sleeves, and at the waist. In her light-brown,
back-combed hair she wore a touffe of wavy pink feathers with a small
aigrette; her nimble feet were encased in small pink shoes; a single
string of pearls encircled her throat. In her hands she held her long
gloves, her fan of pink ostrich feathers, and her binocle set in
mother-of-pearl.

Ferelyn and de Woude rose, and she shook hands with them, and kissed
Emilie and Jeanne, at the same time inquiring about little Dora. She
noticed how all, even Henk and Betsy, took stock of her, from head to
foot, struck as they were with the rich simplicity of her dress: and
when Jeanne spoke to her about her child, she smiled upon the
struggling little woman, all conscious of the effect of her brilliant
charms.



At table, Eline chatted pleasantly with de Woude, next to whom she was
seated. Betsy sat between her two gentlemen guests, Emilie between Henk
and Frans, Jeanne between Eline and Henk. In the somewhat sombre
dining-room, with its antique furniture, the table glistened with snowy
damask, with silver and fine glass, whilst the rays of gas-light
glinted on decanters and glasses, making the dark-red or amber-coloured
wine appear to quiver under the glow of its radiance. From amid a nest
of flowers in a silver basket rose the prickly crown of a splendid
pine.

De Woude commenced telling Eline about the soirée at the Verstraetens’,
and in glowing terms described how well Miss van Erlevoort had looked
her parts, successively as Cleopatra and the sense of Sight. With
Emilie, Frans, and Betsy the conversation turned on India. In this
Jeanne joined every now and again, but she sat too far away, and her
attention was diverted by de Woude’s chattering and the little shrill
laugh of Eline, who was engaged in a mild flirtation.

Henk drank his soup and ate his fish in silence, occasionally
addressing a short monosyllable to Jeanne or Emilie. And Jeanne grew
more and more silent, as much from feeling ill at ease, as from fatigue
at her long talk to Emilie after a day full of worries. She felt very
much out of place, next to that coquettish couple. Eline in full
toilet, de Woude in his evening dress, to which her own little black
dress offered a shabby contrast. Still, she was glad she sat next to
Henk, and in her own malaise she was conscious of a vague sort of
sympathy for him, who was as much out of place there as herself.

And she could not help comparing herself with Eline and Betsy: she,
struggling with her three children and her husband’s slender furlough
allowance; Eline and Betsy, on the other hand, unhampered, and ever
moving in a whirl of pleasures and excitement. Where was the old, happy
friendship that united them in one bond, when all three used to go
hand-in-hand to school, Eline with the cape of her mackintosh filled
with cherries, and she herself under Betsy’s leadership giving free
vent to her childish spirits in naughty answers to the governess? She
felt herself repelled by that young wife, with her self-conscious,
indifferent manner, and her domineering tone towards her husband;
repelled also by that young girl, who appeared to her frivolous and
vain in her conversation, full of brilliant nothings; and by that
dandy. Eline, especially, she could not understand; in her she found
something uncommon, something indefinable and puzzling, and certain
attributes which seemed ever at war with one another. Her laughter
about nothing at all wearied her, and she wondered how it was that a
girl who, as they said, sang so divinely, could have such an unpleasant
and affected laugh. Oh! if they would but be silent for a moment!....
And in her heart she longed to be back once more in her humble
apartments, with her little Dora. Why had she accepted that invitation?
’Tis true Frans had insisted, now that the child was out of danger,
that she should have some change and relaxation, but this dinner-party
gave her no relaxation; on the contrary, it made her nervous and
confused, and she declined Henk’s offer of sweetbreads and asparagus
which he recommended her.

“Did I hear aright, Miss Emilie; is Mr. de Woude a brother of yours?”
Frans asked softly. It was the first time that he had met either Emilie
or Georges, and he was as much struck by their resemblance as by the
contrast between them.

“Certainly,” whispered Emilie; “and I am proud of him too. He is an
awful swell, but a nice boy; he is engaged at the Foreign Office. Be
careful, don’t you think bad of him!” she laughed, and held up her
finger threateningly, as though she read Ferelyn’s thoughts.

“I have scarcely exchanged more than half a dozen words with Mr. de
Woude as yet, so I should be sorry to express any opinion about him so
soon,” he said, a little alarmed at Emilie’s brusqueness.

“That’s right; most people get a very different opinion of Georges
after they have known him some time, from that formed when they first
met him. You see, like a loving sister, I take my brother’s part. Just
fill my glass, please.”

“Yes; you champion him even before he is attacked!” resumed Ferelyn
smiling, as he filled her glass; “but thus much I can see already, that
he is a spoilt pet of the ladies, not only of his sisters, but also of
Madame van Raat and Miss Vere.”

Betsy joined in the conversation with Eline and Georges, feeling
attracted by the latter’s lively manner, as he chatted away, skimming
over all sorts of subjects; a conversation without substance, without
actual wit, but light as foam, airy as soap-bubbles, sparkling as
firework crackers. In such a conversation she was in her element;
serious talk, be it ever so spirited, was too burdensome for her; but
this tintinnabulation of sparks and foam-flecks, like wine glistening
through crystal beakers, charmed her exceedingly. She thought Georges
much more amusing than he was yesterday at the Verstraetens’, where he
had twice observed that the effect of red light was more flattering
than that of green. To-day he did not repeat himself, but rattled on,
interrupting her with laughing impudence, and rounding off his
sentences with truly French vivacity.

Several times Eline tried to lead Jeanne into that circle of sparkling
nothings, but in return Jeanne had only smiled a faint smile, or just
answered with a single monosyllable, and at length Eline gave up the
attempt to draw her out. The conversation grew more general; Emilie
joined in with her easy nonchalance and airy banter; and Frans, in the
midst of this charmed circle, could not help throwing in a stray spark
of fun, although his eyes frequently rested with an anxious look on his
quiet little wife.

To Jeanne it seemed as though the dinner would never come to an end.
Although she had not the slightest appetite, she did not like to
continue refusing, so she took of the truffled chicken, of the gâteau
Henri IV., of the pines, and the choice dessert; her wine, however, she
merely touched with her lips. Henk, next her, ate much, and with
evident gusto, wondering why she helped herself to such small portions.
De Woude ate but little, his continued talking prevented that; but
Emilie did her share, and was not sparing with the wine.

It was past eight when they rose, and the ladies retired to the
drawing-room. Frans joined Henk and de Woude in a cigar, as Jeanne had
expressed her desire to stay another half-hour. Betsy had asked her to
do so; she could not let her guests go so soon, and there would be
plenty of time for the opera.

“Is Dora often ill, Jeanne?” asked Eline, as with a rustle of her red
silk she sat down on the sofa beside her, and took her hand. “Last time
I saw her nothing ailed her, and even then I thought she was looking
very pale and delicate.”

Jeanne gently withdrew her hand, and felt something like irritation at
such a question after the conversation at table. She made but curt
reply. But Eline persisted, as though she intended by her present
amiability to make good her former neglect; and she managed to impart
such a sympathetic tone to her voice, that Jeanne felt quite touched.
Jeanne began to express her fears that Doctor Reyer had not examined
her little girl as carefully as he might; and Eline, whilst sipping her
coffee, listened with evident interest to her maternal plaints. Emilie
and Betsy had meanwhile gone into the adjoining boudoir, to look at
some fashion-plates.

“Poor girl! what a lot of cares and worries you have, and scarcely
three months in Holland yet! You only arrived in September, did you
not?” asked Eline, as she placed the little china cup on the round
table in front of her.

Jeanne was silent; but all at once she rose up, and in her turn
grasping Eline’s slender fingers, she remarked, in her longing for
affection—

“Eline, you know I have always been pretty straightforward and frank;
may I ask you something?”

“Of course you may,” answered Eline, rather surprised.

“Well, then—why we are no longer to each other what we were formerly,
when your parents were still living? It is now four years since I
married and went to India, and now that we have returned, now when I
see you again, all seems so different between yourself and me. I have
no acquaintances, and but few relations in the Hague, and I should so
much like to keep my old friends to myself.”

“But, Jeanne——”

“Yes; I know you think it foolish of me to talk like that; but at times
I feel so terribly depressed with all that flummery and false
excitement, I do so long to unburden myself to some dear true
friend—for of course I cannot say all I wish to my husband.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, he has enough of his own worries; he is ill, and—peevish.”

“But, Jeanne, I really don’t see what change has come between us.”

“Perhaps it is only my fancy after all. You see, formerly we used to be
oftener together, now you move in such a different circle. You go out a
good deal, and I—well, you see, we have become much estranged from one
another.”

“But considering that we have not seen each other for four years——”

“But we kept up the correspondence.”

“What value is there in three or four letters in the course of a year?
Doesn’t it seem natural that one’s ideas change, as one gets older, and
is placed in different circumstances? Yes; I have had my cares and
worries too. First it was dear papa, then Aunt Vere, whom I attended in
her illness——”

“Are you happy here? can you get along with Betsy?”

“Oh yes, admirably, or I should not stay with her, of course.” Eline,
with her usual reserve, deemed it unnecessary to say more about it.

“You see, there is no need for you to trouble yourself about anything,”
Jeanne continued; “things come about just as you wish them; you are
free and unfettered, and live only for your pleasures—it is all so
different with me.”

“But surely all that does not justify you in saying that we have become
estranged from each other. In the first place, I think ‘estranged’ is a
most unpleasant word, and secondly, it is not true, whatever word you
may use.”

“Oh yes.”

“Oh no. I assure you, Jeanne dear, if I can be of service to you in any
way, you will find me quite at your disposal. Do you believe me?”

“Yes, I do, and I thank you very much. But, Eline——”

“Well?”

Several questions rose to Jeanne’s lips. She felt eager to ask her to
tell her more about herself, to be more free and open with her; but the
studied cordiality of the smile that hovered about the delicate lips,
and was reflected in those dreamy, almond eyes, effectually silenced
her. And she felt a sudden regret at her frankness towards such a
coquette of a girl deftly playing with her fan; it was mere waste of
time in talking to her. Why had she allowed herself to yield to the
first impulse? for they were entirely unsuited to one another....

“Well?” Eline repeated, at the same time fearing what the next question
might be.

“Another time, when we are alone again!” stammered Jeanne, and she
rose, dissatisfied, annoyed with herself, feeling ready to burst into
tears, after that unsociable dinner and fruitless conversation. Betsy
and Emilie were just leaving the boudoir.

Jeanne thought it was time to be going. The three gentlemen came in,
and Henk assisted her with her cloak. With a forced cordiality she took
her leave, thanking Betsy for her invitation, and again she shivered
with annoyance when Eline kissed her cheeks.

“What an awful bore she is, that Jeanne!” said Betsy, after the
Ferelyns had gone. “She scarcely opened her mouth. What were you
talking about together, Eline?”

“Oh—about Dora, and her husband, nothing else.”

“Poor girl!” said Emilie pityingly. “Come, Georges, just fetch my
cloak.”

Mina, however, was just coming in with the ladies’ wraps, and de Woude
put on his ulster, whilst Henk rubbed his big hands, well pleased at
the prospect of spending the evening at home after a nice dinner. The
carriage had already been waiting outside in the thawing snow for the
last half-hour, with Dirk the coachman and Herman the footman seated on
the box, half smothered in their big fur capes.



“Oh, Frans, never ask me to accept another invitation of the van
Raats!” said Jeanne, in an imploring voice, as, on her husband’s arm,
she shiveringly went splashing along the muddy streets, while, with her
little hands benumbed with cold, she constantly endeavoured to keep her
cloak fastened, each time that a gust of wind blew the ends open.
“Really I don’t feel at home any more with them, with Betsy and Eline.”

He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. They plodded on with their
mud-bespattered shoes, in the flickering light of the street lanterns,
whose dull rays were reflected with monotonous regularity in the
numerous puddles they had to pass.



The third act of Le Tribut de Zamora had just commenced, when Betsy,
Emilie, Eline, and Georges entered their box. There was a full house,
and their arrival broke in upon the silence that prevailed in the
listening auditorium; there was a rustling of silk and satin; a hundred
eyes and opera-glasses were directed to their box, and here and there
the question was whispered, “Who are they?”

Emilie and Eline sat down in front, Betsy and Georges behind them,
while Eline laid down her fan and her pearl-rimmed binocle. Then she
slowly commenced to untie her white plush, red satin-lined cloak, and
as a cloud of pink and white it glided from her shoulders, and de Woude
folded it over the back of her fauteuil. And in the triumph of her
beauty it did her good to see how she was stared at and admired.

“What a number of people there are here this evening! we are
fortunate,” whispered Emilie. “There’s nothing, I think, so wretched as
to see an empty house.”

“You are right!” said Betsy. “Look, there are the Eekhofs, Ange and
Léonie, with their mamma. They were at the Verstraetens’ too yesterday;
next week they are giving a soirée dansante.” And she nodded to the
girls.

“The new baritone from Brussels, Théo Fabrice, sings this evening,”
said de Woude to Eline. “You know that since the débuts commenced, two
have been dismissed; he makes the third.”

“How terribly long those débuts are this winter!” remarked Eline, in an
indifferent tone.

“The tenor robusto was all right from the first, but they say Fabrice
is very good too. Look, there he comes.”

The chorus of Ben-Saïd’s odalisques was ended, and the Moorish
sovereign entered his palace, leading Xaïma by the hand. But Eline paid
little attention; she glanced round the theatre, and gave a friendly
nod of recognition as her eyes met those of some acquaintance, and she
did not cast another glance in the direction of the stage until
Ben-Saïd and his slave were seated under the canopy, and the ballet
commenced. That attracted her, and her eyes followed the danseuses, as,
gliding along on the tips of their toes, they ranged themselves in
groups beneath the Moorish arches, and under the uplifted veils and
fans of silver fringe, their forms encased in corsages of glossy satin,
and all a-glitter with the spangles on their gauze-like frocks.

“A pretty ballet!” said Emilie, yawning behind her fan, and she leaned
back cosily in her fauteuil, somewhat under the generous influence of
her choice dinner.

Eline nodded her head, and while at the back of her she could hear
Betsy and Georges whispering together, she still followed the clever
gyrations of the première danseuse, as with graceful movements she
hovered beneath the waving fans of the dancers on the tips of her
pointed, satin-clad feet, a dazzling aigrette of diamonds in her hair.

With her dreamy, idealistic nature, Eline was passionately fond of the
opera, not only because it afforded her the opportunity of being the
object of general admiration, not only because of the music, or that
she was anxious to hear one or another aria sung by some celebrated
prima donna, but also because of the intricate, romantic-coloured plot,
the somewhat rudely-painted melodramatic effects, full of hatred and
love and revenge, the conventionality of which did not trouble her, and
in which she did not even look for any truth. There was no need for her
to forget for one moment that they were but actors and actresses whom
she saw before her, and not knights and noble ladies; that she was
seated in a crowded, brilliantly illumined theatre, looking at painted
scenes, and listening to the harmony of a visible orchestra, and not
living with hero and heroine through some more or less poetic period of
the middle ages; but none the less did she enjoy herself, if the actors
did not sing too badly, nor play with too much prosy conventionality.

Betsy, on the other hand, went to the opera with the object only of
seeing and being seen; Eline’s intense enjoyment she would have voted
childish in the extreme, but Eline enjoyed in secret, for she suspected
Betsy’s opinion, and so left her sister in the belief that she, like
herself, found no pleasure in the theatre but to see and to be seen by
friends and acquaintances.

The ballet was at an end. Ben-Saïd and Xaïma descended from their
throne, and he sang the recitative—


           “Je m’efforce en vain de te plaire!”


and then the air:


           “O Xaïma, daigne m’entendre!
            Mon âme est à toi sans retour!”


The new baritone’s voice was full and sonorous, more like that of a
basso cantante, and in his song he enveloped it as with a veil of
melancholy.

But in his rich Moorish dress he had a heavy appearance; and neither in
his attitude nor in his acting did he succeed in imparting even the
merest semblance of amorous homage, and he looked at the prima donna,
in her dress of cloth of silver, and her long pearl-clad fair hair,
with more of threatening rage in his glance than with the humility of a
tender devotion.

Eline was not insensible to the shortcomings in his acting; but still,
the very contrast between the expression of haughty superiority in his
demeanour and the tone of humility in his voice pleased her. She
followed every note of the song, and when at the sudden fortissimo of
Ben-Saïd’s metallic organ, the actress appeared to tremble with terror,
Eline asked herself the question—

“Why is she so frightened, I wonder?—what is the matter? He does not
look so bad.”

And during the applause that followed the song she glanced round the
theatre, when by accident her eye fell upon a group of gentlemen
standing just at the entrance to the stalls. She noticed how they
stared at her box, and with her graceful languor she was about to draw
back a little, when she saw one of them look at her with a smile of
recognition. For a moment she looked at him with wide-opened eyes, and
in her surprise did not return the salutation, but with a quick
movement she turned round, laid her hand on Betsy’s shoulder, and
whispered in her ear—

“Just look, Betsy; do you see who is standing there?”

“Where? who?”

“There, in the stalls—Vincent—don’t you see?”

“Vincent!” Betsy repeated, amazed in her turn. “So it is, Vincent!”

They both nodded to Vincent, who laughingly fixed them with his glass,
upon which Eline hid her face coquettishly behind her fan.

“Who is it? who is Vincent?” asked Emilie and Georges.

“Vincent Vere, a first cousin,” Betsy answered. “Oh, such a silly boy;
nobody ever knows where he is; sometimes you don’t see him for months
at a time, then all at once he stands before you again. I had no idea
at all that he was at the Hague. Eline, for gracious sake, don’t fidget
so with that fan.”

“I don’t want him to stare at me,” said Eline; and with a graceful turn
of her shapely arm she held her fan before her face.

“When did you see your cousin last, Madame van Raat?” asked Georges.

“Oh, more than eighteen months ago. I think he was going to London,
where he was to be a reporter on a paper, or something of that sort.
Fancy, they say he was in the Foreign Legion in Algeria for some time,
but I don’t believe it. He has been everywhere, and he never has a
sou.”

“Yes; now I remember, I have seen him before,” said Emilie, with a
yawn. “A curious customer.”

“Yes, that he is. But you see here, at the Hague, where he has
relations, he knows he must be on his best behaviour, so we tolerate
his presence.”

“Yes,” remarked Emilie, very philosophically, “you generally find a
black sheep like that in every family.”

Eline smiled, and slowly closed her fan.

The third act came to an end without her understanding much about the
scena with Manoël, but the grand duo between Hermosa and Xaïma afforded
her a clue: it was the mutual recognition of mother and daughter after
the air—


           “Debout, enfants d’Ibérie!”


and the curtain fell amid thunders of applause, and the two actresses
were called to the front, and each received her share of bouquets.

“Mr. de Woude, do tell me what the plot is really about?” asked Eline,
turning to Georges. “Je n’y vois pas encore clair.”

But Betsy proposed to go into the foyer, and so they rose and left
their box. In the foyer, seated on a divan, Georges related to her the
plot of the opera, to which Eline listened with more attention than she
cared to show. Now she knew why Xaïma shuddered in Ben-Saïd’s presence,
and she would have liked to see the auction of maidens in the first
act, and the sale of Xaïma as slave in the second.

All at once they observed Vincent, who was coming up the steps of the
foyer, and approaching them free and unconcerned, as though he had seen
his cousins but yesterday.

“Hallo, Vincent, have you dropped from the clouds again?” exclaimed
Eline.

“Hallo, Eline; hallo Betsy! charmed to see you once more. Miss van
Bergh and Woude, I think?” and he shook hands with them.

“I admire your memory; I had forgotten you,” answered Emilie.

Betsy introduced them: “Mr. de Woude van Bergh, Mr. Vere.”

“Very pleased. And how are you?”

“A little astonished,” laughed Eline. “I dare say you are off again
to-morrow, aren’t you? To Constantinople, or St. Petersburg, or
somewhere, I suppose.”

He looked at her, with a smile in his pale blue eyes, like faded china,
behind their pince-nez. His features were handsome and regular, rather
too handsome for a man, with their finely-chiselled Grecian nose, the
small mouth, about which there generally lurked somewhat between a
sneer and an audacious smile, lightly shaded by the thin, fair
moustache; but the charm of the handsome face was completely spoilt by
the unhealthy yellowish tint, and the expression of lassitude that was
suffused over it. Of slender form and delicate proportions, he looked
tasteful in his dark, plain clothes, whilst none could fail to note the
smallness of his feet, and the finely-shaped hand, with its slender,
white fingers, the hand of an artist, and which reminded Eline very
much of her dead father. He sat down beside them, and in a languid
voice told Eline that he had arrived at the Hague the previous day, on
a business matter. His last employment had been at Malaga, in a wine
business; before that he had been engaged in an insurance office in
Brussels; previous to that he had for some time been a partner in a
carpet manufactory in Smyrna, but the firm failed. Nothing would do.
Now he was tired of all that rushing about; he had given proof enough
of energy and perseverance, but fate was against him; whatever his
hands touched seemed to bring him ill-luck. He expected, however, to
obtain a situation in a chemical manufactory in Java, but he must first
have some more information. To-morrow morning he hoped to call on van
Raat, whom he wanted to see. Upon this Betsy asked whether he was
coming to coffee, as van Raat was never at home in the morning, only in
the afternoon. He gladly accepted the invitation, and then commenced
talking about the opera.

“Fabrice? oh, that is the baritone, is it not? Yes; a nice voice, but
an ugly, fat customer.”

“Do you think so? No; I think he shows off very well on the stage,”
observed Emilie.

“No, Miss de Woude, you don’t mean that.”

Emilie abided by her opinion, and Eline laughed at their disagreement.
The tinkling of the bell warned them that the fourth act was about to
commence, and Vincent took his leave, although Georges politely offered
him his seat in the box.

“No; thank you very much; I don’t want to rob you of your place, I am
comfortable enough in the stall. Au revoir. To-morrow then, eh? Adieu,
Betsy, Eline; au plaisir, Miss de Woude; good evening, Mr. de Woude.”

He bowed, pressed Georges’ hand, and slowly went away, lightly swinging
his bamboo walking-stick in his hands.

“A strange boy!” said Eline, shaking her head.

“I am continually in fear that he will do something to scandalize us,”
Betsy whispered into Emilie’s ears; “but up to now he has kept himself
quiet enough. Besides, you see I want to be nice and friendly to him,
so as not to make him an enemy. I am a little afraid of him, one never
can tell what a fellow like that may do, you see.”

“I can’t say he is a prime favourite of mine,” said Emilie, and they
rose to return to their seats.

“Come, Emmie, you only say so because he did not say any nice things
about Fabrice,” Georges chimed in, in a teasing voice.

Emilie shrugged her shoulders, and they passed into the vestibule.

“Oh, there is no fifth act! I thought there were five acts,” said
Eline, with some disappointment, to de Woude, who told her the end of
the plot.



The fourth act commenced, and Eline felt much interested in the moonlit
garden scene, in Manoël’s cavatina, in his duet with Xaïma, and in the
trio with Hermosa; but her interest grew when the Moorish monarch
appeared at the gates of his palace, and commanded his guard to seize
Manoël, whilst, deaf to his entreaties, he dragged Xaïma away with him,
in a sudden burst of passion. The last scene in the opera, where
Ben-Saïd is murdered by the mother, who comes to her child’s rescue,
affected her much more than she would have cared to confess. In his
scenas with the two female characters, the new baritone played with an
amount of fire and power which lent the melodrama a glow of poetic
truth, and when, fatally wounded, he sank down on the steps of the
pavilion, Eline fixed her glasses, and gazed at his dark face, with the
black beard and drooping eyes.

The curtain fell, but the four actors were re-called, and Eline saw him
once more, bowing to the audience with a calm, indifferent expression,
in strong contrast to the beaming smiles of the tenor, the contralto,
and the soprano.

The audience rose, the doors of the boxes opened. Georges assisted the
ladies with their wraps, and they proceeded through the corridor, and
down the steps, until they reached the glass doors, where they waited
until their carriage was announced.

“I shouldn’t think that the Tribut is one of Gounod’s best operas; do
you, Eline?” asked Emilie, when they were in their carriage. “It is not
to be compared with Faust or Romeo and Juliette.”

“I don’t think so either,” Eline answered cautiously, afraid to show
how much she was affected; “but it is so difficult to judge music on
hearing it for the first time. I thought some of the melodies very
pretty. But then, you must bear in mind that we only saw half of it.”

“Yes; it’s very nice just to go and see a couple of acts; but to have
to sit out a whole opera I think an awful bore, I must admit,” said
Betsy yawning.

And Georges hummed the refrain—


           “Debout, enfants d’Ibérie.”


The de Woudes were taken home first to the Noordeinde, and Betsy and
Eline rode on, snugly ensconced in the satin cushions of the landau, to
the Nassauplein. They spoke a little about Vincent, and then both were
silent, and Eline let her mind wander musingly to the waltz in
Mireille, to her dispute with Betsy that morning, to the group of the
Five Senses, to Madame van Raat and de Woude, to her pink dress, and
Ben-Saïd.



CHAPTER V.


About a week after the tableaux-vivants, Lili Verstraeten was sitting
in the small drawing-room, where the representation had taken place.
The room had long since resumed its usual appearance, and in the grate
burned a cheerful fire. Outdoors it was cold; there was a bleak wind,
and it threatened rain. Marie had gone shopping with Frédérique van
Erlevoort, but Lili had preferred to stay at home, and so she settled
herself cosily in a big, old-fashioned, tapestry-covered arm-chair. She
had taken Victor Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris with her, but she did not
wish to force herself to read, if she did not care for it, and the
book, in its red calf cover and with gilt edges, lay unopened in her
lap. How nice it was to do nothing except dream the time away! how
stupid of Marie and Freddie to go out in such wretched weather! What
did she care about the weather! let it pour and blow outdoors as much
as it liked, indoors it was beautiful; the clouds subdued the light,
the low hanging curtains allowed it but a modest access. Papa sat
reading in the conservatory, where it was lightest; she could just
catch a glimpse of his dear gray head, and she noticed how quickly he
turned the pages; yes, he was really reading, not like her, who had
taken her book just for a make-believe. She never felt ennui, though
she did nothing at all; on the contrary, she enjoyed those musing
thoughts, rose-leaves wafted along by gentle breezes; soap-bubbles,
bright and airy, which she loved to watch, floating on high, and the
rose-leaves blew away, the bubbles broke, but she wished neither her
rose-leaf to be an ivy plant, clinging closely to her, nor her bubbles
to be a captive balloon. Mamma was still up-stairs, ever active—ah! she
could not lighten mamma’s work; she would do everything herself, though
Marie occasionally helped a little. She inwardly hoped no visitors
would come to disturb her in her dolce far niente. How jolly it was!
How nice to watch the flame curling and twisting round the live coal!
The grate was a miniature hell, the peat-blocks were rocks, and between
them there were yawning precipices, all fire and glowing embers—it was
like Dante! The souls of the damned hovered about the brinks of the
precipices, shuddering at the fiery mass.... And, smiling at the
wildness of her own fantasy, she averted her eyes, somewhat dazed with
staring into the fire. But a week ago, on that very spot yonder, they
had posed before their applauding acquaintances. How different it all
looked then! The scenes, the lyres, the cross, and all the rest of the
paraphernalia were stowed away in the lumber-room. The dresses were
nicely folded up by Dien, and put away in boxes. But it had been a
jolly time, what with the consultations beforehand with Paul and
Etienne, the rehearsals, and so forth. How they had laughed! what
trouble they had taken for the sake of a few moments’ entertainment!

Papa still read on, turning page after page. How the rain beat against
the window-panes! how it rushed down the pipe! Yes; Freddie and Marie
were out for their enjoyment ... how grand it was to be snug and safe
from all the wet. And her feet sought the soft warmth of the
hearth-rug; her fair head nestled deeper into the cushions of the old
chair.

Freddie was to go to a dance that evening. How could she stand it,
going out night after night! Yes; she was very fond of it herself—a
nice dance, a sociable soirée; but she liked staying at home too; to
read, to work, or to—do nothing. But as for ennui, she did not know
what it was, and her life flowed on like a limpid rivulet. She was so
entirely in love with her darling parents; she only hoped things would
ever remain as they were; she would not mind being an old maid....
Quasimodo, Esmeralda, Phœbus de Châteaupers—oh, why had she not taken
Longfellow with her? she did not care about the Cour des Miracles, but
she longed for Evangeline or the Golden Legend—


                   “My life is little,
                    Only a cup of water,
                    But pure and limpid——”


How poetic she was getting! she laughed at herself, and looked out into
the garden, where the dripping bare branches were swaying to and fro in
the wind. There was a ring at the bell, and light footsteps and
laughter echoed through the hall. Freddie and Marie were returning
home, they would go up-stairs she supposed; no—they were coming this
way, and entered the room, their wet wraps removed, but bringing with
them a rush of wind and a chill dampness.

“Well, I never!” cried Marie; “my lady seated by the fire warming
herself. That’s right!”

“Would my lady like a pillow for her back?” asked Freddie teasingly.

“Yes; you laugh as much as you like,” murmured Lili with a smile, and
she nestled herself more snugly in the chair. “I am warm and jolly
here, and my feet are not cold and damp. You go and splash in the mud
by yourselves!”

Freddie went to speak to Mr. Verstraeten, and Marie thought she would
like a refresher, and she set about making a cup of tea. So the girls
sat down; yes, Lili would like a cup of tea too, although she had not
been out mud-splashing.

“How dark it is here, Lili! how could you see to read? Why, it’s enough
to blind you, peering away in the dark like this!” cried Marie.

“But I have not been reading,” replied Lili, enjoying her dolce far
niente.

“My lady has been musing,” mocked Freddie.

“Ah,” said Lili with a smile, “it’s grand, doing nothing at all—just
dreaming the time away.”

And they all three burst out laughing at such a confession of shameless
laziness, when Madame Verstraeten came down, looking for her bunch of
keys.

Frédérique said she had to go soon; she was asked to a dance at the
Eekhofs’ that evening, and there were one or two things she had to see
to yet, and Madame Verstraeten thought Lili much more sensible than
Freddie and Marie, who were foolish enough to go shopping in such
weather.



Again there was a ring at the bell.

It was Paul, bringing with him such a marked odour of wind and damp,
that he was sent out of the room again to wipe his feet better.

“There’s weather!” he sighed, as he sat down.

Madame Verstraeten left the young people to themselves, and sat down
beside her husband, who, however, on hearing that Paul had come, rose
and walked to the back drawing-room.

“Morning, uncle.”

“Ah! morning, Paul; how are you?—how is your mother?”

“Mother is very well. I lift her reading a book that Eline had sent
her.”

“And how is it—have you paid a visit to Hovel yet?”

“No, uncle, not yet.”

“But do so then. Don’t delay too long about it; Hovel wants to make
your acquaintance.”

“Paul, it’s four days ago that you said you were going to Hovel,” cried
Marie. “How can you be thinking so long about it? It isn’t such a great
journey.”

“I intended to go to-morrow.”

“Then go to-morrow, about half-past six. You are sure to find him at
home then. I should advise you not to fail,” said Uncle Verstraeten,
and in his usually so friendly dark brown eyes there gleamed something
like annoyance, when he turned to go back to the conservatory.

“Paul, Paul,” said Frédérique, shaking her head, “how can you be so
lazy? You are even lazier than Lili.”

“Oh, to-morrow will be quite time enough,” grumbled Paul, as he
finished drinking his cup of tea.

“Yes; but you’re very lazy, all the same. And I tell you frankly that
we don’t think it nice of you at all, any of us.”

“Go on, grandmother, give me a good sermon; that’s right.”

“Grandmother or no grandmother, that’s my opinion. And you see, I think
it’s a great pity that you should be like that; you could do a great
deal more if you only had a little energy. Mark my words, now, if you
don’t better yourself you will grow just like Henk—a dear good fellow,
but good for nothing. You know very well that I am not altogether in
love with Betsy, but I can quite understand that she must sometimes
feel terribly bored with that brother of yours, doing nothing all day
long.”

“Don’t you say anything against Henk now; Henk is a thorough good
fellow,” cried Marie. “And besides,” Marie continued, “you have much
more ability than Henk; and that’s just why I think that laziness and
want of energy are doubly inexcusable in you.”

“Come, Marie,” said Lili, rising, “don’t go firing away like that at
Paul, poor boy! You go to Hovel to-morrow, do you hear?” she whispered
in his ear; “then it will be all right.”

He laughed, and promised to better himself under the able guidance of
the three of them.

“And as I have evidently been placed under the guardianship of my
cousins and Miss Erlevoort,” said he good-humouredly, “may I ask if
they’ll allow their little protégé another cup of tea?”



The heavy rain had ceased, but the wind still shook the dripping
branches.

It was half-past five when the door-bell rang once more.

“Half-past five!” exclaimed Frédérique. “I must go; I ought to have
gone long ago; I have some bows to fix on my dress. Oh! I shall look
bewitching to-night, all in flot de tulle! Where are my parcels,
Marie?”

“There goes the bell; I wonder if there are any visitors,” said Lili.

Frédérique was about to go, when Dien came in to say that Mr. de Woude
van Bergh was there.

“What! that unspeakable bore!”

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” said Paul.

“Well, I don’t care; I’m going to close the folding doors. I don’t wish
to see him!” she continued, and she was just about to suit the action
to the word.

“Come, Lili, don’t be so silly; come this way,” said Marie.

“No, thanks; you go by yourself,” she answered and closed the doors,
just as de Woude entered the front drawing-room, where Marie received
him.

Paul and Frédérique laughed, and took leave of Lili, and all three
passed through the dining-room to the hall.

“Good-bye; give my regards to uncle and aunt, and tell uncle that I
shall go to Hovel to-morrow for certain,” said Paul.

“Remember me to them also, and tell them I really had to go,” said
Freddie.

“All right; much pleasure to-night in your flot de tulle. Boo! how cold
it is here in this hall!”

Paul and Freddie left, and Lili returned through the dining-room. And
Georges de Woude, what had he come for? No; she could not bear him at
all. So affected and formal. How could Paul see anything in him? Paul
she thought ever so much nicer and manlier. And how Marie did lecture
him! he was a good boy, too; and what if he were a little lazy—he had
money, and might just as well enjoy himself a little now; later he
could look out for a situation, and he would soon find one, that was
certain. Yes; she would tell pa Paul had promised to go to Hovel
to-morrow, and he always kept his word.

She sat down once more in the old chair, and poked the fire. She warmed
her fingers and rubbed her little hands, soft as satin. Through the
closed doors she could hear the sound of voices, amongst which that of
Georges prevailed—he seemed to be telling them a long story. She must
have a look for one moment, and she rose and cautiously pushed one of
the doors aside a little. Yes; that would do; pa and ma she could not
see, but Marie she could just see in the face, and of Georges she got a
back view. What fun it would be if Marie were to catch sight of her;
but no, she appeared to be all attention for that little fop. Lili
could just admire his shining white collar, and the tails of his
coat—superfine, all of it! There—Marie looked up—there—she just caught
sight of her through the crack in the door: “Hallo! bon jour;” she
shook her finger at Marie, then she curtseyed and made grimaces, until
Marie had to compress her lips, so as not to burst out laughing.



As it was getting dark, Frédérique hurried home to the Voorhout. On
arriving, she rushed up the broad staircase. She nearly stumbled over
Lientje and Nico, two children of Madame van Ryssel, her eldest sister,
who since her divorce from her husband had been living with her four
children at Madame van Erlevoort’s.

“Miss Frantzen, do look after the children, they will fall!” said
Frédérique, out of breath, to the bonne, whom she met on the first
landing, searching high and low for the youngsters.

“Do you know where Ernestine and Johan are?” asked Miss Frantzen.

“No; I have only just come home,” answered Frédérique, quite indignant,
and she hurried further, flew into her room, threw off her cloak, and
with nervous fingers proceeded to open one of the little parcels she
had brought with her in her muff and her pockets.

“I shall never be ready!” she muttered, and she drew aside the green
damask curtains from her bedstead, disclosing her ball dress, spread
out on the bed—a diaphanous cloud of light-blue tulle.

That morning Frédérique’s dress had been sent home from the dressmaker,
but she wanted to add a bow here and there herself, although she almost
feared to touch it, lest she should tangle the filmy, web-like stuff.

“Oh, what shall I do!” she cried; then a sudden thought seemed to
strike her, and she rushed out of the room, and on the landing she
cried—

“Tilly, Tilly, Mathilde!”

One of the doors opened, and her sister, Madame van Ryssel, entered in
some alarm.

“Freddie, what is the matter? why do you scream so? is the house on
fire?”

“No; if it were I shouldn’t call for your help. But do help me a bit,
or I shall never be ready.”

“Help you? what with?”

“With my ball-dress. I want to put on a bow or two. It’s so bare at the
side, and I bought some ribbon.”

Madame van Ryssel was about to reply, when the door of Madame van
Erlevoort’s room opened, and the old lady came out to ask what was the
matter. At the same moment a shrill burst of laughter and a sound of
children’s voices re-echoed from the landing, there was a loud tripping
of little feet, and a girl of seven came half tumbling down the stairs,
followed by a lad of six.

“Mamma, mamma!” the child cried, as she jumped down the last steps.

“I say, Tine, Johan, what a noise you are making! What are you doing,
you two?” asked Madame van Ryssel severely.

“Jo is always teasing me; Jo wants to tickle me, and he knows I can’t
bear it,” panted the girl, and she hid herself behind her grandma’s
petticoats, whilst Frédérique caught hold of Johan.

“I told you before that I won’t have all that running and noise in the
house!” resumed Madame van Ryssel. “I wish you would remember that
grandma cannot bear it.”

“Never mind,” said Madame van Erlevoort kindly, “they were only
playing; eh, Tine?”

“Look out, do you hear, or I’ll tickle you!” cried Frédérique, and she
tickled Johan under his little arms, so that he fell, struggling and
crowing, on the floor.

“Mais comme vous les gâtez, toutes les deux! ne les choyez donc pas,
quand je suis fâchée. Je perdrai tout mon pouvoir, si vous continuez
ainsi!” exclaimed Madame van Ryssel despairingly, as she glanced over
the banisters, for down below Madeline and Nikolaas were giving Miss
Frantzen a terrible trouble and would not go up-stairs with her.

“Lientje, Nico!” cried Madame van Ryssel in her severest tones.

“Come, Mathilde, do leave the children alone for a moment, and come and
look at my dress!” Freddie implored.

“I can’t keep them in order any longer, really,” said Mathilde, with a
sigh of despair.

“Make haste, Freddie; we dine rather earlier to-day,” said Madame van
Erlevoort.

The street door was being opened; it was Otto and Etienne van Erlevoort
who were coming home, and their cheerful voices mingled with the
laughter and screams of the children, the chiding tones of Miss
Frantzen, and the barking of Hector, Otto’s dog.

“Come, Mathilde, do just have a look at my dress,” Freddie pleaded, in
coaxing tones.

Mathilde thought it best to give up all attempts at exerting her
maternal influence in that Babel of confusion, and yielded to
Frédérique’s coaxing.

“Really, I mean it, I have no more control over them——”

“Come, children, don’t fight any more now; be good!” said Madame van
Erlevoort to Ernestine and Johan. “Come with us down-stairs, ’tis
enough to freeze you here.”

Madame van Erlevoort had always been used to excitement and hubbub, and
it never seemed to upset her. Herself mother of seven children, she had
always been surrounded by noisy laughter, turmoil and excitement, and
she could not have understood how a large family could have existed in
any atmosphere that was calmer than her own. From the first, her house
had been filled with the shrill voices, the boisterous laughter, and
the continual running to and fro of her children, until they grew up,
in all the joyful freshness of their youthful spirits. Then with the
death of her husband, Théodore Otto, Baron van Erlevoort ter Horze,
member of the Second Chamber of the States General, commenced a period
of unwonted calm and peacefulness, which grew even more so when her
four children, one after another, left her house and got married. The
first to go was Théodore, the eldest, who now managed their estates in
Gelderland, and who, in the midst of his numerous family, lived at the
Huis ter Horze the life of a gentleman-farmer and of a youthful
patriarch combined. He was followed by her third daughter, Mathilde,
whose brief married life had been very unhappy; after her, the two
eldest girls, Cathérine and Suzanne, left their mother’s home, the
former married to an English banker, Mr. Percy Howard, living in
London, the other to Jonkheer Arnold van Stralenburg, Recorder at the
Court of Justice at Zwolle.

Thus Madame van Erlevoort was left with her two sons, Otto, assistant
clerk at the Ministry of the Interior, Etienne, studying for the bar at
Leiden, and her youngest child, Frédérique; and without the novel charm
and refreshing emotions of her grandmothership, the comparative calm by
which she was surrounded would certainly have made her ill with ennui,
used as she was to the tripping of light feet and the song and laughter
of clear young voices.

A few years after her marriage, Mathilde with four children returned to
Madame van Erlevoort, the children being assigned to her on her divorce
from her husband. Since then, van Ryssel had been living abroad, and
little more was heard of him.

Madame van Erlevoort sympathized deeply with her daughter, who had so
long and with such dignity sustained her part of neglected and
misjudged wife, and she received her with the greatest love, inwardly
happy in the new, fresh-budding life which the four grandchildren had
brought into her house. She spoilt them all, as she had never spoilt
her own children. Try what she would to be cross with them, their
wildest pranks failed to provoke her anger, whilst Mathilde they often
drove to desperation, for she feared what would become of them with so
much indulgence. She begged Madame van Erlevoort not to oppose her when
she meted out some well-deserved punishment; Madame van Erlevoort
promised readily enough, but as quickly forgot her promise on the first
opportunity; whilst Frédérique, herself a spoilt child, always thought
Mathilde right in her complaints, but for the rest did little to
encourage a firm discipline. It was only from Otto that Mathilde could
now and then expect a little support, and accordingly it was for Uncle
Ot alone that the four young rascals had any respect. With his mother’s
kindliness of disposition he combined his father’s common sense and
practical nature, and in the unruffled calm of his demeanour he
appeared older than he really was; but over his manly features there
lay such a charming geniality, there was so much that was sympathetic
and trustful in his bright dark eyes, that his earnestness and his
sound sense attracted rather than appeared too severe in a young man of
eight-and-twenty. Etienne, on the other hand, was all gaiety and
thoughtlessness, and his mother’s idol, in fact her nature seemed to
bask in the glow and sunshine of his character. Frédérique loved both
her brothers passionately, but Otto she was fond of nicknaming papa,
whilst with Etienne she would romp about much as Lientje did with Nico,
and Tina with Johan.



Madame van Erlevoort wished to dine a little earlier that day,
intending to have her siesta before going to dress. In the evening she
was going with Freddie and her two sons to the ball at the Eekhofs’,
whilst Madame van Ryssel stayed at home, a quiet, saddened young woman,
whose smile but faintly lit up her wax-like face, and who lived but for
her children.

By Mathilde’s express desire, the four noisy customers always dined in
a separate room, with Miss Frantzen. As for Madame van Erlevoort, there
was nothing she would have liked better than to have sat at table with
the whole batch of them, Miss Frantzen included, not caring one iota
whether her damask table-cloths were swimming in gravy, her glass ware
broken to bits, or the preserves mauled about by a set of greasy little
fingers. Thus Mathilde had been unable to prevent the children, who
dined earlier and whose meal was over sooner, from running in one after
another into the dining-room, to the despair of Miss Frantzen, whose
round face and terrified eyes would then appear at the half-open door.
This sort of thing Madame van Erlevoort in her kindliness having
tolerated once or twice, soon became the rule, and Mathilde was obliged
with a sigh to resign herself to the inevitable. As for Etienne and
Frédérique, they only helped to make the youngsters noisier than ever.
Otto also played with them, and Mathilde with a smile shrugged her
shoulders; she could not help it, let things go as they would.

“No, thank you, Otto, nothing more,” said Frédérique, at the
dinner-table. “I can never eat when I am going to a ball; you know
that.”

“Is it still like that?” asked Otto. “I always thought that it was only
very young girls who could not eat at their first entrée into society.
Are you still so nervous? Poor girl!”

“Freddie, what have you been doing to your dress? I hope you have not
spoilt anything?” asked Madame van Erlevoort, with some anxiety.

“No, ma; I took Mathilde’s advice and did not touch it at all. Ah! you
shall see me this evening,” she continued to Otto; “I shall look quite
ethereal in my blue tulle—just fit to be blown away, you know. Hallo!
there they come, the young Vandals!”

This was meant for the four little van Ryssels, who now came storming
into the room, Nico with an ear-splitting trumpet in his mouth. They
came to eat their orange with wine and sugar. Madame van Erlevoort took
Nico next to her and gave him his plate full of fruit, and ere long the
young rascal was sucking away at the luscious morsels, varying the
repast with an occasional blare from his trumpet.

Ernestine, Johan, and Etienne were picking their hardest from one dish,
and amid loud laughter their forks got jangled one in another, whilst
Freddie told Otto who were coming to the Eekhofs’ that evening.

“There are the Hydrechts, Eline Vere, the van Larens, Françoise
Oudendyk. Don’t you think Françoise prettier than Marguerite van Laren?
Eh, Otto, which of the two are you going to mash? Oh, Nico! my nerves!
Nico!”

Tootterootoo, too, went the trumpet.

“Nico, you will drive me crazy with that blaring noise. Put that thing
down now, and eat properly. There, it’s all running down your jacket!”
cried Mathilde.

“Oh, he is only making a little music; eh, little dot?” said Madame van
Erlevoort, and she drew her arm round the child, who, without much
respect for his grandma, blew his trumpet right into her ear.



After dinner Freddie and Etienne romped about with the children, whilst
Madame van Erlevoort retired to her boudoir, and Otto sat down to smoke
his cigar beside Mathilde, who took up some embroidery. Rika, the
servant, cleared the table, much hampered in the process by Nico, and
in fear and trembling for the safety of the tray upon which she had
placed the dirty plates and glasses. At last the clock struck eight,
and Miss Frantzen came to fetch the children.

“Ciel de mon âme!” cried Frédérique, half smothered on the sofa between
Ernestine, Johan, and Lientje, and with an effort she extricated
herself from the labyrinth of arms and legs that twined itself about
her like an octopus. “I must get up-stairs; Mathilde, will you help
me?”

“Yes; I am coming,” answered Mathilde, rising. “And you, children, you
be off to bed, quick!”

“No, I won’t; I want to see Aunt Freddie look pretty first,” cried
Ernestine, in a little whining voice. “And I want to help auntie, too.”

“Auntie can do without your help, and pretty she always is. Come now,
go up-stairs, all of you, with Miss Frantzen; allons, like good
children.”

Freddie ran off, and as Madame van Erlevoort was asleep, Mathilde could
for once exert her influence, and the four of them were bundled off up
the stairs, with an admonition on each step, as Nico wanted to run down
again, and Lientje remained sitting on the floor, playing with Hector.

“I am coming directly, Freddie!” cried Mathilde; “as soon as the
children are up-stairs.”

Freddie was already in her room, brushing out the wavy masses of her
hair. Mathilde was to dress it: she did it so deftly. And she set about
arranging everything—her fan, her gloves, her handkerchief, her
pale-blue satin shoes. A nervous blush suffused her clear pale face, as
she looked at herself in the mirror and smiled, until in each cheek
there formed a little dimple. “Yes; it would be all right,” she said.
In half an hour Mathilde came back with Martha, the chamber-maid, and
Frédérique sat down in front of the glass, in her white under-bodice
and blue shoes.

“Just as simple and fetching as last time you did it, Tilly,” coaxed
Frédérique, as Martha handed her the comb, the curling-tongs, or a
hairpin, as they were wanted. “Oh! it’s quite cold here! Do wrap
something round my shoulders, Martha!”

Martha wrapt a fur cape about her. With deft fingers, Mathilde had soon
completed her task.

“There!” said she, and arranged the frizzy fringe in front. “Simple,
tasteful, and fetching—are you satisfied?”

Frédérique looked at herself, and with the tips of her fingers she just
touched her hair.

“Rather!” she said. “And now—my flot de tulle.”

The fur cape was thrown on the floor, and Martha arranged the confused
mass of garments which were spread about the room. Mathilde lifted up
the cloud of delicate azure, and light as a sigh she let it glide about
Freddie’s shoulders.

“There’s something fairy, something naiad-like about me!” said Freddie,
raising her arms, and Tilly and Martha knelt down and drew open the
folds of silky gauze. “La, la, la——” and Freddie’s little feet kept
time to the tune she hummed.

“Freddie, Freddie, do be quiet now! Martha, a pin; here, that bow is
undone.”

“How do I look, Martha?”

“Sweetly pretty, miss.”

“Doesn’t it look bare at the side, Tilly?”

“Oh, dear, no; ’tis all bows and ribbons. Come, Freddie, do sit still a
moment, now.”

All at once the door opened slowly, with a creaking sound.

“What now?” cried Mathilde impatiently, and her anger rose when she
caught sight of Ernestine, shivering in her white nightgown, making her
appearance behind the door, a little frightened, but with an elf-like
impudence.

“Oh, ma, I want so much——”

“But, Tine, ’tis enough to get your death of cold, running about like
that! I don’t know how you can be so disobedient.”

“Get into my bed, Tine, quick; but mind my bodice!” cried Freddie.
“Never mind, Tilly, let her alone,” she whispered.

Tine crept into the bed, and nestled herself like a dove in the
blankets, and her little fingers passed over the blue satin of
Frédérique’s corsage, which was lying on the pillow.

Mathilde shrugged her shoulders with a sigh, resigned as usual, but the
bodice she took away. Madame van Erlevoort appeared in the open door,
rustling in silk moiré.

“Oh, how nice mamma is looking!” cried Frédérique excitedly; “you will
see, Tilly, I shall be the last again to be ready. Make haste a bit,
do!”

Mathilde laced in the satin bodice, and Madame van Erlevoort smiled in
admiration at her airy Undine. But what was that shuffling sound behind
her? Looking round, she caught sight of Johan and Lientje, both numbed
with cold, and in their nightgowns.

“No; this is really too bad. ’Tis enough to drive one mad,” cried
Mathilde, and she left Frédérique standing with her bodice half-laced,
and rushed away to the young rascals. “How can you be so naughty, all
of you, and worry ma so! To-morrow you will all be ill. Come, up-stairs
at once!”

She spoke with much annoyance, and the children half began to cry; but
Madame van Erlevoort came to the rescue.

“Never mind, Mathilde, let them stop a little while.”

“In my bed—get in, quick!” cried Frédérique, laughing her hardest; “but
don’t you touch my tulle; hands off there!” and she drew back in fear
from the outstretched hands of the little Vandals, who were burning to
tumble the filmy gauze, and pull at the long bows.

Mathilde could see well enough for herself that Freddie’s bed was the
best place for the children, and so for the thousandth time she gave
in, as with a sigh she set about lacing up Freddie’s corsage. Johan and
Lientje quickly crawled alongside Tine under the quilt, and with eyes
asparkle with life and fun, they all three sat staring at the blue
fairy.

“Are you going to put something over all this, auntie?” asked Johan,
“or will you keep as you are, naked like that?”

“Go on, you stupid boy!” cried Tine indignantly, and she gave him a
push, so that he tumbled over Lientje, and in a few moments
Frédérique’s bed was a chaos of woollen blankets, fair curls, pillows,
and bare pink legs and arms, all tumbling and wriggling about to the
accompaniment of loud screams and yells.

Madame van Erlevoort and Frédérique nearly cried with laughing at the
scene, to the great confusion of Mathilde, who, do what she would,
could not manage to get the laces tied, and Madame van Erlevoort called
Otto and Etienne, who in evening dress and overcoats were coming
down-stairs, to go in and have a look at the scene.

“Get in here with us, Uncle Eetje; come along, do!” screamed Johan; but
Etienne declined the honour; he was much too pretty now to romp about
like that.

“You look like a fairy queen, Freddie!” said Otto smiling; “fit to——”

“To be blown away, eh? But, Tilly, aren’t you finished yet with those
laces?”

“Well, Freddie, you won’t stand still for one minute.”

At last Tilly was ready, every one was ready, and Madame van Erlevoort
went down-stairs, as the carriage had just arrived.

“Now, children, stop in bed, and don’t run about in the cold,” cried
Mathilde commandingly, while Frédérique, with Martha’s help, wrapped
her sortie about her, Otto took charge of a fan, and Etienne of a
glove.

“Come, Freddie, mamma has gone down-stairs long ago,” said Otto, and he
beat the fan impatiently on his hand.

“Freddie, haven’t you forgotten anything?” asked Mathilde.

“I say, where is your other glove, Freddie, or are you only going to
wear one?” cried Etienne as loud as he could, to make himself heard
above the noise and the din the children were making in the bed.

“Oh! how you are worrying me, all of you!—I have already got it half
on, my second glove! Martha, my handkerchief! Thanks; everything right?
Yes? Well, good-bye, you pets!”

“Freddie, you have forgotten something!” cried Etienne.

“What is it, then?”

“Your umbrella, here.”

“Silly boy! Mamma is waiting in the carriage, and you delay me with
stupidities! Well, good-bye, Tilly! good-bye, dearies! yes, Otto, I am
coming.... Good-bye, Tilly, thanks for your assistance. Good-bye,
Martha!”

“Much pleasure, miss.”

“Much pleasure, Freddie.”

Freddie went, followed by Otto and Etienne. Ernestine sprang out of the
bed, followed by Johan and Lientje.

“Here, children, come here!” cried Mathilde.

She threw some wraps about them, shawls, blankets, whatever she could
find.

“And where is Miss Frantzen, that you have all come in here like this?”
she asked, dissatisfied.

“In her own room, with Nico, ma; Nico is asleep,” said Tine. “Come, ma,
don’t be angry,” and she raised her little arms fondly up to her
mother.

Mathilde smiled, and allowed herself to be embraced.

“Come away now, all of you, to bed,” she said, somewhat conciliated.

“There’s a state Miss Frédérique’s bed is in,” said Martha, shaking her
head; “I can just go and make it all over again, naughty rascals!”

“Good rascals!” cried Lientje.

Mathilde took her up in her arms, and Tine and Johan followed,
stumbling as they went over their strange garments, and screaming with
laughter at the success of their ruse.

“Hush! hush! or you will wake Nico!”

Miss Frantzen knew nothing about it; she was sitting near Nico’s
bedside, with Hector at her feet, and engaged in knitting, and was not
a little upset when she saw the caravan approaching. Those naughty
children, to slip away slily like that; she was under the firm
impression that they were all nicely asleep in the next room!

The three were put to bed, shivering and numbed, but mad with fun, and
Miss Frantzen requested them not to talk any more, but to go to sleep.

And Mathilde bent down over the cot of her Nico, lying there with
closed eyes in the blankets, the moist lips half open, and the little
fair curls straggling over the pillow. Pet of a boy he was!... And the
rest too, real darlings, terrible worries to be sure they were, and
quite uncontrollable, especially with such helpers as mamma and
Freddie. But still, how happy she was that she had them, the four of
them.

And she bent down and just touched Nico’s little lips and felt his
soft, warm breath on her cheek like a caress, and her tears fell on his
forehead, so transparent and white, so soft .... the darling boy....



CHAPTER VI.


Now and then old Madame van Raat came to drink a cup of tea at her
son’s, in the Nassauplein; she was brought there in her brougham about
half-past six, and was taken home about half-past nine.

This time Betsy was still up-stairs, probably with Ben, as Eline
assured the old lady, although she knew that Anna the nurse usually put
the child to bed.

She took Madame van Raat into the boudoir, where the soft light of wax
candles fell from a small crystal chandelier on the violet plush of the
chairs and couches, and was reflected through the many-coloured glass
drops in the mirror opposite.

“And Henk?” asked the old lady.

“Oh, he is still dozing,” laughed Eline. “Stay, I’ll just go and call
him.”

“No, no; let him be, poor boy!” said Madame van Raat. “Let him sleep,
and have a little chat with me, child.”

She took her place on the sofa and looked smilingly at Eline, who sat
down on a low settee by her side. Eline took the old lady’s thin, dry
hand in hers.

“And how are you? All right? You are looking like a young girl to-day;
so smooth I don’t see a single furrow on your forehead.”

Madame van Raat allowed herself, as usual, to be fascinated by that
caressing voice, that sunny smile, and sympathetic expression.

“You naughty girl! to make fun of my old age! Elly, you ought to be
ashamed of yourself!” and she threw her arms round Eline’s neck and
kissed her forehead. “And how is it with Betsy? is she not very
troublesome?” she whispered.

“Oh—really, Betsy isn’t so bad; she is only a little—a little hasty,
just in her way of speaking, you know. All the Veres have hasty
tempers, I as well; only papa I never remember to have seen in a
temper; but then papa was a man without his equal. Betsy and I get
along splendidly. Of course you can’t help a little bickering now and
then, if you are always together like that; I think if I even lived
with you that could not be helped.”

“Well, I wish you would come and try it.”

“Come, I should be much too troublesome to you. Now you think me very
nice, because you don’t see me very often; but if you were to see me
every day——” and she laughed lightly.

“Did you ever see such a girl? Just as if I had a temper!”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean that; but really, au fond, Betsy is an
affectionate girl, and I assure you Henk has a charming wife in her.”

“Maybe; but—but if I had had the choice, I think I know whom I should
have chosen for my son’s wife, Betsy, or—somebody else.” She laid her
hand on Eline’s head and gave the girl a look full of meaning, a faint,
sad smile about the pinched mouth.

Eline felt a little frightened. Madame van Raat’s words called to mind
her own old thoughts; thoughts long passed and nearly forgotten, in
which she had felt that sudden longing for Henk, the vague desire to
lean on him for support. Ah, those thoughts! they seemed so far off and
hazy, as though they were but mere ghosts and shadows of thoughts. They
had lost all charm, they even assumed something grotesque, that all but
made her smile.

“Oh, my dear madam,” she murmured, with her rippling laugh, “who knows
how unhappy he would have been then, whilst now—he is a little under
the slipper, ’tis true, but Betsy has rather small feet.”

“Hush—hush!” whispered Madame van Raat, “there’s some one coming.”

It was Henk, who opened the door of the boudoir, and was surprised to
find it so late. Eline laughed at him, and asked him if he had had
sweet dreams.

“You eat too much, that’s it that makes you so lazy in the evening. You
should see what a lot he eats!”

“There, mother, do you hear how your son is talked to in his own house,
even by his little sis-in-law? Oh, you don’t know what a troublesome
child it is!”

“You had better not say any more about that; your ma won’t hear
anything against me, not even from her beloved Henk—eh? Just you dare
to say that I am wrong!”

She looked at the old lady with so much childlike freshness in her
bright eyes, and in her bearing, and such a warm glow of sympathy
seemed all at once to emanate from her whole being, that Madame van
Raat could no longer restrain herself from embracing her.

“You are a dear,” she said, happy in the genial warmth of the affection
of old age for the bright sun of youth.

Betsy, when she came down, apologized for having been detained so long,
and asked if mamma would not rather drink tea in the drawing-room—there
was more room there.

“Paul was coming too, later on,” said Madame van Raat, as Eline placed
a marble footstool under her feet. “Then you must have a little music
together, Elly, will you?”

“Yes—with pleasure.”

Madame van Raat brought out her glasses and her crochet-work, while
Betsy sat down in front of the tea-tray, glittering with silver and
china. She talked about all the doings of the day; of the ball at the
Eekhofs’ the other night, which she had enjoyed very much.

“And you as well, Elly?” asked the old lady.

“Yes, first-rate. I had a splendid dance, and the cotillon was very,
very jolly.”

“And you, Henk?”

“Oh, Henk!”

Betsy and Eline both laughed. Eline exclaimed that he was much too
stout to dance; a minuet he might perhaps do very nicely, and of course
she was aware that was coming into fashion again. Madame van Raat
joined in the laughter, and Henk, quite unconcerned, sat drinking his
tea, when there was a ring at the bell, and Paul entered.

He told them that he had just come from the Prince-gracht, from
Hovel’s; he wanted to call on him last night, but he had met Vincent
Vere in the Hoogstraat, and so he had postponed his visit to go and
drink a glass of wine in Vincent’s lodgings, with a few acquaintances.
Hovel he thought a very nice man indeed, and he had arranged to begin
his work at his office the following Monday.

Madame van Raat involuntarily heaved a sigh of gratitude that the
long-talked-about visit had at last been paid. The last time she had
seen her brother-in-law, Verstraeten, she thought she could detect
something like annoyance when he spoke of Paul, and in matters relating
to her youngest son she depended a good deal on the aid of Verstraeten,
who had been Paul’s guardian during his minority.

As she heard Paul speaking, Betsy felt as though there was something
very incongruous about the way Henk “fooled” away his time with his
horse and his dogs. But what was she to do? she had spoken to him so
repeatedly, and certainly the present moment, with Madame van Raat
there, was hardly the time to mention it.

“Come, Paul,” Eline cried, all at once, “shall we sing something?”

Paul expressed his readiness; he rose; Eline sat down at the piano.
Every Thursday they practised duos together, and she already prided
herself on her répertoire. Paul had never had a lesson, and hardly knew
how to play; but Eline gave him a hint now and then, which he followed
faithfully, and she asserted that whatever he might be able to do with
his voice, he owed to her. He opened his mouth properly and kept his
tongue down, but really he ought to take some lessons of Roberts. A
fellow couldn’t be expected to sing without some study.

“What shall we have? Une Nuit à Venise?”

“Right you are, Une Nuit à Venise.”

She opened a music portfolio, bound in red leather, with “Eline Vere”
in golden letters on the cover.

“But don’t bring out your high sol so loud here,” said she. “Take it in
your medium register, and not from the chest. It will sound much
sweeter. And begin very softly, swelling here and there; and keep in
good time with me towards the end—the refrain, you know. Now, nicely,
Paul.”

She played the prelude to Lucantoni’s duet, whilst Paul gave a little
cough to clear his voice, and both commenced together, very softly—


           “Ah viens la nuit est belle!
            Viens, le ciel est d’azur!”


His light tenor sounded a little shaky, but still it went very well
with the resonant ring of her pure soprano. It was a pleasure to her to
sing together like that, when Paul was in voice, and would listen to
advice. It seemed to her as though she sang with more feeling when
another voice accompanied hers, and that she felt more, especially in
the repetition of such a phrase as—


           “Laisse moi dans tes yeux,
            Voir le reflet des cieux!”


words into which she infused something of the glow and languor of an
Italian’s love. To her mind the duet assumed a more dramatic form. In
her imagination she saw herself, with Paul as tenor, gliding along in
the radiant moonbeams in a gondola on a Venetian canal. To her mind’s
eye she saw herself in the rich dress of a young patrician, Paul in the
garb of a poor fisherman, and they loved each other, and half-dreaming,
half-singing, they went gliding along the water—


           “Devant Dieu même
            Dire; Je t’aime
            Dans un dernier soupir.”


There was the refrain! She feared—ah, she feared that Paul would break
down. No; Paul kept time with her. That was splendid! and their voices
died away in unison—


           “Dans un dernier soupir.”


“Lovely, lovely, Eline!” cried Madame van Raat, who had been listening
attentively.

“You are in good voice,” said Betsy.

“Now you must sing by yourself, Eline,” cried Paul, pleased with his
success.

While the duet was being sung, Mina had come in with the papers, the
Vaderland and the Dagblad, and Henk was soon absorbed in them, turning
over the sheets as noiselessly as possible.

“But, Paul, don’t you want to sing any more?” asked Eline. “Something
else; or are you tired?”

“I had rather you sang alone, Eline.”

“Oh no, if you aren’t tired, I should like another duet Really, I think
it’s splendid to sing together like that. Would you venture the grand
duo in Romeo?”

“Really, Eline, I don’t know it very well yet, and it is so difficult.”

“Oh, you knew it well enough the other day; if only you will sing soft
and low, and not force your notes. There—you see, the whole of this
passage with your medium register; don’t shout, whatever you do.”

With an anxious look he asked her for a little more advice about the
piece, and she told him what to do.

“Come now, will you venture? But don’t shout; that’s frightful, and—if
we do break down, what of it?”

“Well, if you like to try, I don’t mind.”

Eline’s face glowed with pleasure, and she played the soft prelude to
the grand duo in the fourth act.


           “Va! je t’ai pardonné, Tybalt voulait ta mort!”


she sang, with splendid delivery, and Paul answered with his
recitative; then together they warbled—


           “Nuit d’hyménée, o, douce nuit d’amour!”


Once more the dramatic form of the duo rose before her: Juliette’s
departure; Romeo, in his brilliant dress, lying on the cushions at her
feet. And it was no longer Paul, but Fabrice, the new baritone, who was
the Romeo, and she let her head rest on his shoulder—


           “Sous tes baisers de flamme
            Le ciel rayonne en moi!”


Paul’s voice was growing very shaky and uncertain, but Eline scarcely
heard it. To her imagination it was Fabrice, with his deep voice, who
sang; and her song sounded full and ringing, quite forgetful as she was
that she entirely eclipsed the tenor.

There—there was the warbling of the lark at daybreak, as in alarm she
asked—


           “Qu’as tu donc—Roméo?”
            “Ecoute, o Juliette!”


replied Paul in firmer tones, after his rest.

But to her it was not the voice of the lark, but the soft tones of the
nightingale; not the first rays of the morning sun, but the silvery
gleam of moonlight, and still it was Fabrice, and still the orchestra
resounded in the chords she struck on her piano, as, without speaking,
they sank in each other’s arms. At times, in the brief intervals, the
stern reality dispelled Eline’s vision, and no longer was it the stage
and Fabrice she beheld, but Paul, turning the pages. But again she
revelled in the luxury of her fancies; Juliette saw the danger of
Romeo’s prolonged stay, she urged him to go, and he answered—


           “Ah! reste encore, reste dans mes bras enlacés!
            Un jour il sera doux, à notre amour fidèle!
            De se ressouvenir de ces douleurs passés!”


This was a passage in which Paul’s lyrical weakness appeared most; and
Eline, awakening out of her reverie, heard smilingly with what
melancholy he repeated it. She felt ashamed at having eclipsed him in
her ecstasy; she would be more careful.

And she sang the finale less with overpowering despair than with soft
languor, so that Paul’s high chest-notes made better effect than at
first; but the vision was gone, the stage, the audience, Fabrice, all
had vanished.


           “Adieu, ma Juliette!”


sang Paul; and she answered, with a light cry, in which he joined—


           “Toujours à toi!”


“Oh, how grand to sing like that!” cried Eline in ecstasy, and she
rushed to Madame van Raat, and embraced her with sudden impetuosity.
“Doesn’t Paul sing nicely, eh? Isn’t it a shame that he will take no
lessons? You ought to make him.”

But Paul declared that Eline gave him lessons enough, and that she
would be the death of him with her difficult duos; but Eline again
assured him that he had acquitted himself splendidly.

Betsy gave a sigh of relief after the stormy parting of the Veronese
lovers, which under the low ceiling and plush draperies of her
drawing-room had sounded much too heavy and loud in her ears. To her
thinking it was a terrible hullabaloo! Why didn’t Eline rather sing
something light and jolly from one or another opéra bouffe?

Eline and Paul having sat down, the conversation grew more general
about the on dits of the day, the busy stir in the streets before St.
Nicholas’, until it struck half-past nine, when Mina came to say that
the carriage was there.

“’Tis time for me,” said Madame van Raat, slowly rising from her seat;
and Eline ran away, humming as she went, to fetch her things from the
boudoir, a fur circular, a woollen shawl, a cape. She let herself be
snugly muffled up by her young favourite, and carefully placed her
glasses and the crochet-work in her reticule. Then she kissed them all,
bending over them with the slow movements of tired old age, and Henk
and Paul assisted her into the soft satin cushions of the brougham.

The carriage rolled away; and in Madame van Raat’s ears there still
resounded the echo of singing voices; she smiled sadly as she wiped the
vapour from the window to look outside where the snow was lying, dirty
and bespattered in the light of the street lanterns, and thought of the
time when she used to go to the opera with her husband.

Paul stayed a little longer; and then, after a good glass of wine after
his duos, he hurried off. When he had gone Eline went up-stairs to put
the room in order a little, as she told Betsy. It was chilly in Eline’s
sitting-room, but the cool air was refreshing to her cheeks and hands,
heated by the faint atmosphere of the drawing-room. She threw herself
on the Persian cushions, raised her hand, and stroked the leaves of the
azalea. And she smiled, whilst her eyes grew large in a dreamy stare as
her thoughts flew back once more to Fabrice with his beard and his
splendid voice. What a pity that Betsy did not care more for the opera!
They went but very rarely, and yet she was so passionately fond of it.
Yes; she would give Madame Verstraeten to understand, in a genteel way
of course, that she would not mind being invited now and then to
accompany her; Mr. Verstraeten never went himself, and Madame generally
invited some one or another to a place in her box, sometimes Freddie,
sometimes Paul—why not her?

All at once she jumped up as a thought suddenly struck her; last night
Fabrice had appeared in William Tell. She ran out of her room and leant
over the banisters of the stairs.

“Mina, Mina!” she cried.

“Yes, miss,” answered Mina, who was just passing along the hall with a
tray full of wine-glasses.

“Just bring me the papers, if master and mistress have read them, will
you?”

“Yes, miss.”

She went back and threw herself on the sofa again. And she laughed at
herself as she felt her heart beating with suspense. The idea! what
could it matter to her, after all? There was Mina, coming up the
stairs. She brought the Vaderland and the Dagblad.

“If you please, miss.”

“Thank you, Mina,” said Eline indifferently, and languidly she took the
papers.

But scarcely had the servant closed the door behind her when she opened
the Vaderland, and with sparkling eyes began to look for the art and
literature column. Then she read:


                          “THE FRENCH OPERA.

   “After his performances in Hamlet and Le Tribut de Zamora, no one
    could doubt that Mr. Théo Fabrice would find favour in the eyes of
    the subscribers to the French Opera, and we cannot but wonder that
    there were even three votes recorded against the brilliant
    baritone. Again, in William Tell, Mr. Fabrice gave ample proof of
    his fitness to fulfil the post of baritone at the Grand Opera here,
    and we sincerely rejoice in his appointment. With a powerful and
    well-cultivated organ, the artist couples great histrionic ability.
    In the duo with Arnold (Act I.) and in the grand trio, in the scena
    with Jemmy, Fabrice gave striking evidence of a perfection rarely
    to be met with on our stage.”


And Eline smiled and nodded approvingly. It was true enough—and she
read the article to the end, rejoicing in his success; and then she
turned to see what the Dagblad said about him.



CHAPTER VII.


The Ferelyns occupied the upper part of a small house over a grocer’s
shop in the Hugo de Grootstraat. There they lived in a cramped,
depressing atmosphere of economy; Frans had had but little left him by
his parents, and he was therefore compelled with his wife to live on
small salary while on furlough. They settled in the Hague, the city in
which both of them had lived since their childhood, where they had
first met one another, where they had expected still to find their
former friends and their old associations, although Frans had expressed
the opinion that they would do better to make their stay in a smaller
town. But Jeanne’s father, Mr. van Tholen, was also living in the Hague
on his pension, leading a solitary life, little visited by his friends,
and gradually forsaken by his children, as they married or went into
situations. It was therefor that Jeanne persuaded her husband,
notwithstanding their slender purse, to stay in the Hague. She would be
economical, she promised, and she kept her word, although by nature she
was not much inclined that way.

So they remained in the Hague, in spite of many disappointments. In the
four years that they had not seen each other, Jeanne found her father
much aged, more discontented and irritable than she had known him
before. The days of yore were past and gone, thought she: her happy
youth in the old, sunny home, with her mother and her brothers and
sisters; her innocent pranks with school-mates; her girlish dreams
under the lilac and jasmine in their garden; her engagement days, full
of ideal fantasies, with Frans. The souvenirs which she had hoped to
find in Holland were scattered far and wide like shrivelled leaves, and
much as she had longed in the burning Indies for the damp and fog of
her fatherland, she now, bowed down under her disappointments and under
her forced economy, looked forward to a return to that matter-of-fact,
easy-going life she had enjoyed in the Kadoe with her cow, her fowls,
and her goat. And yet, plucky in spite of the thousand and one little
troubles that beset her daily life, she struggled on. Doctor Reyer
visited her Dora every other day; but she fancied she saw a nervous
haste in the popular young physician which made him count every minute
of his visit. He stayed a moment, laid his ear on Dora’s little chest,
assured her that her cough was going, impressed upon Jeanne not to
allow the child to leave the house, and left in his brougham, whilst he
made a note in his pocket-book with his gold-cased pencil, and glanced
through the list of his patients. Frans, with his severe headaches and
his low fever, he had referred to a physician in Utrecht, to whom he
had minutely described the patient’s case; and Frans had gone to
Utrecht and returned, much dissatisfied at the vague way in which the
physician had spoken to him. Whenever Doctor Reyer came to visit Dora,
Frans went out, feeling annoyed with him and his Utrecht physician, who
between them had been unable to cure him; and he buried his headaches
and his continued cold shiverings in a gruff solitude within the four
walls of his little private office on the first floor. Something like a
twinge of conscience came over him when he heard Jeanne up-stairs
talking to the doctor; and Dora, in her peevish little way, was crying
in her efforts to escape the ordeal of examination; but he did not
move; all doctors were quacks who could talk very wisely, but could not
cure him when one was ill.



Jeanne conducted the doctor down-stairs, talking the while, and Frans
in his office heard Reyer ask after him, heard her say something and
call the servant to show him out. Then, as the carriage rolled away,
she came in.

“Do I disturb you?” she asked, in her soft, subdued voice.

“No, certainly not; why?”

“Why did you not come up-stairs for a moment, Frans? Reyer asked after
you.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“What is the use?” he said with irritation. “They send you to their
Leiden or Utrecht celebrities, who make you pay a tientje [1] for a two
minutes’ talk.”

“But what do you want, then? You can’t expect to be cured by magic of a
complaint from which you have suffered for the last two years. I think
you ought to do more for your health than you have done in the three
months we have been here. You have come to Europe for that purpose,
have you not?”

“Certainly; but first I must find some one in whom I can place more
confidence than Reyer. Reyer is a doctor à la mode, a recommendation of
the van Raats, very polite and gentlemanly, but much too superficial
and hasty for me. Why, he is gone ere you have seen him.”

“But you don’t speak to him frankly. I ask him about Dora and force him
to stay longer, and really, now that he knows us better, he seems to
take greater interest in us. And everybody says he is clever; it is not
only the van Raats who believe in him.”

“Well, I shall see; there’s plenty of time yet. Sometimes you are just
like a drop of water on a stone, continually drip, drip, drip. You are
for ever hammering, hammering away at that doctor story,” he cried,
impatient and dissatisfied with himself, and he opened his
writing-case, as though to give her to understand that he had no more
time.

She went, and gently closed the door behind her. Up-stairs in the
nursery she found their only servant, a young girl of sixteen, in a
dirty apron and unkempt hair, making the beds; while Dora, with the two
boys Wim and Fritsje, were playing in the next room.

“I will close the door, then you can air the room, Mietje,” said
Jeanne, and she closed the folding doors, and with a smile sat down
beside the children, at a table near the window, covered all over with
little socks, pinafores, frocks, all to be repaired. Oh! what tiresome,
wasteful children they were, to be sure! She sighed, and her small thin
hand fumbled about the things, and her eyes filled with tears. Why was
she not stronger? how she would have enjoyed getting through all her
household duties! Now she found it so hard to lift herself out of the
listlessness into which she felt herself sinking, as into a yawning
abyss; from the lifeless languor which seemed to encircle her as with
velvet arms; and yet—there was so much to be done she durst not yield
herself up to idle dreaming, nor rake up her old, wide-scattered
recollections, like so many burnt-out cinders, and forget herself in
her longing for the illusions of former days. Stern reality stared her
in the face, in the shape of a great rent in Dora’s woollen frock, and
in the washing that was waiting to be counted before being sent to the
laundry.

And yet even now, while her hand went fumbling about the little socks
and vests, she let herself be drawn deeper and deeper into the soft
down of her listlessness; she bestirred herself with no energy to set
about her work, and she did not hear the shrill quarrelling voices of
the children.

She would so gladly have infused a flood of sunshine, a wealth of
harmony into her humble home; but she was no fairy, and she felt
herself so weak even now, and already no longer able to withstand
life’s small troubles, so that she dared not hope for a much rosier
future. Indeed, when she thought of the future at all, it was not
without fear and trembling, as a vague terror shaped itself into an
indefinable form before her mind’s eye, so dread and awful that she
could find no words with which to depict it.

Her head fell on her hand, and now and again a tear dropped on the
linen in front of her. Oh! how sweet would be her slumbers, if but the
caress of one who loved her might be hers, one in whose affection she
would have felt herself safe from all danger! And she thought of her
Frans, and how he had asked her to be his in their garden, under the
blossoming lilac; and now she worried him, and had become like a drop
of water on a stone—drip, drip, drip.

Ah! she knew it; she had not made him happy; she was a great
disappointment to him, but it was not her fault if he thought to find
more in her than she possessed; a stupid, simple, weak little woman,
with a great need of much, very much love and tenderness, and with
something of sentimental poesy in her little soul.

And sighing, she raised herself, and told the children not to make so
much noise, papa was down-stairs and had a headache.

Then she looked about on the table after her work-basket, but she had
left it in the sitting-room, and so she ordered Dora, like a big girl,
to look after her little brothers for a while. She usually spoke to the
child as though she were a grown-up daughter, and Dora often helped
her, very pleased that ma found her so useful. And Jeanne went
down-stairs to the sitting-room, and began looking for the basket, when
Frans came in.

He had heard her coming down-stairs, and wanted to see her for a
moment, as a feeling of self-reproach overmastered him. He approached
her unawares, softly, on the tips of his slippered feet. He took her
gently by the arms.

She felt frightened for a moment, and when she looked up she saw in his
eyes that very tenderness for which she longed, and with a little smile
in which there almost lurked something like fear, he asked her—

“Are you angry?”

Her eyes suddenly grew moist, and she nestled her head on his shoulder,
and laid her arm round his neck, and shook her head.

“Really not?”

Again she shook her head, laughing amid her falling tears, and she
closed her weeping eyes and felt his moustache on her lips as he kissed
her. How quickly he repented when he had been unkind, and what a luxury
it was to forgive him!

“Come, don’t cry then; it wasn’t so bad as all that.”

She gave a sigh of relief and clung closer to him.

“If only you are a little gentle and kind to me—oh, then I feel myself
so—so strong, then I feel equal to anything.”

“Darling little woman!”

Again he kissed her, and under the warm love of his lips she forgot the
icy cold of the fireless room, which caused her to shiver as she clung
to his arms.



CHAPTER VIII.


It was the fifth of December, and from early morn a mysterious stir and
excitement, a joyous whispering, an anxious stowing away from peering
eyes, had prevailed all day at the van Erlevoorts.

A little after seven in the evening the Verstraetens arrived; the two
cousins, Jan and Karel, who had taken part in the tableaux, accompanied
them; then came the van Raats and Eline, followed by old Madame van
Raat and Paul; Henk, however, and Jan Verstraeten did not enter the
drawing-room, but mysteriously disappeared in a little cupboard where
Marie and Lili had already laid a parcel of costumes.

In the large drawing-room Madame van Erlevoort received her guests, who
met with a jubilant welcome from the little van Ryssels and from
Hector, and neither Mathilde nor Miss Frantzen could succeed in their
efforts to stop the ear-splitting noise.

“Now, why did you not bring Ben with you?” Madame van Erlevoort asked
Betsy, indignantly.

“Really, madam, Ben is too young; he is only three, you must remember,
and it will be so late to-night.”

“He could have ridden home with our Martha. It’s a pity; I had
something for him just to suit him,” said Madame van Erlevoort, in a
tone of disappointment.

In the opposite drawing-room, where the girls, with Otto, Paul, and
Etienne, were talking and laughing, there was a stir, and the young van
Ryssels looked up with nervous curiosity. Martha had just come in, and
she had smilingly said something to Frédérique.

“Now, children and all good folks,” cried Frédérique, with a dignified
face, “silence! Santa Claus has arrived and wants to know if he may
enter. Do you agree, mamma?”

They all kept themselves as serious as possible, with many a furtive
glance at the little van Ryssels.

Meanwhile, Santa Claus made his appearance in his white gaberdine, and
long red cloak bordered with gold lace. His hair and beard were long
and white, and on his head he wore a golden mitre. With much dignity he
made his entry into the room, leaning on his staff, and his black page
behind him, dressed in a costume which those who had witnessed the
recent tableaux at the Verstraetens’ would probably have recognized.
The three women-servants and Willem followed them by way of rear-guard,
and remained in the room looking on.

The grown-up people all bowed, with a self-conscious smile, before my
lord bishop.

Santa Claus muttered a greeting, and all but stumbling over his
immensely long gaberdine, he walked up to the sofa, where old Madame
van Raat and Madame Verstraeten were seated, surrounded by Madame van
Erlevoort, Mr. Verstraeten, Mathilde, Betsy, and Otto. No one troubled
himself to rise from his seat, and Madame van Erlevoort welcomed the
illustrious guest with a most familiar smile.

“Why doesn’t grandma get up?” whispered Ernestine wondering, as she
raised her delicate intelligent little face to Marie’s. “I thought she
would have got up when such an old, strange gentleman came in.”

“Mais, écoute donc, comme elle est fine!” Marie whispered to Eline, who
stood next to her.

But Eline did not hear; she stood laughing with Paul and Etienne at
Santa Claus, whose gaberdine was certainly coming down, and already
quite covered his feet, whilst a streak of fair hair became visible
between his gray locks and his mitre.



Now Santa Claus raised his deep, full voice, and as, with an energetic
wrench, he pulled up his gaberdine into his girdle, he motioned the
little van Ryssels to come to him. They did not feel quite sure of the
business, but when Santa Claus took one of the bags from his little
servant’s hands, and opening it began to scatter its contents about,
the youngsters’ faces grew radiant with joy, they forgot their terror,
and one and all they threw themselves, tumbling over Hector, on the
floor, to scramble for what they could find—ginger-nuts, figs, nuts,
oranges, chocolate.

“Scramble away, scramble away,” Santa Claus cried encouragingly, “we’ve
got a lot more; look here! Come, you big boys, don’t you want something
too?”

The cousins Verstraeten did not wait for a second invitation, and
joined in the scramble.

“Will you save them for me, grandma?” screamed Nico, and poured a
torrent of sweet-stuff into his grandma’s lap; “then I’ll go and fetch
some more!”

“Nico, Nico!” remonstrated Mathilde.

“Never mind,” said Madame van Erlevoort kindly.

Santa Claus and the little page shook out their big sacks, which had
been growing limper and limper by degrees, and turned them inside out,
as a proof that they were quite empty.

“Oh, now we are going to the dining-room!” cried Ernestine, and she
jumped up and clapped her little hands with pleasure.

“Oh yes; to our little tables!” Johan chimed in.

Every one rose, and they followed the Saint and the children to the
small drawing-room, and the girls giggled at Santa Claus’s falling wig,
but the Saint called out to the servants and Willem—

“Quick, throw open the doors; make haste!”

The folding-doors were opened, and the children stormed into the
well-lit room, where, instead of the dining-table, there now stood four
small tables; on each of them lay a name in letters of chocolate, on
each of them rose a tower of toys.

The Verstraetens and the van Raats whispered to the servants, and their
gifts to the youngsters were brought in also, one by one—hoops, whips,
balls, tin soldiers, and a cow that gave milk.

Meanwhile Santa Claus and his little slave took their departure, and as
it was close upon half-past eight, Mathilde considered it time to stop
the fun. But even with Miss Frantzen’s assistance she was not to
achieve her object very quickly. The children got muddled in their
attempts to collect their toys and dainties; from Ernestine’s pocket a
shower of nuts fell on the floor; Johan’s tin soldiers could not be got
into their box again, and Lientje with her hoop and Nico with a trumpet
rushed along the room followed by Hector, without troubling themselves
much more about the rest of their property, which was scattered all
around.

“Come, children,” cried Mathilde, “make haste now; ’tis getting
bed-time.”

But they heard nothing; the little van Ryssels, mad with joy, ran up
and down, scattering about in wildest disorder the toys which the
others had gathered together, and Frédérique joined in the fun, and
took Nico on her back, whilst he made a horse of her, and struck her on
the back with his whip.

The little Verstraetens, too, ran after Tina and Johan, along the
marble hall, making a furious stampede with their boots.

Mathilde clasped her hands in despair. No one took any notice of her.
Miss Frantzen was assisting the servant with the toys, and the young
girls were laughing with Paul and Etienne. Fortunately she caught sight
of Otto, who was speaking to Betsy and Madame Verstraeten, and she
walked towards him and took his hand.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Otto, do help me; the children must really go
to bed, and they won’t even listen to me. Mamma is not a bit of help
either.”

Madame van Erlevoort, in fact, was at that moment in the other room,
very busy filling Lientje’s toy tea-service with milk, water, and
sugar, and old Madame van Raat and Mr. Verstraeten stood looking on
with much amusement.

“Oh, I see; Otto is to act the bogey man again,” he said
good-humouredly.

“No, no bogey man; but really I shall go crazy if you don’t come to my
assistance. Did you ever see such uncontrollable creatures as those
children of mine, Betsy? Are you coming, Otto?”

Betsy laughed.

“You had better just go and assert your authority as uncle, Mr. van
Erlevoort,” said Madame Verstraeten.

Otto accompanied Mathilde, first to Freddie.

“Come, Freddie, Nico must go to bed. Come, Nico, quick; to-morrow you
may ride again on auntie’s back. Down, Hector!”

“You have nothing to do with my back, do you hear?” said Freddie; “do
you hear, little grandpapa? Come, Niek, little grandpapa says we must
leave off.”

Nico obeyed, pouting, as he asked for his trumpet. Otto went into the
hall, where he checked the two eldest in their mad race.

“Come, Tine and Jo; mamma wants you to go to bed now. Don’t be
disobedient now, or you will make mamma cross.”

“What a lot we’ve got this year, uncle!” cried Ernestine, out of
breath.

Mathilde came into the hall, leading Nico and Lientje by the hand.

“Just fancy, there was mamma, quietly playing at tea-parties with
Tine,” she said, and her despairing face made Otto smile. “Really if it
were midnight, mamma would——”

“Ma, dear, mustn’t we say good-night first to everybody?” screamed
Johan.

“No, no!” cried Mathilde, quite terrified, and grasped the little hands
close; “I shall wish all the people good-night for you. Thank you,
Otto.”

She gave him a friendly nod, and he nodded back with his genial smile
and his frank eyes.

And Mathilde took the children up-stairs.



“Then you can bear all that noise and turmoil?” asked old Madame van
Raat of Madame van Erlevoort, and she looked at her smilingly, but
wondering, with her sad, lack-lustre eyes.

There was a sudden calm after the exodus of the children. They left the
dining-room, where the toys were still scattered about; the apartment
was closed, and the guests went into the double drawing-room, where
Madame van Erlevoort poured out tea.

“Can I bear it, madam? I feel myself live again under it; it
rejuvenates me. I need the life of youth about me. I never spent a
drearier time than when my daughters and my son Théodore were married,
and yet I still had three children left me. But I must see those little
beings fluttering about me; there is nothing that keeps one in a
brighter condition like their wild gaiety. May I pour you out another
cup?”

Madame van Raat handed her cup, and envied Madame van Erlevoort her
youthful vivacity with her gray hairs. She compared her with herself,
and her own melancholy solitude, the effect of which she felt doubly
keen, after her former life of cloudless happiness, and her present
existence stood out in cruel contrast to the joy-surrounded old age of
that happy grandmamma.

“And you don’t know how sorry I am that I see so little of Théodore’s
six. The boy is in love with country life, and won’t hear of it when I
attempt to persuade him to come and live in the Hague.”

“Your daughter in England has only one child, has she not?” asked
Madame Verstraeten and Madame van Stralenburg.

Madame van Erlevoort bent down to Madame Verstraeten, and whispered
something mysterious in her ear, whilst in reply to Mr. Verstraeten,
who nodded to her smilingly, she archly winked her eye.

Thereupon Madame van Erlevoort related how the little van Ryssels had
placed their shoes aside the previous evening, when Henk and Jan
Verstraeten came in, both smiling, and Henk with a very red face.
Mathilde too came back, and many nice things were related about the
children. All at once there was a furious ringing at the house-bell.

All eyes turned to the door as it opened. Willem, Truitje, and Rika
between them dragged a big box into the room, towards Madame van
Erlevoort.

“Oh!” exclaimed Frédérique; “that is the box from London!”

Madame van Erlevoort informed Madame van Raat that every year at St.
Nicholas, her son-in-law Howard sent her a big box containing something
for everybody. Willem, armed with crowbar and pincers, and assisted by
Etienne, removed the screws and nails. Every one was on the watch, and
the shower of presents commenced.



Eline made a little heap of her presents. Oh, how she was being spoilt,
she declared, radiant with smiles. From Martha’s hand she took another
packet; slowly she broke the string, cautiously looking about for a
seal, or some stray letter or cipher, to give her a clue to the sender.
But she found nothing of the kind, the address ran simply—“Mdlle. E.
Vere.” It was a gray leather case; she opened it, wondering who could
have sent it. Inside the case, resting on the gray velvet, lay a fan of
beautifully-carved mother-of-pearl. She took it up, and slowly opened
it; she looked at it in admiration.

“Bucchi!” she softly said, as she read the name of the painter at the
bottom; “Bucchi!”

The fan was, in fact, painted by the Italian artist, a fantasy of roses
and fairies on a groundwork of ivory satin.

“From whom can this come?” she said. “How splendid!”

Every one rose, every one crowded round Eline, who carefully held the
fan open, and the costly gift attracted general admiration. Eline was
astonished. From Madame van Raat she had had a scent set, that she
knew; from Henk and Betsy——

“Betsy dear, must I thank you for this?” she asked, rising.

Betsy shook her head.

“Parole d’honneur—not me, Eline.”

Of course she had had a bracelet from Betsy and Henk; but who, then,
sent this fan?

“Would it be from—Vincent perhaps?” she asked.

“From Vincent? No, no; what put that into your head now? What young man
would make such a present? Let me look at it.”

Eline handed her the fan.

“’Tis really magnificent,” said Betsy.

Eline shook her head, quite at a loss for a clue. Meanwhile the fan was
passed from hand to hand, and Eline carefully scanned every one’s face,
but she could gather not the least sign from any of them. But suddenly
Frédérique raised her head, with a look of surprise on her face. She
quickly recovered herself, and with apparent indifference approached
Eline.

“May I see the case one moment?” she asked.

Eline handed her the case, and Frédérique eagerly scrutinized and felt
the gray leather and the gray velvet.

“Have you got the slightest idea who could have sent me that?” asked
Eline, and she raised her arms in mock despair.

Frédérique shrugged her shoulders, and laid the case down.

“No—I really don’t know,” she said, somewhat coolly, and she looked
with some curiosity into Eline’s hazel eyes.

An indefinable antipathy seemed to her to radiate from out of those
gazelle-like eyes, and to lie hidden in the mock despair at the unknown
giver. She cast not another glance at the universally admired fan, and
during the remainder of the evening she was quieter than ever she had
been before.



The torrent of presents had ceased. Madame van Erlevoort asked her
guests to leave her two terribly disarranged drawing-rooms, full of
paper, straw, bran, and rubbish, when Willem once more opened the doors
of the dining-room, and the table, ready laid for supper, looked bright
and inviting enough.

It was a gay and lively supper-party. Mr. Verstraeten kept Madame van
Erlevoort and Betsy, between whom he was seated, amused with his jokes,
and Mathilde, next to Betsy, often joined in the laughter. Henk, seated
between his mother and his aunt, wanted nothing; whilst Otto and Eline
were busily engaged in conversation, and Etienne chattered noisily with
Lili and Marie.

“Freddie, how quiet you are, chère amie,” said Paul, as he took
possession of a lobster salad, seeking in vain to set his little
neighbour, generally animated enough, a-talking. “Didn’t receive enough
presents to your liking, perhaps?”

“Quiet? am I quiet? How can you say such a thing?” answered Freddie,
and she began to chatter with an overpowering animation, which sounded
like an echo of Etienne’s. But still there was something artificial
about it; her laugh was not always a hearty one; and every now and then
she stole a furtive glance at Eline, as she sat there, brilliant in her
beauty, in lively chat with Otto. Yes, there was something very
fascinating about her, something of a siren’s charm; her beautiful
dreamy eyes half closed, as she laughed, while the soft line of her
delicate lips faded away in two small dimples. And those beautiful
hands, peeping out so white from amid the black lace and the dark red
bows of her bodice, and that coquettish-looking diamond, one single
brilliant stone, trembling like a drop of crystal in the black tulle
round her throat. Yes, Frédérique thought her bewitching; but still,
she could not help it, she thought her antipathetic; and almost with
anxiety her eyes followed those of Otto, whose glance seemed riveted to
the siren.

Meanwhile, however, she continued laughing and talking with Paul, with
Etienne, and Lili, and Marie, and old Madame van Raat declared across
the table that the family’s arch-elf of fun was thoroughly sustaining
her reputation.

The champagne streamed into the glasses, and Mr. Verstraeten drank a
toast to the ever-youthful hostess, with her beautiful white hair, and
thanked her with a kiss for the jolly evening. Eline and Otto drank
together to some toast of which Frédérique could not catch the words,
and which she would gladly have given her best present to understand;
but still she did not ask.

“Etienne, what a noise you’re making!” she cried, with some impatience,
to her brother, who, with all the strength of his lungs, sang something
about—


           “Buvons jusqu’a à la lie!”


while his glass nearly spilt its contents over Lili’s plate. But when
she had said so much, she was sorry for it; why should not others enjoy
themselves, if she could not?

The supper was over, the carriages were waiting for the guests, who
left one by one, laden with the presents each had received. Mathilde
felt tired, and soon went up-stairs, whilst Madame van Erlevoort and
Otto were packing the presents together.

“What a state the rooms are in!” said Frédérique, as she kicked a
cardboard box aside. Then she approached the table; ah, where was the
fan? Eline had taken it away with her. Then she kissed her mother and
Otto, playfully rumpled Etienne’s hair, and took her presents
up-stairs.

Slowly she undressed herself, so slowly that the chill air made her
shiver. And as she, trembling with cold, crept under her blankets, she
once more saw Eline before her, in all her bewitching grace, in her
black lace, smiling at Otto. It all began to whirl before her eyes,
like a confused kaleidoscope—Henk, in his dress as Santa Claus, with
his falling gaberdine, and Jan Verstraeten as the little page, the box
from London, the fan by Bucchi.



CHAPTER IX.


It was a few days after St. Nicholas’ Eve when Eline went out one
afternoon, taking little Ben by the hand. The previous evening she had
been, together with Madame Verstraeten, Marie, and Lili, to the opera,
to see Il Trovatore, and that morning she had asked her old grumbler of
a singing-master to accompany her in


           “La nuit calme et sereine.”


He shook his head; he did not care for those bravura arias of the
Italian school, about which Eline was often at variance with him; she
thought Bellini, Donizetti, Verdi most graceful and melodious music, as
though written for her ringing soprano. He on the other hand considered
them childish with their rippling airy little tunes, and was never
tired of dwelling upon the richer depth of Wagner. But she had him
completely under her thumb, and he played whatever she wished him to.

“Come, Ben, walk properly, there’s a good child!” said Eline to the
sturdy little chap. “Come, keep up with auntie. Isn’t it nice to go
into all the nice shops?”

Last evening, when at the opera, during the cavatina of the Comte de
Luna, Eline had an idea rising in her mind. In the window of a
photographer’s she had noticed some portraits of Fabrice in various
characters and dresses, and a sudden desire overtook her to possess
one. So now she was on her way to buy one of the portraits. And she
smiled to herself as though she enjoyed the secret pleasure of it, as
she pictured him with his big heavy frame, his fine head of hair, and
his black beard. How glorious to be an actor!

From Fabrice her thoughts wandered back to her new fan, which she had
used last evening. Betsy thought she had acted very foolishly in taking
it with her before she knew the giver, but she had taken no notice of
her sister’s objections; on the contrary, she thought there was
something fascinating in that uncertainty which had a peculiar
attraction for her romantic nature; indeed she had already formed quite
a little romance for herself out of the little incident. Fabrice had
noticed her in the Verstraetens’ box; he was quite captivated by her;
in future it was only to her that he sang, and his heart was filled
with disappointment whenever he did not see her at the opera. It was he
who had sent her the fan with its modest superscription, “Mdlle. E.
Vere”; he had seen her use the fan last night, and one time or other he
would be sure to betray himself by a glance or a certain note in his
song.

She smiled at her own romancing, at the wildness of her fantasy. She
remembered last summer at the picture academy to have seen several fans
by Bucchi, and now she also recollected with what admiration she had
gazed at them, and how she had expressed the desire to possess one. Who
could have had the delicate attention to meet her in that desire? With
whom had she been to that exhibition? With Emilie de Woude, with
Georges perhaps—surely Georges could not have—or her dancing-master,
who had proposed to her, but whom she had refused? Oh! it was too
stupid; no, she would think no more about it—one day she would know.

By way of the Parkstraat and the Oranjestraat she had reached the
Noordeinde and was close to the picture-shop, when all at once the
thought struck her—would not the shopkeeper think it absurd for a young
girl to purchase such a portrait? No; she would never summon up
courage. But already she stood before the window, behind which masses
of engravings, photographs, groups of statuettes in marble and
terra-cotta, and numbers of various objects of art were displayed in
elegant confusion; actors and actresses, singers and painters, with
their names attached: Estelle Desveaux, Moulinat, Théo Fabrice.

“Come, Ben,” she said, and gently pushed the child inside. There were
some ladies in the shop, selecting photographs, and they looked at her.
She could not help it, but really she thought she blushed under her
white tulle fall.

“May I see some of your New Year’s cards, like those in your window?”
she asked the shopkeeper. “Don’t touch those statuettes, Ben.”

A number of cards were shown her. She looked at them attentively, took
them up with the tips of her well-gloved fingers, and laid a few aside.
Then she looked round her, noticed a heap of portraits, and with her
languid indifference she took them up. Fabrice’s were among them.

Which should she take? This melancholy-looking one in the black velvet
costume and lace collar, representing Hamlet; that one as Tell? No,
this one, as Ben-Saïd, the character in which she had first seen him.
But she would also take that one of Moulinat, the tenor, and of Estelle
Desveaux, the contralto; then it would not be remarked that she had
come expressly for Fabrice. But then she might just as well take
another of Fabrice, as Hamlet.

“Will you let me have these cards, and these four portraits?”

“Shall I send them to you?”

“Oh no, I will take them. How much is it altogether?”

She paid the money, took the envelope in which the shopman had enclosed
them, and left the shop with Ben, under the firm impression that the
ladies, who were still engaged with the photographs, looked at her as
though they would read her inmost thoughts.



A glow of pleasure came over Eline’s face when once she was outside. At
last she had summoned up courage to do what she had long determined,
and she spoke in a gentle motherly way to Ben. And when, on reaching
the Hoogstraat, she saw Jeanne Ferelyn in her winter cloak, wide as a
sack, and her modest little black hat, walking on the opposite side
without noticing her, she took Ben’s hand, and quickly crossing the
street between two carriages, greeted Jeanne with smiling cordiality.
They walked on a few steps together, Jeanne telling her that Dora was
getting on nicely, but that she had been obliged to engage a nursemaid,
as she could not always leave the children to the care of Mietje, who
was so slovenly and careless, and that it had somewhat crippled her
finances. Eline forced herself to be attentive to the tale of her
latest troubles; but soon Jeanne began to speak with more animation
about Frans, her father, and Doctor Reyer, with whom she was getting on
better now. Then as she saw how sympathetically Eline looked at her,
and how gently she spoke to Ben, she raked up some of the recollections
of her school-days, and they laughed about their childish pranks, and
about the cherries she used to pick out of Eline’s cape. Jeanne was
annoyed at herself for having formed such an unfavourable impression of
Eline when she met her at the van Raats’ dinner-party; now she found
her quite unaffected and amiable.

“But don’t let me detain you any longer, Eline,” said she, stopping
short; “I have to make a few trifling purchases, order some saucepans,
and a milk-jug. Mietje has been breaking some things.”

“Oh! I have nothing to do, I’ll walk with you so far, if you don’t
think I’m de trop, and if Ben isn’t tired. Are you tired, little man?
No, eh? Oh! he is such a good one at walking!”

They walked on, and Jeanne ordered the saucepans, and Eline went into
the china-shop and chose a milk-jug for her. At the same time her mind
was still running on Fabrice, and at times she felt an irresistible
longing to open the envelope and look at his portraits. She was so
passionately fond of music, and Fabrice sang with such pathos, with so
much more feeling than other actors. He was still young, she thought;
he would yet be famous, and make his début in Paris. Jeanne never went
to the opera, and probably had never yet seen him.

Would she, Eline, meet him one day in the street, she wondered? And how
would he look, in his everyday clothes? Yes; one morning she would
pretend to have an early call to make somewhere, and she would pass by
the opera-house. Perhaps there might be a rehearsal, and if so she
would probably meet some of the artistes in the neighbourhood of the
building. Absorbed in her own thoughts she did not always hear what
Jeanne was saying; but she continued to look at her, as she walked by
her side, with those sympathetic eyes and that winning smile, which
were among Eline’s greatest charms.

Meanwhile they had turned the corner, and on reaching the Hoogewal, she
took leave of Jeanne.

“Well, good-bye, I’ll come and look you up soon, Jany; remember me to
Ferelyn, do you hear? Come, Ben, shake hands with the lady.”

In her longing after affection, Jeanne felt something like a grateful
glow of warmth at the sound of that name Jany; it seemed like an echo
of former days, when as a girl every one called her Jany.

And she hurried back to the Hugo de Grootstraat, full of high spirits,
longing once more to be in her little home, with her husband and her
little darlings of children.

Eline smiled to herself as she passed through the Willemspark on her
way home. The bare branches over her head glistened with hoar frost,
and the frigid air was clear and seemingly full of vague echoes. She
felt a strong impulse to give expression to her happiness in that free
atmosphere, by an outburst of joyous song. Was she a little smitten
then—with that——

No, no, it was too absurd; it was only that he sang well!



CHAPTER X.


The flaming fire cast great, quivering shadows, like dancing, black
spectres, on the walls and ceiling of the dark room. Now and then a
momentary flash of brightness would hover about an antique silver ewer,
or glint along a carved sideboard, which, like a vague dark mass,
filled up an angle in the room, or play about a set of old china, or a
pair of antique vases over the mantelpiece.

Vincent Vere lay stretched on his sofa, and looked around with
half-closed eyes, each time there was a flickering of light over the
room. That strange prevailing gloom, penetrated by fitful gleams of
ruddy light, made him pleasantly forgetful of his prosaic rooms, where
a stray object of vertu of his own was in screaming contrast with the
shabby gentility of the furniture. And he lay musing awhile in the
Dantesque twilight.

These last few days he had felt very worn and exhausted. A languor
seemed to numb his limbs; it was as though it were warm water instead
of blood that coursed through his veins; at times a mist seemed to hang
before his eyes, so that he could neither act nor think. His eyelids
drooped wan and limp over his lack-lustre, light blue eyes; his lower
lip hung down heavily, and about his small mouth there was a very
pained expression. He had often felt like that, but this time he
ascribed it to the atmosphere of the Hague, which well-nigh suffocated
him, and he longed for more space and more air, and could not
understand why he should have gone to a city, which had always had so
little attraction for him. Yes, he remembered—through the mist of his
exhaustion—he had wished for a span of rest, after all his restless
wanderings; but already, notwithstanding his fatigue, he felt a nervous
stimulation to action, and an inward spur once more to throw himself
into a vortex of change. Rest and monotony had a dulling effect upon
him, and in spite of his weakness he felt continually excited to
movement and action, and an insatiable longing for an ever-changing
horizon. And yet he lacked the energy to devote himself with
determination to any kind of labour, whilst his changeable nature
constantly drove him onward in a restless search after some
surroundings, some sphere or occupation in which he might feel at home,
and which he ever failed to find.

The two weeks which he had spent in the Hague seemed to him an age of
ennui. The day after he had met Betsy and Eline at the opera, he had
been to take coffee at the van Raats’, and had asked Henk to lend him
500 florins; he was daily expecting some money from Brussels, he said,
and he would repay him at the very first opportunity. Henk, though he
knew him to be exceedingly forgetful in such matters, did not like to
refuse, and handed him the amount, and so Vincent lived on, one day
allowing the money to run as water through his fingers, the next with
parsimonious economy hesitating to spend a dubbeltje, while the drafts
from Brussels continued to stay away.

About the future he troubled himself but little; he had ever led a
hand-to-mouth existence; he had known days of luxury in Smyrna, and
suffered privation in London and Paris; but in whatever circumstances
he might have found himself, that feverish desire for change had
spurred him on, in continual dissatisfaction with the present; and at
that moment, while he was living on his 500 florins, he felt so
unnerved that the very burden of his listlessness at times almost made
him forget his weakness.

Then he mused on, gazing into the darkness, now and again lit up by the
ruddy flames, as they shot forth from the hearth and fell in spectral
relief about the gloom-hidden furniture. He mused on, in coldest
pessimism. Why should he be other than he was? He would again want
money, and he would get it somehow; why not? There was neither good nor
evil in the world; everything was as it should be, and the inevitable
result of an unbroken chain of causes and reasons; everything that was
had a right to be; no one could alter that which was, or was to be; no
one had a free will; every one was only a different temperament, and no
one could act in any way but in accordance with the demands and nature
of that temperament, influenced by circumstances and surroundings; that
and that alone was truth, yet mankind with its childish idealism,
eternally prating about virtue, and provided with a handful of
religious poesy, was ever seeking to hide it.

“Great heavens! what a life it is!” he thought, and his fingers
wandered about his light brown curls. “The life at least that I am
leading now, for a year of it, would kill me, or drive me mad.
To-morrow is like to-day, nothing but one blank monotony.”

And he threw himself into an ocean of memories, as he thought of what
he had lived through, and scenes in many climes and pictures of various
cities rose before his mind.

“And yet, what a struggling, what a toiling for nothing at all,” he
muttered, and his eyes closed, whilst swiftly a veil appeared to
descend over his memory, and light drops of perspiration formed on his
brow. There was a singing in his ears, and suddenly, a vague space,
terrible in its extent, unrolled before his closed eyes.

But this state of weakness, bordering almost on a swoon, lasted only a
few seconds; and a deep sigh escaped his bosom.



There was a noise of rapid footsteps up the stairs, and a cheerful
voice was heard exchanging a word of greeting with the lady in the
fancy shop below. He was expecting a few acquaintances that evening.

The door opened.

“The deuce, how dark it is! It looks like hell here, with that terrific
fire. Where are you hiding, Vere?” cried Paul van Raat, standing by the
open door.

Vincent rose and walked towards him, and grasped Paul by the shoulders.

“Here, old chap, don’t be alarmed. Wait, I’ll light the lamp.”

He sought some matches, lit a couple of old-fashioned lamps on the
mantelpiece, and blinked his eyes, dazzled by the sudden light. The
Dantesque halo that hung over the room was soon dispelled by the yellow
petroleum light, but the bright burning fire still looked sociable,
although the antique sideboard with the silver ewer and a few Oriental
objects of art looked sorely out of place among the old-fashioned
furniture in threadbare red Utrecht velvet, and the antique pieces of
china seemed like so many misplaced aristocrats among the ugly, cheap
engravings and common oleographs which lined the walls.

It was the first time that Paul had entered Vincent’s abode, and he
looked admiringly at the ewer and the china plates.

“Yes, they are not bad; the ewer is cracked, but the workmanship is
very fine, do you see? I called upon an old Jew dealer to-day; I want
to get rid of the things. You see, they only take up the room. He was
going to call to-morrow. Or perhaps you would like them? They are to be
had.”

“No; my room—or my studio, if you like—is too full already.”

“Well, a few plates more or less——”

“No; thank you.”

“After all, I would rather sell them to the Jew. Perhaps I can manage
to best him a bit, and, of course, I should not care to do that to
you.”

“Much obliged. And suppose he is too sharp for you?”

“Well, then he must best me, that’s all. It’s always thus in the world,
isn’t it? You have had tea, I suppose?”

“Yes—no, thank you; never mind. But, tell me, how long are you going to
stay in the Hague?”

They sat down, and Vincent shrugged his shoulders. He really did not
know; he had not yet received any information about the situation in
the quinine factory in Java; but he heard they would give the
preference to a chemist, which he was not. So he would most likely give
up the idea; and, besides, he didn’t think the Indian climate would
agree with him. In the meantime, staying in the Hague, to find
something there, was out of the question. He was already getting tired
of the Hague—it was so kleinstättig; every one knew every one else, at
least by sight, and everywhere he met the same people, intensely
tiresome! He had not yet made up his mind what to do, but he was
expecting letters and remittances from Brussels. And he concluded by
asking Paul if he could lend him a hundred gulden for a day or two.
Paul thought he could manage it, but he could not yet say for certain.

“You would really be doing me a service; shall I hear from you then
to-morrow? or do you think me indiscreet?”

“Oh no; not at all. Yes, all right, I shall see to-morrow.”

“Well, thanks in advance. You know the two Erlevoorts and de Woude are
coming this evening. I have asked them to come and drink a glass of
wine,” said Vincent, in an altered tone.

“Yes; I saw them this afternoon at the Witte,” answered Paul.

Vincent leant back against the old red bench, and the lamp-light cast a
yellowish reflection on his sallow features, and a care-worn expression
formed about his mouth. Paul was struck by Vere’s remarkable
resemblance to his uncle Vere, Eline’s father, as he lay back, and
raised his arm behind his head, with a gesture such as he had
frequently remarked in Eline.



A little later, some time after nine, Georges de Woude van Bergh and
Etienne van Erlevoort came, the latter apologizing for his brother, who
had been prevented from coming.

Otto felt no sympathy for Vincent, although he had never had any
unpleasantness with him whatever; with his own practical, manly
character never disturbed in its healthy equilibrium, with his hearty
brusquerie, he could cherish no friendship towards a man who, in his
opinion, gave himself completely over to a morbid, hyper-sensitiveness,
without making the slightest effort to raise himself out of it. Otto
was one of the few persons whom Vincent could not succeed in drawing
towards him. Almost every one on coming into contact with him felt
conscious of something that repelled even while it attracted; something
like a sweet, alluring poison, like the overpowering fumes of opium.
His continued travelling had given Vincent a good deal of knowledge of
human nature, or rather of tact in dealing with all sorts of people,
and he could, when he chose, assume any character to suit the
circumstances, with the same ease as a serpent writhes itself into
various coils, or as an actor interprets various rôles. But Otto, with
an involuntary pride in his own healthy strength, which ever went
straight at its object, despised Vincent, because of the poisonous
fascination which he had the power to shed about him, and the seduction
of which others were unable to resist.

Ere long a bluish smoke filled the room, Vincent having offered cigars
round, although he himself did not smoke. He took a couple of bottles
of St. Emilion from a cupboard, uncorked them, and placed four glasses
on the table. Etienne, with his usual spirits, sat relating story after
story, with an amount of mimicry and gesture, and a strong flavouring
of youthful patois, that gave him somewhat the air of a singer at a
café chantant. Paul and Georges laughed. But Vincent shrugged his
shoulders, with a blasé smile, and as he filled the glasses muttered
contemptuously, in his light voice—

“What a baby you are, Eetje, Eetje!”

Etienne, however, took no notice of the remark, and continued his
stories, growing more and more spicy as he went on, whilst the others
listened and enjoyed the bouquet of their wine. But Vincent could not
resist the temptation to chaff him.

“What a naughty boy that young Erlevoort is to talk about such things,
eh? What a sad dog!” he said, and the mocking laugh about his mouth was
too encouraging that Etienne should desist.

Vincent once more filled the glasses, and Georges praised the wine. He
had never very much to say when amongst young men; he generally gave
himself up to quiet enjoyment. It was only for the society of ladies
that he reserved all the sparkle of his brilliant wit. Vincent asked
him one or two questions about his work at the ministry for foreign
affairs.

“I suppose you will be attached to some legation or other one day?” he
said.

“Very likely,” answered Georges.

“Well, at all events, it is a situation which gives you the chance of
seeing something of the world. But how any one can pass his whole life
in an office, I can’t conceive. It would kill me. There’s Erlevoort,
now—I mean your brother, Eetje.”

“You let Otto alone,” said Paul. “He has a great career before him, you
shall see.”

“Yes, you know, Otto is cut out for a cabinet minister or a
governor-general—at least, so his mother always says. ’Tis I alone who
am the outcast of the family,” cried Etienne.

“Yes; the spoilt child, eh?” laughed Vincent “How far are you now in
your studies?”

“Oh, I’m going on all right. I am not at college, you know, I am
studying in the Hague.”

“Do you think it so enjoyable in the Hague, then, in July?” asked
Vincent, in a tone of contempt.

“Yes; it’s not so bad.”

“How, in Heaven’s name, is it possible? You fellows are very easily
satisfied then, I must say, or rather you haven’t any idea of what the
world is like. The Hague makes me sleepy and dull, there’s something
drowsy in the atmosphere.”

“That’s your own doing, I dare say,” laughed Paul.

“Possibly; and maybe ’tis my fault too that I think the life you
fellows lead here too soul-killing. Now what is it you are doing here,
I should like to know? You are continually running about in one little
circle, like a horse in a roundabout at the Kermis. Should you be in a
situation, you have always exactly the same little jobs to do, and when
you have done, the same little amusements await you in the evening.
Great Scott! how insipid!”

“But what is it you would have us do then?” asked Georges.

“As far as I am concerned you can go on vegetating here, if you like;
but I can’t understand you fellows not even wanting to see something of
the world.”

“Well, now there’s yourself; you have seen the world, as you call it,
haven’t you? and what have you gained by it? you are a
Jack-of-all-trades, and a master of none; and up to now you haven’t
achieved any very brilliant results!” cried Paul, a little out of
humour at the contemptuous way in which Vincent had referred to him.

Behind his eye-glass an angry gleam shot forth from Vincent’s dull blue
eyes, whilst his thin lips closed.

“And you are forgetting your duties as a host, with your
philosophizing,” cried Etienne, pointing to his empty glass.

“I suppose the fact is that I am of a more excitable temperament than
you fellows,” said Vincent, in a languid voice. He again filled up the
glasses, and sank down wearily beside Georges, and his eyes wandered
listlessly about the room.



It was growing very warm, and the tobacco smoke hung in thick clouds
about the ceiling. Vincent opened the door. Etienne, who could not take
much wine, had become very excited, there were red circles about his
eyes, and he had broken his glass. Georges and Paul continued to enjoy
his jokes. Vincent, however, listened to him with a faint smile.

And in his mind there arose a strange wondering, a wondering that a man
always retained his own individuality, without the power of
transforming himself into the personality of any one else. Often,
without the slightest cause, he would find himself lost in wonder at
this idea, in the midst of the most cheerful company, and he would be
filled with an indescribable feeling of ennui at the thought of his
inevitable fate ever to remain what he was—Vincent Vere; that he never
could be transformed into some entirely different being, which would
breathe under entirely different circumstances and in an entirely
different sphere. He would have liked to have lived through various
phases of life, to have existed in different ages, and to have sought
his happiness in constantly changing metamorphoses. And this desire
appeared to him at the same time very childish, because of its
ridiculous impossibility, and very noble because of the grandiose
unattainability which it involved; and he believed that no one but him
cherished such a desire, and thought himself very much exalted above
others. In his musings it seemed to him as though the three others were
very far removed from him, as though they were separated from him by
the smoky haze. A feeling of lightness suddenly passed through his
brain; it was as if he saw every object in brighter colouring, as if
their laughter and chat sounded louder and more metallic in his ear, as
if the flavour of the tobacco, mingled with the aroma of the wine,
assumed a more pungent odour, whilst the veins in his temples and pulse
throbbed as if they would burst.

This excitement of his nerves continued for a few seconds, then he saw
his guests laughingly looking at him, and although he had not
understood a word of what they said, he also laughed lightly, that they
might think that he shared their amusement.

“I say, Vere, ’tis getting confoundedly close here, my eyes ache with
the smoke,” said Georges; “couldn’t we open a window?”

Vincent nodded his head and closed the door, whilst Paul, who sat by
the window, opened it. A rush of cool air quickly entered. Outside it
was very quiet; now and again voices might be heard to the
accompaniment of measured footsteps, or a shrill street tune re-echoed
through the stillness.

The chill air brought Vincent quite to himself again, and his strange
desires vanished, now that his nerves grew calmer. Now, on the
contrary, he envied the three that same physical and moral Nirvana
which he had looked upon with such contempt a short while since; Paul
he envied his vigorous health, just a trifle enervated by a somewhat
languid æstheticism; Georges his calm equanimity and contented mind;
Etienne his joyous youthfulness. Why indeed was he not like them,
healthy, contented, and youthful? why did he not enjoy life as it was?
why was he continually seeking after a something which he could not
even define himself?

It was close upon one when the three young men rose, and Paul declared
that they would have to take Etienne home, as his early excitement had
given way to a mood of melancholy, and he was continually talking about
suicide.

“I say, Eetje, have you got your key?” he asked.

“Key?” asked Etienne with dull staring eyes, and husky voice. “Key?” he
repeated, reflecting. “Yes, in my pocket, yes—a key—in my
pocket—here——”

“Come, let us go then,” said Georges.

Etienne approached Vincent and took him by the shoulders, while the
others listened in amusement.

“Good-bye, Vere, thanks for your hospi—hospitality. I always had a
liking for you, Vere; you’re a trump of a fellow, do you hear, Vere? I
feel much, very much sympathy for you, do you hear? Only this afternoon
at the Witte I was saying—Paul was there—and heard me—I said, Vere,
that your heart was in the right place. They misjudge you, Vere, but——”

“Come, allons!” cried Paul and Georges, with impatience, taking hold of
his arm; “cut it short.”

“No, no; let me have my say—they misjudge you, Vere; but don’t you take
any notice of it, old boy; ’tis just the same with me, they misjudge me
too. ’Tis sad, very sad, but so it is; good-bye, Vere; good-night,
Vere; sleep well.”

Vincent saw him to the door with a lighted candle, and Etienne walked
to the steps, supported between Georges and Paul.

“Vere, be careful now. Don’t catch cold standing at the door, and don’t
you take any notice; they misjudge you, but I will take your part——”

Vincent nodded smilingly at Georges and Paul, and closed the door.

“Deuced pleasant chap, that Vere!” stammered Etienne.



CHAPTER XI.


After four o’clock the Verstraetens were generally at home, and to-day
about that time the house happened to be stormed with visitors. Betsy
and Eline had just looked in, and met the Eekhofs, and the Hydrechts,
Emilie de Woude, and Frédérique; later on came Madame van der Stoor and
little Cateau.

Eline, with her hand on Cateau’s shoulder, bent over the photograph at
which the latter was looking.

She felt conscious of a strong impression on Cateau by her grace and
geniality, and as, in her need for affection, she was always glad to
create sympathy, she nurtured Cateau’s love as a precious flower. But
that longing for affection was not unmingled with a touch of proud
triumph towards Frédérique, in whom, ever since St. Nicholas’ Eve, she
suspected, she knew not why, a secret aversion towards herself.

While Cateau was speaking to her, in her pleasant little voice, Eline
just glanced round at Frédérique in order to see if she noticed the
sympathetic admiration of her little friend. But Frédérique was too
much engaged joking with the young Eekhofs.

“You often sing with Mr. van Raat; has he a nice voice?” asked Cateau.

“A little weak, but very pretty.”

“Oh! I should so much like to hear you together.”

“Well, I dare say you will some day.”

“You have such a splendid voice; oh! I think it so delightful to hear
you sing.”

Eline gave a little laugh, flattered by Cateau’s ecstasy.

“Really? But, Toos, don’t go on calling me Miss Vere, ’tis so formal;
call me Eline in future, will you?”

Cateau blushed with pleasure, and stroked the fur of Eline’s muff. She
gave herself completely over to the charm of that melodious voice, to
the fascinating influence of that soft, gazelle-like glance.

Eline felt more than usually in need of much affection and tenderness.
In her innermost heart, her admiration for Fabrice had blazed forth in
a passion that filled her whole being, and to which she felt
constrained to give vent, without betraying herself. The wealth of love
which she felt was in her, and which she durst not proclaim, she
attempted to share amongst those who were worthy of it, like a costly
bouquet of which she threw a flower to those around her. Those chosen
ones she beamed upon with her captivating glance, and was enraptured
when she saw that others felt themselves drawn towards her; but on the
other hand it gave her pain when she was met with coldness in return.
Thus it was with Frédérique’s inexplicable surliness; and although at
first with a certain haughtiness she would take no notice of it, she
now did her best to win her affection, and on meeting her she had
addressed her with all the charm of her manner. But Frédérique’s
answers were given in a curt, careless tone, and with averted head; she
suspected that Eline had remarked her coolness, but she was of too
frank a nature to be able to hide her feelings: she had no tact to
feign what she did not feel.

The conversation turned on portraits, and Madame Verstraeten passed by
Eline and Cateau to take from a table an album which she wanted to show
Madame van der Stoor and Madame Eekhof.

Musingly, and half listening to Toos, Eline thought of Fabrice, and saw
the album in Madame Verstraeten’s hands. And suddenly an idea rose to
her mind, like a twig of her vivid fantasy, with which her passion was
overgrown. Yes; she would procure an album for herself, with various
portraits of him; it would be as a little shrine of her love, in which
she could worship the image of her god, unbeknown to any one but
herself. A secret joy stole over her features at that resolve, and at
the thought that she had so much to conceal from the eyes of others she
began to consider herself very important in her own eyes, and to feel
herself more and more absorbed by the treasures of her passion. She was
happy, and her happiness was mingled with an arch playfulness and
secret exultation at the thought that she concealed within herself
something that her circle of friends would naturally have considered
very foolish and very reprehensible, had they known of it. A girl like
her, to be in love with an actor! What would Madame Verstraeten and
Betsy and Emilie and Cateau and Frédérique, Henk and Paul and Vincent,
what would they all think and say could they suspect that?

And with a half-mocking glance she looked round at her relatives and
friends; she thought herself plucky, secretly to defy the
conventionalities to such an extent as to dare to be smitten with
Fabrice! A jocular remark of Emilie’s made her laugh more immoderately
than it called for; at the same time she laughed at all who were there,
in haughty arrogance at her illicit passion.

“And Mr. van Raat—Mr. Paul, I mean—will be a lawyer, I suppose?” asked
Cateau.

What a lot that child had to say about Paul! thought Eline. There was
no end of Paul—Paul’s nice voice, and Paul a lawyer——

“I think you rather like Paul, don’t you?” asked Eline.

“Oh, yes; I like him very much,” said Cateau, without hesitation. “Only
sometimes, you know, he gets so angry. Fancy, the other day—when we had
the tableaux——”

And Eline had to listen to the story of Paul’s anger when they had the
tableaux, and of Paul’s cleverness in the grouping.

“She’s not afraid to speak her mind, at all events,” thought Eline;
“but then, she need not be exactly smitten, although she talks a great
deal about him; if she were she would probably do as I do, and—say
nothing.”

It was nearly half-past five; the guests were leaving.

“Then I shall hear you sing together one day?” insisted Cateau.

“Come round one Thursday afternoon; we always practise then.”

“Oh! then I am in school.”

“Well, one evening then, nous verrons.”

“Yes, with pleasure—Eline.”

She pronounced that name for the first time since Eline’s request, and
she let it fall from her lips, much flattered at the familiarity. Then
she took leave, urged thereto by her mother.

Eline stood still for a moment, by accident, beside Frédérique. She had
already said good-bye, and was waiting for Betsy, who en passant was
talking to Mr. Verstraeten, and she was on the point of saying
something to Freddie. But she waited, until Freddie spoke first—and
both remained silent.

On her way home, Cateau in ecstasy poured all kinds of nice things
about Eline and Paul into Madame van der Stoor’s ears.



New Year’s Day had come and gone. On New Year’s Eve Betsy invited the
Verstraetens and Erlevoorts, as well as Madame Van Raat and Paul, to an
oyster supper, and a happy evening was spent in the warm comfort of her
drawing-room. Now the winter days followed each other in unbroken
monotony, whilst the evenings glided on for Betsy and Eline in one long
string of dinner-parties and soirées. The van Raats had a large circle
of acquaintances, and Betsy was famous for her choice little dinners,
never with more than twelve persons at the utmost, and always served
with the most unstinted and refined luxury. They lived in a coterie,
the various members of which saw one another often and intimately, and
they were very pleased with the circle in which they moved.

Eline, meanwhile, in the midst of that light glamour of worldliness
continued to feed the flame of her secret love in silent happiness, and
thought it all very romantic. One morning she had been shopping, and as
she was returning along the Princessegracht, she saw Fabrice slowly
coming from the Bosch, close by the Bridge. She felt her heart beating,
and scarcely dared look up. Still, at last, with apparent indifference
she just ventured to glance at him. He wore a short frieze overcoat; a
woollen muffler was thrown carelessly about his throat, and he walked,
his hands in his pockets, with a somewhat surly expression on his dark
face, shaded by the broad brim of his soft felt hat. He gave her the
impression of haughty reserve, and this made her idealize. No doubt he
was of a good family, for she thought there was something very
distingué in his powerful frame; his parents had been against his
devoting himself to his art, but he had felt a calling within him that
was irresistible; he had received his musical training at a
conservatoire, and he had made his début. And now a bitter
disappointment filled his soul; he discovered that the surroundings of
actors in which he had to move was too rude and uncultured for him; he
felt himself different from them, and he withdrew himself within the
coldness of his pride. He thought of his youth, of his childhood, and
again he saw his mother before him, entreating him with clasped hands
to bid farewell to his determination and think no more of the stage.

From that day Eline was seized with the caprice, as Betsy called it, to
take long walks in the morning. She thought the Bosch so beautiful in
winter, she said; it was grand to see those lofty upright stems, like
pillars of marble, after the snow; it was like a cathedral. Henk
accompanied her once or twice with Leo and Faust, the two boarhounds,
but he preferred his usual morning ride, and she went alone, after she
had fetched the two dogs out of the stable. They sprang up at her with
their big paws, and like two rough pages waited near her protectingly
in their wild playfulness.

It was good for her health, she declared, when people spoke to her
wonderingly about those walks; she walked much too little, and feared
she would be growing as stout as Betsy, if she always rode. Doctor
Reyer thought those morning promenades an excellent idea.

In the Bosch she met occasional promenaders, mostly the same people—an
old gentleman in a fur cloak, who was always coughing. But Fabrice she
met but rarely. He was at rehearsal probably, she thought, whenever she
did not see the baritone, and then she would return home in a
disappointment that made her feel very fatigued, longing for her
boudoir, her cosy fire, her piano. But still she continued her walks,
and made the discovery that Fabrice took his constitutionals regularly
on Fridays; other days seemed to be very uncertain. She might and she
might not see him. And in order to meet him she did not mind rising
early, sometimes still quite exhausted after a soirée that had not been
over till three o’clock; or tired out with dancing, and sleepy, with
blue circles under her weary eyes. ’Twas true she saw Fabrice very
often now at the opera, from a box, or the stalls, when she went with
the Verstraetens, or with Emilie de Woude and Georges; once she had
invited the Ferelyns. But yet, now she saw him quite differently, not
separated from her by the footlights and the ideal conditions of the
stage; now she saw him right before her, not three paces removed from
her, like an ordinary person.

On the days that she met Fabrice, the roomy vault of the besnowed trees
seemed too small to contain her happiness. She saw him approach with
his manly, elastic step, the hat slightly on one side, the muffler
fluttering from his shoulder, and he passed by, just glancing at her or
the dogs, who sniffed at him, with careless eyes. When, after that, she
turned back and returned home along the Maliebaan, she was filled with
a joy that made her bosom heave, that brought a flush to her cold
cheeks, and made her forgetful of all fatigue; and on arriving home she
would give vent to that wealth of happiness with a jubilant outburst of
song. The whole day she remained in a bright, happy humour, and a
charming vivacity took the place of her usual languid grace. Her eyes
sparkled, she joked and laughed continually, felt irritated at Henk’s
lazy good-nature and Ben’s sleepy quietness, and teased both father and
son, making the hall re-echo with her ringing laughter, and the stairs
creak under her, as she almost bounded down them.

One Friday morning, when she saw Fabrice approaching her, she formed a
resolution. She thought it very childish of her that she never had the
courage to look him straight in the face. He was an actor, after all,
and no doubt he was used to being looked at by ladies who met him in
the street. He came nearer, and with something haughtily audacious, and
almost defiantly, she threw her little head backwards, and looked him
straight in the face. He returned that glance, as usual, with one of
complete indifference, and walked on. Then, in an excess of courage,
she looked back. Would he? No, he walked on, with his hands in his
pockets, and she only saw his broad back gradually disappearing.

That morning she hurried home, humming to herself between her closed
lips, about which there hovered an expression of roguish playfulness.
She had no thought for anything or any one but him, Fabrice, and she
rang the bell at the Nassauplein. Grete answered the door; Leo and
Faust rushed inside. Oh, how she burst out laughing! she had forgotten
to take the dogs back to the stables. Loudly resounded their barking
through the hall, like a duo of basses.

Out rushed Betsy from the dining-room, bursting with rage.

“Heavens above, Eline, are you mad, bringing those wretched dogs in
here? You know I can’t bear them. I can’t understand what makes you do
such a thing, if I don’t like it! Or am I no longer mistress in my own
house? Take them away, please, and at once.”

Her voice sounded hard and rough, as one who is giving orders to an
inferior.

“They are thirsty, and I want to let them drink,” said Eline, with calm
hauteur.

“And I will not have them drink here, I tell you! Look at that hall,
look at the carpet, dirty marks everywhere!”

“Grete can clean all that in a minute.”

“That isn’t your business! You lead the life of a princess here, and do
nothing but what displeases me. I tell you, take those dirty dogs
away!”

“First they must drink.”

“Great heavens, I will not have them drink here,” cried Betsy, beside
herself with passion.

“They shall drink, in the garden,” answered Eline, quietly.

“I should like to see that!” shrieked her sister. “If I——”

“Leo, Faust,” cried Eline, still with an irritating composure, as she
motioned the dogs towards her.

Betsy fumed with rage; her lips quivered, her hands shook, her breath
seemed to choke her. She could not say another word, she felt she could
have struck Eline; but Eline, followed by the leaping dogs, slowly went
her way through the passage into the garden, and filled a pail full of
water at the tap. She thought it an exquisite delight to enrage Betsy
that day. The dogs drank their fill, and she led them back into the
hall.

Betsy still stood there, and her angry eyes flamed with rage at her own
impotency. She would have liked to run after Eline and snatch the pail
out of her hands, but her nerves were too excited.

“I tell you, Eline, in the name of all that’s holy, that I shall tell
Henk,” she began, with a trembling voice, and a face flushed as red as
fire.

“Oh, rave as much as you like!” cried Eline, in a suddenly rising
passion, and went out of the house with the dogs, banging the door
after her.

In about a quarter of an hour she returned, singing, still full of
happiness at meeting Fabrice. She went up-stairs, and burst out in a
brilliant shake, as if to tease Betsy, who, nearly crying, was sitting
in the dining-room.

When Henk came home, Betsy told him the tale of Eline’s impudence in
their own house; but Henk grew impatient, would not come to any
decision, and she reproached her husband with his timidity, and a
violent scene followed.

For a whole week the sisters did not speak, to the despair of Henk, who
found all his domestic comfort spoilt by their sulking, especially at
table, where the meals were hurried through, although Eline kept up an
incessant chatter with himself and Ben.



CHAPTER XII.


It had struck Frédérique that last New Year’s Eve, at the van Raats’,
Otto had chatted and laughed a good deal with Eline; not remarkably so,
but more than was his wont generally with girls. For some days after
that a question constantly rose to her lips which she wanted to ask her
brother, but no opportunity seemed to arrive for her to put it. At
times she was quite brusque towards Etienne, when he wanted to have a
joke with her, and Lili, Marie, and Paul had come to the conclusion
that she had lost something of her good temper; and she played but
little with the children too.

It was one of their evenings at home; only Etienne had gone out with
some young friends who had come to fetch him. The children were in bed,
and Madame van Erlevoort sat with Mathilde in the small drawing-room,
the old lady with a book, Mathilde with some needlework. Frédérique
entered, smiled at her mother, and lovingly smoothed the gray hair on
her temples.

“Freddie, will you just ring for Willem?” asked Mathilde. “Otto would
like a cup of tea in his room; he is busy writing.”

“Oh, just pour him out a cup, I’ll take it him myself.”

Mathilde poured out a cup, and Frédérique took it up-stairs. On the
stairs she wondered whether she would have the courage; perhaps Otto
would say something himself; but if he did not, she would venture.

She entered Otto’s room. He was walking up and down dreamily, with his
hands on his back, quite contrary to his usual habits.

“Hallo! there’s a nice little sis,” said he laughing, and took the cup
from her hand. “It will taste tenfold as nice from such pretty little
fingers.”

“But, Otto,” cried Frédérique, “how can you be so silly? I had expected
a more original kind of compliment, not such a stale platitude as
that.”

She continued to look at him smilingly, but did not catch his reply, as
she was considering to herself how to put her question. Perhaps he
would not like it. Still she wanted to have her say, and she tried to
find something by way of introduction, some pretext or another, to
achieve her object; but in the frankness of her nature she could find
nothing, and so she simply commenced—

“Otto, I—I have something to say to you, something to confess.”

“A sin?”

“A sin, no; hardly that I think—an—indiscretion I unwittingly committed
towards you. But you must forgive me beforehand.”

“What! simply on your good faith?”

“I tell you the indiscretion was committed involuntarily, and—I haven’t
even been as indiscreet as I should have liked to have been. I am
therefore entitled to some recompense; but I only ask you beforehand,
whether I may depend upon your pardon?”

“All right; I shall be merciful; say on then.”

“You will really not be angry?”

“No, no. What is it?”

“Quite by accident—I discovered—you see—I know who, last St. Nicholas’
Eve——”

He turned a little pale, whilst he stared at her, full of eager
expectation. It did not escape her with how much concentrated attention
he was listening.

“Gave—that fan—to Eline—that fan by Bucchi.”

She remained standing right in front of him, something like a naughty
child, quite confused at her confession. He continued looking at her, a
little frightened, with big, staring eyes.

“Do you know?” he commenced, stammering.

“Now don’t be angry,” she resumed. “I really could not help it. I came
into your room one morning, I wanted a piece of sealing-wax, and—you
have never forbidden me to come into your room, have you?—I knocked,
but you had gone out; and when I entered and began to look for the
sealing-wax, I saw in that pigeon-hole the leather case, which I
recognized at once in the evening. I thought at first it was something
for me, and wanted—wanted to open it; you know how inquisitive I am;
but I did not do so, and I was very sorry that I discovered your
present. Tell me, now, are you angry? I couldn’t really help it, could
I now?”

“Angry, my dear old girl! ’Tis nothing to be angry about at all,” he
answered, with forced lightness. “A surprise gift cannot last for ever;
and besides—you haven’t told Eline, of course, have you?”

“Oh no; of course not.”

“Well, what of it then? There’s no harm done,” he said carelessly. “Or
are you sorry that the fan was not intended for yourself?”

She gave a contemptuous shrug. “I am surprised that you should think me
so childish. Only——”

“Well, what?”

She gave him a searching glance with those clear, true eyes, and he
felt a little abashed under that penetrating scrutiny.

“Only—a young man—does not usually—make such presents—to a girl, if he
is not very fond of her.”

“Oh, I like Eline very much; why should I not give her something for
St. Nicholas?”

“No, Otto, you are not frank with me,” she said impatiently, and drew
him with her on the sofa. “Come, sit down, and just listen to me. A
sensible fellow like yourself doesn’t give a fan, of I don’t know how
much value, to a girl, if—if he is not in love with her. That you need
not try to make me believe; you never gave Eline anything before,
neither did you give Lili or Marie anything this time. So, you see, I
am not so blind; I can see well enough that there’s more in it,” she
continued, and laid her hands on his shoulders. But all at once she
stopped. “Oh, perhaps you think—perhaps you don’t want me to speak to
you about it,” she stammered, almost frightened.

“Freddie, on the contrary,” he said softly, and drew her closer towards
him, “I am very glad to speak to you about—about Eline. Why not? But
suppose, now, that I really cared much, very much for Eline, would you
think it so unwise in me?” he asked smilingly.

“Oh, Eline is no girl for you!” she suddenly burst out in passionate
fervour. “No, Otto, no; Eline is not the kind of girl for you. She is
very pretty, I know, and there is something about her—something very
attractive—but to me she is—antipathetic, I assure you. Believe me, you
must really not think any more of her, you would never be happy with
her; you are so affectionate and good. If you really were to begin
caring for her very much, you would perhaps devote your whole soul to
her, you would want to live only for her, and she could not return you
one-tenth of what you gave her. She has no heart, she is cold as ice,
and full of egotism—nothing but egotism.”

“But, Freddie, Freddie,” he interrupted, “my dear girl, how you rush
on! Where have you obtained all your experience of human nature, that
you can give me such a precise description of Eline’s character?”

It irritated her to hear how softly, almost caressingly, he pronounced
her name.

“Knowledge of human nature? I know nothing about that. I only know what
I feel, and that is, that Eline lives but for herself, and is incapable
of making the slightest sacrifice for another. I feel—nay, I declare, I
am convinced of it—that if you married Eline, you would never, never be
happy. She might like you for a time, but her love would only be
egotism, as everything in her is egotism.”

“Freddie, you are severe,” he said, softly but reproachfully. “’Tis
very nice of you to feel so much for me, but you are very, very hard on
Eline. I don’t think you know her, and, on the contrary, I believe that
she would sacrifice herself altogether for one she loved.”

“You say I don’t know her; but how can you know her then? You only see
her when she is all smiles and amiability.”

“Do you think it a fault in her, that she prefers to be amiable rather
than discourteous?”

Frédérique gave a sigh. “Oh, Otto, I—I don’t know what I think; I only
feel that you cannot be happy with her,” she said, in a tone of
conviction.

He took her hand and smiled. “Why, you speak as though we were going to
be married to-morrow.”

“Oh, do—do tell me—don’t think me—inquisitive. You haven’t—proposed to
her, have you?”

He looked at her, still smiling, and slowly shook his head.

“Then promise me, will you, that you will take time to think over
it?—don’t be——” She clung to him affectionately, and her eyes filled
with tears.

“You are a dear girl, Freddie, but really——”

“You think it absurd of me, perhaps, to venture to advise you?”

“Not at all. On the contrary, I am most sincerely grateful to you for
it; but still, you must not allow yourself to be guided by a mere idea,
or rather an antipathy, for which there is not even a reason, and to
judge another person so harshly. Accept and follow that advice, then I
shall not think you absurd, but a dear, dear little sis.”

He kissed her repeatedly, and she rested her head shyly on his
shoulder.

“You won’t be angry with me, will you now? Perhaps I have been clumsy;
I should not have spoken like that.”

“To me you are most dear when you are most outspoken to me, and I hope
you will always be so.”

“Then perhaps I shall be discourteous and unamiable,” she answered with
emphasis.

“And now you are just a little spiteful. What is it? Are you jealous of
Eline?”

“Yes,” she answered curtly.

“Because of the fan, I suppose,” he laughed.

“Oh, you do tease me,” she pouted. “No; not because of the fan, I have
a dozen of them, but because—because you care for her.”

“Let us make a compact together then. You go and find me a nice girl
whom you consider fit to be my wife, and of whom you are not jealous;
then when you have found her, and I like her, I shall think no more of
Eline. What do you say to that?”

She answered nothing, but rose, and wiped away her tears. His badinage
displeased her, and made her fear that he thought her foolish. She
approached the table, pointed to the cup of tea, and said—

“Your tea is getting cold, Otto; why don’t you drink it?”

Ere he could reply, she had gone, full of conflicting thoughts, pleased
that she had given vent to her feelings, and had obtained Otto’s
confidence; and yet uncertain whether she would not have done better to
have said nothing.



For five days Eline had not met Fabrice on her early walks, and the
disappointment of the mornings spoilt the whole of the days that
followed. At first she grew quiet, morose, and irritable; very soon she
became more melancholy, she sang no more, she refused to see Roberts,
her master, or to accompany Paul van Raat in his duets. One morning,
after her walk, about half-past ten, she returned home, and threw
herself musingly on her sofa, while, with wandering fingers, she
unclasped her cloak. She could not bear Ben near her, and sent him away
to the nursemaid; and thoroughly tired out, with her big, hazel eyes
moist and glistening with unsatisfied longing, she let her glance
wander along the palms, the pictures, the group by Canova. A melancholy
oppressiveness fell upon her like a cloud, and she asked herself the
question, Why must she live, if she were not to be happy? To give her
sorrow a definite shape, she searched about for grievances, and made
the most of them; she was in need of affection, and there was no one to
love her. With Betsy she could get on no longer, as it seemed; she was
continually at variance with her sister, and it was not always her
fault; Frédérique was conspicuously cool towards her, for what reason
she had not the remotest idea. It was only old Madame van Raat who
continued affectionate as ever; but just at present she felt but little
in the humour to display that amiable frankness, tempered with a
flavour of veneration, which had won the old lady’s heart. Yes; her
life was a useless existence, she was continually swinging from one day
to another, without any object, and she longed for—for something like
the vague vision, without definite shape, which seemed to rise as in a
sphere of love, sometimes purely ideal, like an idyll, sometimes
simpler in form and suffused with a halo of homeliness and domestic
happiness.

She sighed as she raised her hand towards the azalea, and crumpled the
leaves between her nervous fingers. With an effort she compelled her
musings to assume some definite form before her mental vision, and by a
sudden caprice of her fantasy, she saw herself together with Fabrice,
and both of them were singing at the opera in some great city. They
loved one another, and they were famous; they were overwhelmed with
wreaths and bouquets, and the whole vision rose before her vivid and
entrancing, as it had done one day whilst she was singing with Paul.

But her imagination not receiving any fresh fuel, not having seen
Fabrice for so long, lost its vivid colouring; her vision faded, and
left her in a gray, sombre mood—a seeming reflex of the sky outside,
which was heavy with dark rain-clouds. She felt the hot tears glide
along her lashes; she had a great longing for Henk, to whom she was
anxious to confide her sorrow, he was so fond of her, and knew how to
administer such comforting words to her in his own kindly, clumsy way;
the mere sound of his voice alone, so kindly, so genial, and heavy,
fell like a healing balm upon her soul.

And so she sat sobbing, and thought how disagreeable all that sulking
with Betsy was. To-morrow it would be her, Eline’s, birthday. Would
Betsy take the first step towards a reconciliation, or did the cause of
the quarrel really rest with herself? Had she felt sure of her
reception by her sister, she would gladly have ventured a
rapprochement, or even have apologized, if necessary; but she feared
Betsy’s coolness. So she would wait; yes, she would wait.

The afternoon passed slowly, the hours dragged themselves along, as
though weary under the burden of her melancholy. Then she dressed for a
dinner-party at the Hydrechts’, without the slightest expectation of
finding any amusement there. She would gladly have asked Betsy to say
that she was ill at home; but it would not do. Unlike the Verstraetens
recently, the Hydrechts might take offence, and besides, Betsy might
perhaps refuse to do as she asked. So she went, and screwed herself up
to a coquettish gaiety which, with her natural tact in hiding her
feelings, effectually blinded the eyes of all.



The next day was the twentieth of January, her birthday. She stayed
late in bed, surrounded by the warmth of the blankets, in the soft red
light reflected by the curtains, without any desire to rise, or any
longing for her morning walk. She would not see him if she went, her
presentiment told her. She began to feel childishly superstitious. It
was now close upon nine. If Mina should come in before the clock struck
nine, to arrange her washstand for her, she would meet Fabrice in the
Bosch to-morrow. But Mina came after nine, and when the girl had put
everything straight and had left the room, she thought of something
fresh. If last evening she had laid her bracelet in the large vase she
would meet Fabrice; not, if she had placed it in the small one; and she
raised herself up, drew the red damask bed-curtains aside, and glanced
round. There lay the bracelet in the large vase. With a smile, she once
more lay back in the pillows.

She struggled with herself to get up, but why not stay in bed in the
cosy warmth? She was weary with grief, why commence another day? Ere
long her friends would come to congratulate her; she would have to be
nice and amiable, and receive their presents with delighted ecstasy,
and she was in a far from amiable humour; she felt no desire to see any
one.

It struck half-past ten, and she thought perhaps Betsy would soon be
coming in, and in a few friendly words make up the quarrel; she
listened for her sister’s step on the stairs, but her expectations were
in vain, and at last, unnerved by her languor, she rose, and lazily
proceeded to dress. The glass reflected her image with something of
sadness in the eyes and a weary expression about the mouth, and to
herself she seemed quite ugly. But what did it matter after all? for
whose sake should she be pretty? There was no one who loved her with
such fervour as she thought that her heart was capable of.

She was dressed, and all at once a shivering overtook her. She did not
feel equal to going down-stairs; how should she approach Betsy? Should
she take up an attitude of expectation merely? Why did not Betsy meet
her half-way? Why must she continue bearing a grudge like that, about
such a trifling matter? Eline felt almost afraid to see Betsy in the
breakfast-room, and she walked into her boudoir, where the fire was
already burning brightly, and threw herself on her sofa, wretched and
weary with grief and loneliness. Why, yes, why did she live?

Deeper and deeper she sank into the abyss of melancholy, when at last
some glimmer of light came to pierce the gloom that enshrouded her, for
she heard Henk and Ben coming up the stairs. They came nearer; she
heard their voices; there was a noisy knocking at her door.

“Where are you, old girl; still in bed?” cried Henk.

“No; I am here, in my boudoir,” she answered, slightly raising her
voice.

The door was opened and Henk appeared, shaking his head, while Ben
slipped through between his father’s high riding-boots, a bouquet
clasped in his little fists.

“Auntie, many happy returns of your birthday—and this is from Ben,”
said the child, as though he were repeating a lesson learnt by heart,
while he laid the bouquet in her lap.

“But, my dear girl, what a time you are up-stairs this morning! you are
generally back from your walk by now,” cried Henk.

She did not answer, but embraced the child, and her eyes grew moist as
she did so.

“Put—put it in water, Ben, will you? in some tepid water. There, in the
vase, carefully.”

Ben, always obedient and docile, did as he was told. Eline fell back
again in the pillows, and looked at her brother-in-law with a faint
smile.

“I feel so wretched to-day—not well at all,” she said languidly.

Henk approached nearer, with his hands on his back.

“What, on your birthday too?” he asked cheerily. “Come, I would make
haste and get down-stairs if I were you, you lazy girl; but let me give
you a good kiss first—a real good one, do you hear?” and he pressed his
lips on both her checks, while she lay still and smiled.

“And here is a trifle for you, Elly—I hope you will like it,” he
continued, as he handed her a small case.

She laughed a little.

“How droll of you to come and bring me my present here! Thank you,
Henk, thanks very much.”

She opened the case; in it there was a hairpin in the shape of a
diamond spider.

“But, Henk,” she cried, “how you spoil me! I remember, when I saw it at
van Kempen’s a little while ago, I said I thought it very pretty. I
really must be careful what I say in future,” she said, almost shyly,
and she thought of the Bucchi fan.

“Betsy kept her ears open when she heard you speak about the pin,” he
answered. “We are always glad to give you something that will please
you.”

This almost aggravated her, but she threw her arms round his neck and
kissed him.

“Really, really, you are spoiling me,” she stammered.

“Come, come, that’s all rubbish!” he exclaimed. “But now I must be off
for a little ride; so make haste down-stairs, old girl, or I shall
carry you down.”

“No, no, that you won’t!”

“All right then; but hurry up.”

“Yes, yes, in a moment; but no nonsense, Henk, do you hear?” she cried,
frightened, and in a serious, commanding tone, for she could foresee an
attack of practical joking, and she certainly felt in no humour to
tolerate it.

He laughingly re-assured her. The words were on his lips to urge her to
a reconciliation with his wife, but he feared he had not the tact to
approach the subject with sufficient caution. She might fly up in a
passion, and besides—it would all come right soon, he thought, and left
the room.

She rose, and lingering over her toilet, suspected that Betsy must have
told Henk to take the present up-stairs, so as not to have to hand it
her herself. She felt embarrassed at her own attitude; now she was
compelled to take the first step towards a reconciliation, and this
wounded her pride. It would seem as though she were so delighted with
their present, that it made up for all past unpleasantness. ’Twas most
tiresome, but still she could not now come down-stairs, and, after a
hasty, cool greeting, commence her breakfast without saying a word. She
felt very sorry that she had not followed her impulse of the previous
day to try a rapprochement. After all it was really too stupid, that
sulking, and only because of those dogs! And she held the diamond
spider coquettishly against her hair and her throat.



Before she came down-stairs, Eline opened a drawer of her writing-desk.
With a furtive smile she took from it an album, a present to herself,
and opened it. It contained nothing but portraits of Fabrice, in
various positions and dresses, and which for some time past she had
been purchasing with much tact, but still not without nervousness; now
in one shop, then in another, never returning to the same, constantly
fearing that the shopkeeper would guess something of her secret. On one
occasion she had been in Amsterdam for a day to visit some friends;
there she was very daring, and in a bookshop had bought seven all at
once; no one knew her there, and she vowed to herself that she would
never again set foot in the shop.

With her eyes sparkling with wanton playfulness she glanced through her
collection, and whatever page she turned his dark black-bearded face
met her eyes now and again as she had met him in the Bosch with his big
felt and his muffler. Ah! she knew it now; it was tenderer feeling than
admiration that vibrated through her at the sight, which, in her
womanly sense of honour and in shame at herself, made her shudder as
for a moment she pressed her lips on that beloved image. Yes, she felt
it now; it was a passion that filled her being as with a wealth of
rapture; a love for which she could sacrifice all and anything that he
might demand of her.

And her imagination, a little relieved of its burden of melancholy by
Henk’s cheery words, in which she sometimes heard the echo of
long-vanished wishes, grew heated with romantic ideas. In her flight
with Fabrice, she saw herself at a railway station awaiting the train,
and fearing lest they would be overtaken.

“Auntie, auntie, let me in!” cried Ben, outside the door.

She put the album away and opened the door. Ben came in, cautiously
clasping the vase full of water in both his little hands.

“Carefully, little man,” said Eline. “Sure you haven’t spilt any on the
stairs?”

He shook his head, pleased with himself at his smartness. Whilst he
placed the bouquet in the vase, Eline reflected that the little
fellow’s present was only another attention on Betsy’s part. It was a
great bother after all.

But at last she summed up courage and proceeded down-stairs with Ben.
Betsy was in the dining-room, and in consultation with Grete.

“Good morning, Betsy,” said Eline.

“Good morning, Elly. Many happy returns!” answered Betsy, without any
expression.

Eline would not say more; first the servant must leave the room.
Breakfast she did not want; she had no appetite.

“Grete, you can clear away, I don’t want anything,” she said, and began
playing with Ben to do something.

Betsy remained seated in front of her writing-desk, absorbed in bills
and books, like a careful housewife. And after a few seconds’ painful
silence, Betsy having peevishly told Ben not to worry, and sent him
away to the nursery, Eline rose. She walked across the room to her
sister, and laid her hand on her shoulder.

“Betsy,” she commenced. But she could not yet bring herself to say
anything about the present, the diamond spider. “Betsy, come, would it
not be better if—? You don’t know how sorry I am that we are so. Come,
now, don’t be angry with me, it was wrong of me.”

“Well, Eline, I am glad you admit it. I am not angry.”

“Is it all forgotten then?”

“Oh, certainly. You know there’s nothing I dislike more than
unpleasantness, so let us say no more about it.”

Her cool tone was as so much ice to Eline, but still she bent down and
gave Betsy a kiss.

“No, really, I am sorry; of course I have no right in your own house—it
pains me very much.”

She wanted to say something more, but could find no words, and once
more her lips sought Betsy’s forehead. She, however, pushed her lightly
aside.

“All right; let us say no more about it then. I am no more angry. But
not so much kissing, you know I don’t care about it.”

Her birthday passed by gloomily enough for Eline. The reconciliation
with Betsy had not made the desired impression on her; she had pictured
something much more cordial—a sisterly embrace, an intermingling of
tears—the prelude to future affectionate intercourse with each other.
But what had been the reality? On Betsy’s part an icy condescension, by
the side of which she, in her attitude, had cut a somewhat sorry
figure. She knew herself to be weaker than her sister, and yet she
would resist her over-ruling; but with every attempt at opposition, and
especially after this latest one, followed as it was by a temporary,
hollow victory, she felt herself more and more powerless to continue
the struggle with such unequal moral weapons. Her pride had only proved
a frail reed, breaking with every gust of wind, and in her dismay a
hopeless gloom seemed to enshroud her thoughts as with a thick veil of
crape.

For all that she kept up a semblance of gaiety that afternoon in the
midst of the cheery company of the friends who came to congratulate
her. But Madame van Raat, from whose dreamy, light-blue eyes she would
have been so glad to have seen a ray of sympathy beam upon her, was
indisposed, and sent an apology through Paul, and this was a great
disappointment to her. Madame van Erlevoort and Mathilde came to add
the excuses of Freddie, who was at home with a cold, and again Eline
wondered why Frédérique should be so reserved towards her. Jeanne
Ferelyn overwhelmed her with a string of domestic troubles, and it
required all her tact and amiability not to display any undue
impatience in listening to them. Little Cateau van der Stoor, who, like
Madame van Raat, she would have been glad to see, appeared to have
forgotten her birthday; she neither saw nor heard anything of her. But
Emilie de Woude brought her own boisterous gaiety with her. Her lively
chat infused a little brightness into the dull atmosphere of the
drawing-room—in which the gas was not yet lit—into which, along the
heavy folds of the draperies, a darkening twilight penetrated which
seemed to transform the brightness of the gilded panelling, and the
glistening sheen of the fawn-satin cushions, into undefined and gloomy
shadows. Emilie wanted to see Eline’s presents, charming trifles—a few
bouquets arranged on a table, round about a big basket full of flowers
and fruit.

“What a splendid corbeille!” cried Emilie. “Peaches, grapes,
roses—lovely! From whom, Elly?”

“From Vincent; pretty, is it not?”

“I wish I had such nice cousins.”

“Hush!” whispered Eline.

Vincent had just entered the room, and his eyes went in search of the
hostess. Betsy received him, as usual, with a certain warmth and
geniality in her constant, vague fear of what that cousin might do.
Eline thanked him, and clasped both his hands in hers.

Vincent apologized for coming so late; it was a quarter past five, and
the Verstraetens and the others were taking their leave in the
gathering twilight, after which Gerard came in to light the gas, close
the blinds, and draw the curtains.

“Vincent, stay to dinner, will you?” asked Betsy. For Betsy was in
terror at having to face a dull evening. They were not invited out
anywhere, and besides, she had not thought it the thing to make any
arrangements to go out on her sister’s birthday; neither could she have
done so, as during their late feud she had scarcely uttered a word to
her. With Vincent she need stand on no ceremony, she could very well
ask him half an hour before dinner. Vincent had conversation when he
was in a good humour, and, at all events, he brought a fresh face with
him to the table.

Vincent accepted the invitation with an indifferent “with pleasure.” In
the meantime Henk declared he wanted a walk, and taking his hat quickly
left the house, his coat-collar turned up, and his hands in his
pockets. Anne, the nursemaid, came to fetch Ben, to make him a little
tidy, as his face was besmeared with jam from the pastry he had been
eating. Betsy disappeared too, and Eline and Vincent were left alone in
the drawing-room, now bright with gas-light.

“Come, let us sit down in the boudoir,” said Eline, and Vincent
followed her to the little room. The soft, clear beams from the small
crystal chandelier, reflected on the violet plush of the furniture,
lent the place an air of something mysteriously intimate, something
that seemed to tempt to an unreserved confidence. To Vincent, however,
it appeared to convey no sense other than one of a calm well-being;
with a sigh he let himself fall on the couch with his usual languor,
and put Eline a number of indifferent questions about the acquaintances
he had just now seen taking their leave. Whilst answering him, she felt
a great sympathy for her cousin arise within her. Again it was that
need within her that had aroused such a passion for Fabrice, the need
she felt of much love and tenderness, the longing to expend the pent-up
treasures of her affection. And just as it had struck Paul by the wan
reflection of a petroleum-lamp, so it now struck her under the bright
gas-light that played and sparkled in a thousand colours through the
drooping pendants. Vincent’s resemblance to her dear dead father was so
striking that, looking at him, she almost fancied herself once more
back in her childhood. Yes, just like that, with that pained expression
about the mouth, with those eyes full of sadness, her father used to
lie down, exhausted by his artistic visions; just like that his hand
used to hang over the arm of his chair when the brush had fallen from
his grasp.

And Eline’s sympathy for Vincent grew stronger, permeated with
compassion and poetic melancholy, as she sat listening to his low, wan,
murmuring voice, while he spoke to her about Smyrna; he seemed more
interesting than most of the young men in their coterie. To her he
became a martyr to the littleness of the world, when he told her that
to him the Hague was kleinstättig and tiresome, and that he longed for
much space and freedom. So did she.

“But I weary you with my complaints, parlons autre chose,” he
interrupted himself in an altered tone. “It isn’t polite of me to talk
so much about myself.”

“Oh no, not at all; you don’t weary me in the least,” she answered
somewhat hurriedly, rather upset that he had cut the thread of her
fantasy so abruptly. “Don’t you think that I can quite share your
thoughts, that I don’t understand how you can wish for anything else
than the prosy groove in which we continue to go round and round?
Sometimes I, too, would gladly escape from it,” she cried, with a
movement of her arms like that of a captive bird beating his wings
against his cage. “Sometimes I feel myself moved to some terribly mad
freak or another,” and she smiled slyly as she thought of Fabrice.

He, also smiling, shook his head, and just touched her uplifted hand,
as it fell gracefully by her side.

“And why should you wish to commit follies now?” he asked. “You go to
extremes. To live independently of anyone, not to trouble yourself
about the small-talk of a coterie, but to follow your own ideas as long
as they are sensible, to change your surroundings as often as you
like—that is my ideal. There’s nothing preserves one’s youth so much as
change.”

“But in order to be independent, to trouble oneself about nothing—one
must possess more moral strength than we in our superculture usually
dare show,” she answered.

“Moral strength! Oh dear, no; you only want the money, that’s all,” he
replied briefly. “If I am rich, have good manners, commit no follies,
but manage to keep myself nice and agreeable in the eyes of the world,
it is quite in my power to see my ideal realized, without any one
accusing me of anything more than perhaps—a little eccentricity.”

All this was much too sober to her way of thinking, and she urged
forward her own ideas, which seemed to her more romantic.

“Yes, all right, money, of course,” she resumed, avoiding his argument
with true feminine weakness; “but without sufficient strength to force
through one’s own will, one would soon be carried away by all the old
habits. You see, that is why”—he laughed at her charming want of
logic—“that is why I should so much like to do
something—foolish—something terribly foolish. I feel myself strong
enough to go my own way in spite of the world. I sometimes feel very
desperate indeed.”

He enjoyed the fire and animation that beamed from her glistening eyes,
and her whole elegant little figure, as she sat there in her giddy
coquettishness, gave him the impression of a butterfly just about to
flutter away.

“But, Eline!” he cried laughing. “What is it you are taking into your
head now? What is it you would like to do then, what sort of follies?
Come, just confess, you naughty child.”

She laughed too.

“Oh, say elope!”

“With me?”

“Why not? But I think you would soon leave me to my fate. I should be
rather too expensive a luxury to you, and you would send me back with
many thanks. Merci bien then, if your question was intended for an
invitation; I would rather wait for a wealthy milord.”

“No love in a cottage then?”

“Oh, Vincent, how stale! Jamais! I should die of ennui. I had rather be
an actress, and run away with an actor.”

And she was all a-sparkle with sheer wantonness of exuberance; she felt
a secret enjoyment at the thought of Fabrice, and looked Vincent boldly
in the eyes; he could not guess her thoughts.

He burst out in laughter; the lively playfulness which had taken the
place of her languid grace during their conversation, the brightness in
her eyes, and the tapping of her little hand on her knee, amused him
even more than her words, and yet they were sympathetic enough with his
own ideas; in them there lurked a longing for change, which was very
much like his own. They looked at one another smilingly, and under the
soft but concentrated glance of his eyes, Eline felt something of the
slow, ensnaring fascination of that of a serpent.

“What a striking resemblance to my dear papa,” she thought, almost
surprised at the sympathy she felt for Vincent, as they rose at the
sound of the dinner-bell.



CHAPTER XIII.


Madame Verstraeten was at home with Lili, who had caught a severe cold,
while Marie and Frédérique, skates in hand, accompanied Paul and
Etienne to the Ysclub, round by the Laan van Meerdervoort. The old
gentleman sat reading in the warm conservatory, in the midst of the
glossy green foliage of the azaleas and the palms. Lili was not in her
usual good humour; she answered her mother in languid monosyllables,
and nearly suffocated herself, trying to repress her coughing. For she
was better, she had declared, and coughed no more; it would do her no
good to stay at home any longer, and she would go out in a day or two.

And yet, notwithstanding that determination, out yonder it seemed to
her like Siberia, when she saw the frozen snow lying hard and white on
the bare branches and on the unsoiled marble-like paths. Madame
Verstraeten continued her crochet work, and the deft movements of the
crochet needle irritated Lili, just as the regular turning of the pages
of her father’s book irritated her. She herself did nothing, and her
hands lay wearily in her lap, but however much she enjoyed such a dolce
far niente at other times, now it wearied her terribly, and yet she
felt no desire for any occupation. Secretly she envied Freddie and
Marie’s good health and spirits, while she was delicate and was obliged
to guard against the slightest draught. But when her sister hesitated
to accompany Freddie and Etienne, she herself had induced her to go and
fetch her skates; Marie could not always stay at home with her if she
were foolish enough to be ill, and besides, mamma would keep her
company.

A sigh escaped her lips as she took a lozenge from the little box
before her, and the old lady looked at her furtively, well knowing that
in her present excitable mood any show of motherly anxiety on her part
would irritate Lili more than the utmost indifference.

So the afternoon slowly passed under Lili’s quiet pouting, and no one
came to disturb the dull peacefulness that prevailed until past four,
when the bell rang and Dien showed Georges de Woude inside. Lili felt
annoyed; Dien might have announced him first, she thought. Surely he
was not so intimate with them as all that! And while Madame Verstraeten
gave him her hand, she greeted him somewhat coolly, slowly reaching her
little white fingers towards him—slowly too, following, when her mother
conducted him to the conservatory, to the old gentleman. Her parents
were already sitting down with him, when she languidly pushed up a
cane-chair, and as languidly sat down in it, as though to show him that
his visit disturbed her, and that she joined them merely for courtesy’s
sake.

At the first few words he addressed to her parents she looked away with
somewhat affected absent-mindedness into the garden, as though she took
no interest in their conversation. Madame Verstraeten had commenced
with a question about Berlin, where he had been attached to the
Legation for three months, but he replied rather briefly; half
addressing himself to Lili, and by turns looking at her and her mother,
he inquired after her health; had she really been seriously ill? Lili
muttered something, whilst her mother replied; but it struck her that
he asked the question with a certain anxiety, not as a mere
commonplace, as if indeed he felt an interest in her welfare. What
could it matter to him whether she was ill or not? But he did not seem
to remark her coolness, when, seeing the subject was not attractive to
her, he again turned his easy flowing conversation to Berlin, and in
his agreeable manner replied to her parents’ questions. Each time he
looked at her, as if to draw her into the conversation, and out of
courtesy she now and again smiled a little, and asked some trifling
question, as indifferently as possible.

How he rattled on, she thought, as she had thought before, when he once
began to talk; but still, it was as though that thought was rather a
forced one, and not entirely spontaneous. He rattled, it was true; but
there was something pleasant and sociable in his chat—something that,
whether she admitted it or not, entertained her after the tiresome
afternoon she had spent by the side of her knitting mother. He did not
talk badly, a little excited, but tiresome he was not, and—it seemed as
though she had never before remarked it—he was not so terribly affected
after all. His accent was perhaps a little too studied, but that was
all; his gestures were simple, and through his easy manner there shone
an evident sincerity whenever he turned to her. And his dress, it was
faultlessly neat, perhaps too much so; still it was not that of a
coxcomb, she must admit it was simple enough.

He chatted on as Mr. Verstraeten asked him about his engagements, and
whilst she looked at him, she unconsciously smiled at him with more
cordiality. It did not escape him, and once more he ventured to ask
her, did she feel better now, did she not go out yet? What could it
matter to him? again she thought, almost annoyed; he had asked her once
out of politeness, that was more than sufficient, but still she
answered him, and told him her cough was better—a little cough quickly
belied her words—and that she was feeling much easier under the kindly
care of mamma and Marie. He felt grateful for those words, but he had
heard the suppressed cough, and it was on his lips to caution her to be
careful—the weather was so bleak—but he did not do so; she might think
it was no business of his, and he asked after Marie.

“Oh yes,” answered Lili; “she has gone skating with Frédérique and
Etienne van Erlevoort and with Paul. Don’t you pity me that I have to
stay at home again, like the sick child?”

“Are you so very sorry that you could not go? Are you fond of skating?”

“Yes; that is to say, I like it very much; but speaking frankly, I
don’t know much about it. Marie and Freddie skate much better than I;
they go curling and twisting about while I can only just amble along; I
am too frightened, you know, and——”

“But do not Paul or Etienne assist you then?”

“Oh, Paul says frankly that he thinks it tiresome to skate with such a
duffer, and Etienne—yes, I must admit—he will sacrifice himself for
five minutes sometimes.”

“But, Lili,” said Madame Verstraeten, “if you cannot skate, it is
certainly tiresome to them.”

“I was more polite in my time,” said the old gentleman.

“Oh, I make them no reproaches,” said Lili; “I am only telling you the
facts,” and she gave a little cough.

“But, when you are better, when you are going out again,” resumed
Georges hesitating—he knew he was making a bold plunge—“may I now and
then offer you my assistance? I am mostly at my office, ’tis true, but
still——”

“You skate, then?” cried Lili. She would never have thought it of him.

“I am passionately fond of it!” he declared. “Do you accept?”

She nearly blushed, and answered, smiling, with downcast eyes—

“Oh, with pleasure, yes. But you will have such a trouble with me. I am
so frightened; I always fancy I hear the ice crack, you see—you don’t
know what you are offering me.”

“Oh yes,” he answered; “I don’t think I shall ever regret having asked
you.”

How was it, thought Lili, that he could repeat a sentence like that,
with such an expression of sincerity, and she could find no reply? She
only laughed a little. There was a pause in the conversation, but
Georges quickly revived it, and continued his pleasant chat until it
grew dark, when he rose, apologizing for his lengthy visit.

“Oh, not at all; on the contrary,” said Mr. Verstraeten, “I am very
pleased to see you again. Remember me to the old gentleman and to your
sister.”

“Emilie declared she could not manage without you,” added Madame
Verstraeten. “She will be glad you are home again.”

Lili thought she could understand that Emilie must have missed Georges,
and she offered him her hand, and once more cordially thanked him for
his offer.

“A good fellow, that de Woude!” said Mr. Verstraeten, when he had gone,
and Lili returned to the small drawing-room, and as she went heard
mamma also express herself favourably about Georges, charmed as she was
with his polished courteousness.

“He always gives us a call when he can. Of course he would not do so if
there were no girls in the house, if we received no company, but
still——”

Lili heard no more; she smiled at her own fancies, in which she saw
herself together with Georges, gliding over the ice, their hands
clasped in each other’s.



Marie came home, accompanied by Freddie, Paul, and Etienne, who took
leave at the door; she entered the room tired out, cold, with flushed
cheeks and sparkling eyes. It had been splendid; the ice was crowded,
the little Eekhofs, Eline, and Henk were there.

“De Woude has called here,” said Madame Verstraeten. “He has been back
these three days.”

“Indeed!” said Marie with indifference, and she began to unclasp her
little cloak.

“And he asked me to go skating with him, when I am better,” said Lili,
somewhat embarrassed, and with a little cough.

Marie all at once stopped undoing her cloak, and looked at her sister
in astonishment.

“De Woude? With you? And what did you say?”

“That I thought it very nice of him, of course. What else should I have
said?”

Marie roared with laughter.

“What, you skating with de Woude? with that ‘stuck-up coxcomb,’ that
‘piece of affectation’? But, Lili, that will never do; you always
thought him such an intolerable bore.”

“Qu’est ce que ça fait? At least he is politer than Paul or Etienne,
and if he likes to assist me——”

Marie still laughed.

“But he can’t skate!” she cried contemptuously.

“He says he is passionately fond of it.”

“Oh, don’t you believe it. Rubbish!”

Lili shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

“But he wouldn’t tell any fibs about it, surely!”

“Dear me, how eager you are all of a sudden to champion him! At one
time there was no good in him at all.”

“I always thought him very nice and polite.”

“Lili, how can you tell such disgraceful fibs? You always thought him
unbearable.”

“But, Marie, that is no reason surely why I should not go skating with
him,” cried Lili, almost in an imploring tone. “When you go to a dance
I am sure you are not so particular about your partners.”

“Still, I hardly know what to think about it,” Marie persisted
teasingly. “All at once on the ice together.—Mamma, do you think ’tis
right?”

Lili turned away with dignified contempt.

“Child that you are!” she said, looking down upon her sister; and she
was much annoyed at herself, for she felt herself blushing, and—for
nothing at all.



“Papa is asleep?” asked Georges, as he entered Emilie’s sitting-room in
the evening after dinner.

Emilie gave a little start; she was somewhat under the influence of a
copious meal; her chair was so comfortable, the fire so sociable.

“Yes; papa is asleep,” she repeated, blinking her eyes.

Georges laughed.

“And how about Emilie; has she been asleep too?” he asked
good-humouredly.

“No,” she answered. “I have not been asleep, only dozing a little. Will
you stay at home to tea? Yes, that will be sociable.”

And she looked at him with a kindly expression in her honest eyes; she
felt a sort of motherly affection for that younger brother, whom she
had brought up and petted from his childhood, and who had now returned
to her fostering care after a two months’ absence abroad. She was glad
that he was looking so well, he had even grown stouter, and with pride
she remarked that a more manly expression lay over his delicate
features, or was it her fancy, because she had not seen him for some
time?

Georges sat down beside her, and they conversed about things in
general. She knew him well, she thought, and she felt sure that he was
about to ask her some favour. Inwardly she was glad that he needed her,
but still she could not resist the temptation to leave him to shift for
himself entirely, without helping him to come to the point. He
hesitated a great deal, and when from her assumed indifference he
judged that it was not the right moment to speak, he seemed of a sudden
determined to postpone what he had to say, and in a firmer voice began
talking about something else. Then she felt sorry, and said but little
in reply, whilst she tried to think of some means to lead him back to
his original intention. But she could find no pretext whatever, and so
she cut the matter short at once by straightway asking him—

“I say, Georges, what is it? What have you to tell me?”

Now it was his turn to pretend indifference, and with assumed surprise
he answered—

“To tell you? How do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know; I thought—I fancied I could see something in the
ends of your moustache,” she said jokingly. “Is there nothing the
matter, really? Money affairs, perhaps?”

She knew better, they were no money affairs, it was never anything to
do with money affairs, for in money matters he was always so
desperately precise that she could never find the slightest flaw in
that quarter. And indeed he shook his head in denial, but still, though
he looked at her smilingly, he got no farther; his question must indeed
be an awkward one if it made such a ready talker as he hesitate.

“Oh no,” he answered. “’Tis all said in a few words, but there are
times when words will not come at all; isn’t it so?”

“Look here, Georges, don’t beat about the bush, pray; if you have
anything to say or to ask of me, come out with it straight away,
without mincing matters, that is quite unnecessary with me!” she
resumed almost reproachfully, but with such an encouraging tenderness
that he grasped her white hand, and with playful gallantry raised it to
his lips.

“And now, allons! fire away!” Emilie urged, giving him a light tap
under the chin.

He was forced to speak, he could not go back, and he gathered up his
courage and began slowly in broken sentences, but soon came to the
point. His position—would she think it very foolish of him, if
he—thought of getting married? There was a tremor in his voice, as
though his fate depended on her answer.

His words took her by surprise; despite his twenty-four years, she
still looked upon him in some way as her boy, her pet child, and—he
thought of getting married! But notwithstanding the superficial gloss
of his airy manner, she knew him to be manly and sensible; he would not
ask her such a thing if he had not thoroughly thought it out, and it
would be wrong of her to wound him, perhaps in a deep-seated affection,
by one word of banter. Still she felt alarmed at the thought of sooner
or later losing him.

“Marry! Georges, do you really think of it?”

He smiled, as though charmed at some bright vision.

“Why not?” he asked, almost in a whisper.

“Are you—are you then—so much in love?” she asked softly. “Is it——?”
and a name rose to her lips, but she failed to pronounce it.

He nodded his head, laughingly, as though he knew that she had guessed
right. Some time before his departure to Berlin, already she had teased
him about Lili Verstraeten, about whom he always had such a lot to say.
But now that he acknowledged it, she felt disappointed. How did he know
that Lili could care for him? Was he not building castles in the air?
But she did not give expression to the thought; she would not shatter
his illusion, he seemed so happy in his quiet hopefulness.

“Georges, if you are in earnest, really—well, let us consider now,” and
she moved her chair closer to his. “Suppose it all goes smoothly at
first, say you propose, and she accepts you, what then? How long won’t
you have to wait before it can come to a marriage?”

“Why?”

“But, Georges, whatever do you mean? How simple you are! You surely
don’t intend to marry on your salary as assistant-consul? Twelve
hundred florins, is it not? ’Tis true you are entitled to your share of
mamma’s legacy, but it is only a trifle, all in all you won’t be very
rich. So I ask you, on what are you going to marry then? You cannot
depend much on what the Verstraetens will give as a dowry; they live
well, but simply; they are not really wealthy.”

“My dear Emilie, if you want to reckon at all, then reckon properly.
’Tis true, on the support of my intended parents-in-law—if they will
ever be that,” he whispered smiling, “I—don’t reckon at all; in fact I
should not even care about it.”

“For all that, you would not say no, if they were to come forward with
anything substantial.”

“I don’t know; that is a factor which I shall put aside for the
present, in fact I haven’t even given it a thought; but you were
reckoning up just now, and you reckoned rather carelessly. Suppose I
don’t pass my examination as vice-consul this year, is my share to the
legacy not fifteen hundred florins?”

“About that.”

“Well, twelve hundred plus fifteen hundred makes——”

“Two thousand seven hundred florins! And would you marry on that?”

“Why not?”

She clasped her hands in despair.

“But, Georges, you are—pardonnez-moi le mot—you are out of your senses.
Don’t be a child, pray, and don’t create illusions out of
impossibilities. Perhaps you have got hold of that little book—let me
see, what is it called? ‘How to live a comfortable married life on
fifteen hundred florins.’”

“No; I don’t know the book, but fifteen hundred is not two thousand
seven hundred florins, and I flatter myself——”

“You flatter yourself! Yes, you will do a lot! Are you a fellow to jog
along with a wife from January to December on a wretched couple of
thousand gulden? Yes, indeed you will do a lot,” she repeated
excitedly, and almost angry, when he wanted to interrupt her, and she
rose excitedly from her easy-chair. “I fancy I see you, established in
apartments on the second floor, luxuriating on a beefsteak once a week,
eh! However, ’tis a life I can’t describe to you. I don’t know anything
about it, that I will confess. You are used to good living, Lili also;
how are you two going to—? Oh! come, ’tis too absurd. Do be sensible,
Georges! I know you too well——”

“It seems you do not quite,” he interrupted in his low voice, which
contrasted with her indignant tone. “At all events, I think I have the
faculty to be able to regulate my wants in proportion to my means.”

“Maybe you do, but how about your wife? Would you force a young girl,
brought up with a certain amount of luxury, also to regulate her wants
according to your means? Believe me, Georges, nowadays people do not
live on love and moonshine, and young people like yourself, like Lili,
must have some luxuries, they must go out——”

“Oh! that eternal going out. I went out when I was a youth; surely one
need not always to be going out.”

“Egotist! Therefore, because you as a youth went out as much as you
liked, you want to marry and stay at home for economy, and sit with
your wife luxuriating over your weekly beefsteak. What a grand prospect
for her, to be sure!”

“But, Emilie, why must you lay such a stress on the urgent necessity of
going out every evening? I don’t see it myself, I must admit. I base my
happiness on something altogether different.”

“Up to this moment you have been as gay a butterfly as any one of
them—in short, you have gone out. Now you are in love you have had a
little poesy infused into your ideas; but believe me, that will wear
off, and when you have been married a little while you will find it
very sociable indeed to have a pleasant circle of acquaintances.”

“Granted, as far as the circle of acquaintances is concerned; but to
give them up is no part of my plan, and it will not cost so very much
to keep up their friendship.”

“It costs a great deal, Georges, believe me,” urged Emilie. “You
receive invitations; you don’t want to be considered mean; you must
give a little dinner, however unpretentious; you have to do so again
and again, and all this, mind you, you have to manage on two thousand
seven hundred gulden, eh? Well, I fancy I can see you at it already.
Especially your wife, who has to keep house on those two thousand seven
hundred gulden, or rather on as much of it as you allow her. Anyhow,
you won’t catch me coming to stay with you, do you hear?”

He laughed at her indignation, but still he did not yield himself
vanquished.

“Emilie, don’t excite yourself about nothing at all, pray!” he said
calmly. “Up to now ’tis all in the air yet, eh? I have not yet—taken a
step—I don’t know even whether——”

He did not complete the sentence, hesitating to express in words the
thoughts that seemed so disagreeable.

“Yes, Georges, I understand,” she replied, somewhat appeased by the
calm of his voice; “but still financial circumstances can hardly be put
off as second considerations; this much you will admit.”

“Of course; but you must not fix my budget too high. By the bye, dear,”
he interrupted himself with a winning smile, “talking about a
budget—just help me to arrange one, will you?”

“What! of a total of two thousand seven hundred gulden? Impossible,
Georges, I am not equal to the task. Why, to live respectably in
apartments, unmarried, you would want more.”

He sighed.

“Then we can’t agree about the matter at all?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“You are a child to persist in such foolish ideas. You don’t know what
life is.”

She was annoyed that he was so obstinate, and would not listen to her
good advice, but he—although he would not have admitted it—felt himself
hesitate a little in his so-long-thought-out ideas; he felt a burden of
hopelessness overwhelming him, and saw the ground of his expectations
glide away from under his feet. Slowly he passed his hand across his
forehead; it were better perhaps—if he waited.

“Perhaps—I should—do better to—wait!” he whispered, giving expression
to the thoughts that oppressed, and his words were so full of sad
resignation that Emilie, notwithstanding the victory she had achieved,
felt pained.

She took his head in both her hands, and looked long into his sad,
wistful eyes.

“You dreamer!” she said, full of motherly tenderness and sympathy. “Who
knows, eh? You are so young—and perhaps, who knows, perhaps——”

“Well—perhaps what?”

“Perhaps you are right, and I am all wrong,” casting aside her victory
at the sorrow it caused her spoilt boy. “Only, think well over it; be
sensible, Georges, I beg of you!”

And she pressed a loving kiss on his eyelids, which closed, and beneath
which she felt a suspicious moisture.



CHAPTER XIV.


“Adieu, Betsy! good-night, Henk! I am going to lie down, I am tired
out!” said Eline in one breath, while still in the hall.

“Won’t you take a snack of supper first?” asked Betsy.

“No, thank you.”

She walked up-stairs, while Betsy shrugged her shoulders. Betsy knew
her and her ways, and from the curt, determined words she guessed that
Eline was in one of those moods of nervous excitability in which she
almost hated any one who attempted to dissuade her from her intentions.

“What is the matter with Eline?” asked Henk anxiously, when they had
entered the dining-room.

“Oh, how should I know?” cried Betsy. “It commenced at the concert, and
in the carriage she did not even answer me, as you must have noticed. I
don’t trouble about it, but I think Eline intolerable when she has
those ridiculous fits.”

Calm and dignified, in her swan’s-down and plush, Eline walked
up-stairs and entered her sitting-room. The gas was alight, and a log
of wood burnt on the hearth. For a moment she looked round, then tore
the white lace from her hair, and the little cloak from her shoulders,
and with bowed head and staring eyes gazed in front of her with a
vacant expression, as though crushed under the weight of a terrible
disappointment.

In the little Venetian mirror, gracefully suspended with red cords and
tassels, above the white group of Amor and Psyche, whose idyllic
appearance was in mocking contrast with the irony of her thoughts, she
saw herself reflected, glistening in “her pink rep silk,” a pink
aigrette in her hair, the same in which, three months ago, she had
first seen Fabrice.

And now—

She almost laughed aloud, she thought herself so ridiculous, she felt a
loathing for herself, as if she had been dabbling in the mire.

There had been a concert of the Diligentia Society at the Hall of Arts
and Sciences, and at her request, Henk and Betsy had accompanied her
there. Fabrice was to sing; “the popular baritone of the French Opera
had been invited to gather fresh laurels at the concerts in the Hall,”
so ran the paragraph in Het Vaderland.

Eline did not rest until she was certain of going; at first she had
asked the Verstraetens; Madame Verstraeten did not feel inclined, Lili
was still ill; then she asked Emilie—Emilie had an engagement; at last
she came to Henk and Betsy, who, although neither of them were much in
love with concerts, agreed to go. And Eline had expected great things
in seeing Fabrice in a new sphere, that of a concert-singer.
Fortunately enough, their seats were close to the stage; he—oh! he must
have noticed her at the opera, he would give her a sign, he loved
her—the Bucchi fan! And so Eline went on, creating endless illusions;
her passion filled her mind, more and more with a second, imaginary,
fantastic existence, in which Fabrice and she were the hero and
heroine; a romance of improbabilities and a constantly growing web of
poetical extravagance.

He thought her beautiful, he worshipped her, they would fly, sing on
the stage, and through poverty and privation pass on to fame and
fortune. A feverish rapture at the thought that she would once more see
him diffused a light pink tint over the amber pallor of her features,
her eyes had sparkled in the veiled glow of her languishing glances;
and—They had gone, she had taken her seat, resplendent with a beauty
that had drawn glass after glass towards her, and the first notes of
the symphony sounded in her ears as the soft strains of a hymn, laden
with joyful whisperings of love and happiness. Then—then he appeared,
amid a thunder of applause.

And just now, whilst Eline was vacantly staring into the mirror in
front of her, she once more pictured him as he appeared on the concert
platform.

Clumsily, like a stout carpenter, in a dress-coat that seemed too tight
for him, his short crisp hair greasy and slimy with cosmétique,
plastered down upon his cheeks, his face as red as a lobster, in
contrast to the spotless white of his shirt-front, he presented a
coarse and prosy appearance, with a disagreeably sullen expression
about his bearded mouth and in his blinking, half-closed eyes, shaded
by thick, bushy eyebrows. And it seemed to Eline as though it were the
first time she saw him. All the charm with which he, in his talented
vivid acting, in the brilliant dresses which displayed his figure to
the greatest advantage, had exerted over her, was now dispelled as by
one strong gust of wind; and though his voice resounded with the same
splendid metallic ring which had filled her with rapture at the opera,
she was scarcely aware that he was singing, shocked as she was at her
gigantic mistake.

Had she then had no eyes? What! that prosy carpenter the ideal of her
fantastic brain! In her despair and disappointment she could have
sobbed with chagrin, but not a feature moved, and she remained sitting
immovable, almost stiff; but a light shudder ran through her, as she
drew the cloak about her shoulders. As long as he sang she looked at
him from top to toe, as though she would no longer spare herself, and
her breath came and went quick with agitation now that she plunged into
the depths of her sorrow without being able to give vent to it. Why had
she not seen him thus when she met him in the Bosch, in his cape, with
his muffler and his big felt, that gave him a romantic appearance,
something of an Italian brigand? Had she indeed so far forgotten
herself? Shuddering, she glanced round the room. No one seemed to
notice her, no one suspected the storm of disappointment that raged
within her; Fabrice absorbed the attention of all. Fortunately none
knew, none would know.

But the thought that she was safe from the eye of the world gave her no
comfort. Before her lay the shattered ruins of the airy, glass edifice
of her tender visions and fancies, which, pillar by pillar, light and
delicate, she had erected for herself, glittering and fair, higher and
higher still, in fantastic crystal splendour, ever higher, higher,
until as with an apotheosis it seemed to reach the very clouds.

And now, all was shattered, all visions and fancies of the brain were
vanished, dispelled as by one gust of wind, and not even a chaos was
left of it all, only a terrible vacuum, only that man there, with his
red butcher’s face and his white shirt, and his tight-fitting coat and
grease-beplastered hair.

Never had she suffered as she suffered that evening.

For three long months that romance of love had caused her heart to beat
each time his name was pronounced in her presence, each time she saw
his name announced on a placard, and now—one glance at that (Vincent’s
words re-echoed in her ears, full of mockery and derision) “stout ugly
customer” tore that romance out of her soul, and all—all was gone.

She scarcely spoke, and when in the foyer Betsy, noticing her drawn
pallid features, asked her whether she was ill, Eline calmly replied in
the affirmative—yes, she did feel rather faint. They met the Oudendyks
and the van Larens, they laughed and joked, they mentioned Fabrice’s
name, but Eline sank down on a bench, like a wounded dove, and
listened, nearly swooning with grief, understanding nothing, and with a
vacant smile, to something young Hydrecht was saying to her.

In the second part of the concert Fabrice appeared again, and again he
was received with jubilant applause, and Eline felt faint and giddy. It
was as though the public in their mad admiration were dancing a satanic
dance round about the baritone, sullen, red, and coarse as ever. Cold
drops of perspiration formed on her brow, her hands felt cold and
clammy in their tight-fitting covering of peau de Suède, and her bosom
heaved with long, oppressive gasps of breath. At last—thank Heaven!—the
concert was over.



Now she was alone, and she could allow herself to be swayed as much as
she chose by that storm of grief; she need no longer nerve herself to
appear bright and smiling before the world; and so, with a sob of
anguish, she fell upon her knees before the Persian sofa, and hid her
little throbbing head in the embroidery of the soft cushions. With her
hands she tried to quench the gasping sobs that shook all her delicate
frame, her hair came away from the clasp that held it, and fell about
her, a mass of glossy waves.

After the first grief and disappointment, a bitter feeling overmastered
her, as though she had, even were it but in her own eyes, rendered
herself up to an ineffaceable ridicule, to something that was unworthy
and ludicrous, the stain of which would for ever cling to her, and of
which the memory would ever continue to haunt her, like a mocking,
grinning phantom.

Long she remained thus, her head buried in the cushions, her whole
being writhing in the anguish of her despair. First she heard Henk,
then Betsy, retiring to their rooms, and then Gerard bolting the street
door for the night, the sound re-echoing through the silence that
reigned in the house. After that nothing stirred, and Eline felt
herself very lonely, as though forsaken in the midst of an ocean of
sorrow.

All at once, a thought made her start. Quickly she raised herself up,
while the brown hair whirled about her shoulders, and an expression of
wounded pride came over her tear-stained face. With a firm resolution
and apparent calmness, she approached her writing-desk, and shuddering
placed the key in the lock, opened the drawer once so dear to her, and
took the album out of it. The red velvet seemed to scorch her fingers
like fire. She pushed a chair by the side of the hearth, where the log
of wood was still aglow with fire; she opened the book. That, then, was
the shrine of her love, the temple of her passion, in which she had
worshipped her idol! And as she turned the pages, the procession of
portraits passed along: Ben-Saïd, Hamlet, Tell, Luna, Nelusco,
Alphonse, de Nevers—for the last time. Roughly, the gilt-edged leaves
tearing under her fingers, she removed the photographs, one by one, and
without hesitation tore them up in little pieces, cracking the hard
cardboard in the angry clutch of her delicate fingers. The pieces she
cast into the fire, one by one, and while the flames were curling round
them she continued her work of destruction, and threw more and still
more into the fire, stirring it up with the poker, until it was all
burnt out. That was past, that shame was purged.

Then she rose, somewhat relieved. But the torn album, which she still
held in her fingers, continued to scorch her hand, and suddenly
grasping the velvet book, so roughly that it split her finger-nails,
she hurled it, with a subdued cry of abhorrence, far away from her,
against the piano, the chords of which gave forth a dull, low sigh.

Then she picked up her cloak and her lace from the floor, smoothed the
rumpled silk of her dress, and retired to her bedroom, where a small
milk-white night-lamp diffused a soft, sad light around.

And it seemed to her as if anew she was plunged into that ocean of
sorrow, that abyss of disappointments, whilst all at once a dispute
with Betsy rose to her mind. But a few days ago, in fact, she had
declared that Roberts, her music-master, was growing old and was no
longer any good, that she intended in future to take lessons of an
artiste—of Fabrice, for instance—and Betsy had asked her if she was
mad, and had declared that such a thing should certainly not be done in
her house.

It need not be now.



CHAPTER XV.


The severity of the winter relaxed, and spring-time drew near, bringing
with it rain and chill mists, which enveloped the leafless trees in
damp cold shrouds. And everybody talked about Otto van Erlevoort, who
was so full of attention for Eline Vere. Oh yes; it would certainly end
in an engagement, thought the Eekhofs, the Hydrechts, the van Larens,
and Madame van der Stoor. Henk had been to Gelderland with Etienne;
they had stayed at the Huis ter Horze, the seat of the Erlevoort
family, where Theodore, the eldest son, lived summer and winter, with
his wife and children; and during that time Otto had been a frequent
visitor at the Nassauplein, being, ’tis true, mostly invited to spend
the evening there, in company with others; but still, was it not very
strange that he who generally led such a quiet life and went out so
little, should all at once visit the van Raats so frequently? However,
should it come to an engagement, it would be a capital match. Otto was
a nice boy, and had a good position; Eline was most charming, elegant,
rich, as was thought; they were cut out for each other; and besides,
Eline would be glad to get a baron for her husband. In fact people
thought them so well matched that they felt rather sorry at finding
nothing much to say against it, and they searched until at last they
found something. It was really Betsy’s doings, you see, for she did not
get along too well with her sister, and would not be sorry to see her
leave the house decently. Betsy encouraged Otto; it was true Eline
seemed willing, but if it had not been for Betsy, neither he nor she
would have thought of it. Oh yes; Betsy, she was all right in company,
but in the house a maîtresse femme? No, no; worse than that—a vixen!
Good stout Henk she had entirely under her slipper, and if Eline were
not so firm, and showed her teeth a little less, she too would have got
under her thumb. On the face of it, it seemed so nice, so kind, to take
a younger sister, an orphan, into the house, but to people who were so
wealthy as the van Raats that meant nothing. Besides that, the Veres
had money too, and nobody believed that it was all couleur de rose in
the house. Therefore, Betsy found it was time that Eline should marry.
She could have had the chance often enough already; but she was pretty
and hard to please, and so forth. Anyhow, it was her business, was it
not?

Eline was well aware that people talked about her in that way, but in
her calm dignity she troubled herself precious little about it. She
believed so too; Otto would propose to her, and she thought she had
better accept him. She felt no love, ’twas true—in the way that she
understood its meaning—for van Erlevoort, but there was not the
slightest objection to him. It would be a capital match; she might have
liked a larger fortune, but she thought that with her refined frugality
she would have sufficient tact to spread a semblance of luxury about
her.

But to say that Betsy encouraged Otto was going a little too far.
Betsy, although she looked upon such a marriage as very desirable, felt
no personal sympathy for Otto, who was too formal and precise to please
her; and she was polite and friendly towards him, but never betrayed
the slightest sign that she thought him a desirable brother-in-law.

At the van Erlevoorts’, too, some rather indiscreet questions had now
and then been put; but Frédérique merely shrugged her shoulders. She
knew of nothing; Eline had been engaged so often already—in the eyes of
her acquaintances at least—why then should she not be engaged for once
to Otto? she asked, so ironically that they could not guess at the
truth. And still she was aware that mysterious interviews sometimes
took place at home between Madame van Erlevoort, Mathilde, and Otto, a
sort of family council that seemed never to come to a decision. She
felt herself a little pushed aside, and she was too proud, now that
they despised her advice, and did not seem to care for her opinion, to
force herself upon them. Once even, when she had mamma, her sister, and
brother together after dinner, and had noticed they had suddenly ceased
speaking when she entered, while her hand was still on the handle of
the door—they had looked at her with some embarrassment—she had
disappeared, without saying a word, softly closing the door behind her,
in silent grief and chagrin. With Otto, too, after their conversation
about the fan, she sought no further confidence, for did he not look
upon her as a mere child? Very well, she would not trouble him with her
childishness. And only to Lili and Marie she gave herself vent about
Eline, that vain coquette, without a spark of feeling in all her smiles
and poses; but when Paul was present she was silent. He took her part,
too, another victim to Eline’s coquetry, just the same as Etienne, who
would not hear a word against her! What did all those boys see in her?
She could not understand it; she thought Eline nothing but
artificiality and affectation, an actress; in short, Eline was acting.
And although Etienne’s pleading for Eline annoyed her, she felt
herself, now that he was away at the Horze, lonely without him, in the
midst of the bustle of the little van Ryssels and the barking of
Hector, betwixt which Miss Frantzen made desperate efforts to restore
peace and quietness.

It was Sunday, and Paul van Raat sat before his easel, upon which there
lay a half-finished picture, representing some old Delft ware, an old
Bible, an antique Rhine wine-glass, and a silver ewer, that of
Vincent’s, which he had taken after all—the whole loosely arranged on a
broad, crumpled Smyrna table-cover. But the work proceeded very slowly;
the light was and remained faint, however he might raise or drop his
curtains, and he regretted to find that his fingers could with much
more ease arrange the objects tastefully, than they could afterwards
depict them on the canvas. It was all the fault of the weather! with
such a rainy sky there could sparkle no light in the wine-glass, whilst
it gave the silver ewer the appearance of tin. And he laid aside his
brush, and with his hands in his pockets, and whistling to himself,
walked up and down his studio, a little annoyed at his want of energy.
He would so gladly have finished it, but he could not, exert himself
though he might.

His room was one artistic chaos, even as his amateurish temperament was
a chaos, out of which a creation rarely came forth. Above a carved oak
cupboard hung a trophy of ancient weapons; the walls, up to the
ceiling, were covered with china, paintings, engravings, and etchings,
and female figures in marble and terra-cotta seemed to surround him, as
with a harem of milk-white and amber-coloured beauties. Books were
scattered about everywhere, out of untied portfolios peeped forth
sketches and engravings; on the ground, round about the easel, lay a
medley of brushes, pencils, and tubes. A large ash-tray was full of
ashes, and everywhere there was dust and rubbish. Leentje, the
parlour-maid, was seldom permitted to enter this room.

And whilst in his disappointment he walked up and down, it seemed to
him as though it would be a relief to clear away all this artistic
rubbish, throw his easel in the lumber-room, and never more think of a
brush. It seemed to him that when once his room were cleared of art, he
himself would have no further longing for art, and therefore suffer no
more disappointments. It was only a waste of time; he could find better
amusement than that eternal dabbling. And he thought how he would
re-arrange his room, simple and comfortable, so that one could move
about without throwing down a statue here, or stumbling over an Eastern
rug there. Still, the thought was tinged with sadness; it was all
illusion, long since shattered and cast down from its pedestal, the
last remnants of which he was now about to clear away.

All at once he heard Eline’s laughing voice in the hall, and he went
down-stairs into the back sitting-room, and kissed his mother; she had
come with Ben. Betsy invited Madame van Raat to come round that
evening; there would be no one there besides Madame Eekhof and her two
daughters, Ange and Léonie, Frédérique and her two brothers, and
Vincent.

“Of course, we depend on you also, Paul,” she said, as she gave him her
hand. “Cela s’entend, n’est-ce pas? Come, little madam, you had better
say yes; it won’t be nice at all of you to refuse; you may go at your
usual early hour, if you like. Ce n’est pas à refuser.”

Well, little madam would consent; but she really did not feel at home
with all that youth about her.

“That’s just the thing that does you good, a little cheerfulness. Look
at Madame van Erlevoort,” said Eline; “take example by her.”

The old lady was not proof against the temptation of her darling’s
voice, and gave herself over; Paul, too, promised to come. And Madame
van Raat looked at Eline, who sat beside her on the sofa, with some
curiosity, as though she were revolving something in her mind.

“I say, Eline, I must ask you something,” commenced Madame van Raat at
length, in a whisper. “Is it true?”

Eline felt a faint blush tinge her cheeks, but she acted as though she
did not understand the question.

“What, little madam? how do you mean?” The old lady smiled, but gave no
explanation. She only asked—

“Frédérique is coming too this evening, is she not?”

“I think so, at least——” began Eline.

“Alone?”

“No; with—as I said just now—with her brothers, Otto and Etienne.”

“Oh, indeed,” said the old lady indifferently; but she looked at her
askance, whilst something like joy played in her lustreless eyes.

Eline smiled, a little embarrassed.

“I think you are a very naughty old lady,” she said, stroking her muff.

“Oh, people talk so much, you know; don’t they? One hears this one day,
that the next; but still, sometimes one hears the truth too.”

“And what have you heard?”

“Something you ought to have told me long ago, if you had placed any
confidence in me. Now I had to learn it from Betsy.”

Eline started.

“Did Betsy say——?” she stammered.

“Yes, deary; and I had much rather have heard it from you first,”
repeated Madame van Raat, feeling hurt, as an old lady who has been
slighted.

Eline grew impatient. It was true Otto had asked her, but she could not
yet decide, and it annoyed her. How every one seemed to know about it,
and gave her unasked advice! how every one in veiled and open terms
dared to make all sorts of representations to Betsy! others, under the
cloak of intimacy, had even whispered in her sister’s ears that she
should urge Eline to declare herself. She now had had enough of these
indiscretions, and she was on the point of giving Madame van Raat a
sharp answer, but she restrained herself, and gave no sign of her
annoyance, whilst she murmured close to the old lady’s ear—

“Well, what should I have told you? It is true Erlevoort has proposed
to me; but I could not talk about it before I knew myself what I should
do.”

And she just glanced at Paul, but quickly turned her head away again,
feeling annoyed too with him, for he looked at her intently, as if he
wanted to catch her words. Anyhow, she was not going to satisfy their
unmannerly curiosity, and she rose and put a stop to Madame van Raat’s
chat—from which it appeared that the old lady liked Otto very much—with
a kiss and a few little words of endearment.

And the increased lovingness of Madame van Raat’s trembling kiss, no
less than the playfulness that twinkled in Paul’s eyes, annoyed and
irritated her, whilst she was waiting for Ben, as his grandma was still
caressing him in her arms.



No; Eline did not know how to decide. She shuddered at taking a step
that could make her happy or unhappy for life. It seemed to her as
though her future depended only on one single word, which she hesitated
to utter. She shuddered at the very idea of a mariage de raison,
because in her heart she felt a longing for love, much love, although
it was a feeling which she had done her best to repress after her
recent disappointment. And Otto—she had danced with him, had laughed
and joked with him, but never had his image held her thoughts even for
a moment, and she had always forgotten him as soon as she heard or saw
him no longer. When, however, she saw through his earnest simplicity of
character, when she guessed that he loved her, the idea was sweet to
her, and she told herself that it would pain her were she to cause him
grief, or to refuse him anything, even her hand. And whilst she thus
wilfully blinded herself, the rapture of his quiet passion for her
seemed to pour balm into her wounded heart.

The thought of becoming his wife, under the influence of her
self-deception, filled her with a serene joy; something like a sweet
vision arose to her mind, and—she began to look at the matter from a
financial point of view.

Yes; the idea was a cheering one. To be quite independent, to leave her
sister’s house, where, notwithstanding her own little private fortune,
she felt as though she were in fetters, something like a troublesome
guest, whose presence was tolerated for the sake of the world’s
opinion. But beneath all these various reasons which allured her to
welcome Otto with a calm pleasure, there lurked, like an adder as it
were, invisible to her own eye, the bitter regret at the ruin of her
shattered fantasies, and if ever she gave herself away to Otto, it
would be in order to be avenged on Fabrice, and on herself.

In the meantime, as soon as he had proposed, as soon as it became
necessary for her to reflect, and there was no overwhelming wealth of
passion to which she could yield herself up, she had stepped back full
of terror at the ordeal of giving her decision.

He, Otto, waited; he at least was discreet. For some days past he had
avoided the house of the van Raats, and she wanted to reward him for
his discretion; blushingly she had asked Betsy to send him a personal,
intimate invitation, as she did to Freddie and Etienne.

He would come, she would speak to him; and it seemed to her as if some
unseen power pushed her forward down a steep path; as if she would act
otherwise than she did, but that she was powerless to escape her fate.
It seemed to her as though, blindfolded, she groped about after her
happiness, stretching forth her hands in anxious, breathless suspense,
and listening to something that seemed like the echo of the happiness
that she was never, never to find.



Betsy poured out the tea. Madame van Raat and Madame Eekhof sat beside
her on a sofa, and conversed with Emilie de Woude. Henk, with his hands
in his pockets, was listening attentively to Vincent, and Eline, Ange,
Léonie, and Paul were turning over some music at the piano, when Otto
and Etienne entered.

“And Frédérique?” asked Betsy with surprise, as she held out her hand
to Otto.

“Frédérique felt a little tired; she is very sorry,” he answered
simply.

“She is often out of sorts lately,” said Etienne, as though to add some
weight to his brother’s words.

Eline felt her heart beat. She was very nervous, although she
effectually concealed her nervousness under her happy cheerfulness. It
suddenly seemed to her as if every one were looking at her, were
guessing at her thoughts, and she nearly shuddered to raise her eyes,
out of fear at seeing the glance of all directed upon her. But still,
when she looked up, the aspect of the room was quite unchanged; the old
ladies were still chatting with Betsy and Emilie, Vincent was speaking
almost in whispers to Henk, and the girls and Paul were shaking hands
with Etienne.

But Otto approached her. She scarcely knew how to carry herself, and
fancied she looked very awkward; but it was just that very hesitancy
that lent something coy to her slender little figure, and gave her a
new charm. She heard how he simply bade her good evening, but in his
voice there sounded something full and rich, like the promise of a
great affection. She suddenly felt conscious of a fresh emotion, a
melting tenderness in her heart which she could not understand.

He remained standing there, by the piano, at her side; but entered into
conversation with Ange, while Léonie was engaged in boisterous fun with
Etienne. Once or twice Otto glanced at Eline to make her participate in
their chat, and she smiled, without hearing what passed. She could no
longer follow her thoughts; they fluttered about in her mind like a
swarm of butterflies, and it seemed to her as though a chorus of voices
was singing in her ears. She understood that she might not allow
herself to be drawn into the luxurious softness which seemed to
encircle her as with velvet arms, that she durst not give herself up to
dreams in the midst of a room full of people. And after a few laughing
words she turned away, wondering at the subdued tone of her voice,
which sounded as though she was speaking through a veil.

“Vincent, you play too, don’t you?” she heard Betsy ask, and she saw
the old ladies and Emilie rise, and caught sight of Henk seated at the
card-table in the opposite room, and busily picking out the pearl
card-counters from a Japanese box. She seemed to be moving as in a
dream; she saw the cards spread out on the red cloth-covered table in
the form of a big S; she saw the wax candles burning at the corners of
the table, and Madame Eekhof’s bejewelled fingers drawing a card.

It seemed to her as though she herself was far away from it all.
Vincent sat down opposite Madame van Raat, Henk was to have Madame
Eekhof for a partner. Betsy returned with Emilie, they would join in
later on.

“Madame van Raat, shall we be disturbing them if we have a little
music; or is it such a terribly serious card-party?” Léonie asked of
Betsy, pointing to the card-table.

“Oh no, not at all, amusez vous toujours,” answered Betsy, and she led
Otto and Emilie with her to the sofa. To strangers she was always most
amiable.

“Come, Eline, do let us hear you; deary, we are dying for your
ravishing melodies!” Léonie continued, with unextinguishable vivacity.
“I will accompany you with my fairy fingers.”

“No, Léo; not this evening, please. I am not in voice.”

“Not in voice? I don’t believe a word of it! Come! allons, chante ma
belle! what shall it be?”

“Yes, Eline, do sing!” cried Madame van Raat from the opposite room,
and then in an embarrassed voice asked her partner what were trumps.

“Really, little madam; really, Léo, I can’t. I can always tell when I
can’t sing. I don’t as a rule refuse, do I? But you have brought some
music with you, have you not?”

“Yes; but they are not the sort of songs to commence with, they are for
later in the evening. Something serious first; come, Eline, allons!”

“No, no; positively not,” said Eline, shaking her head; it was really
impossible. She felt as though in a fever, which brought a faint blush
to her cheeks, caused her eyelids to droop languidly, made her pulses
beat, her fingers tremble.

“Positively not?” she heard softly repeated, and she glanced round. It
was Otto, who, seated beside Betsy and Emilie, asked her, and looked at
her with his honest, expressive eyes. Once more she shook her head,
still, so she thought, awkwardly; but really with unconscious grace.

“Really, I could not.”

And she turned away directly, fearing that he would suspect why.
Besides, she felt very embarrassed when her glance met his, although
there was not the slightest reproach in it. And it seemed to her as
though there was something awkward in the bearing of the people who
filled the rooms with their chat and laughter, something that was
unusual and strange; but still, so she thought, only Betsy and Madame
van Raat knew that Otto had proposed to her, and that she would give
him her answer that evening. Whatever the others might suspect, they
would not let a word escape her that could compel her to lift the veil
from her secret before she chose. And this confidence in their
well-bred discreetness reassured her.

Léonie however pouted, and thought Eline a tiresome girl. Paul and
Etienne cried that Léo must sing, and were going to fetch her music,
which the girl, with an affectation of shyness, had left in the hall.
All three rushed laughing to the door, but Léonie would not permit them
to look for the music, and they caused a sudden, cheerful stir, that
made the whist-players in the next room look up smiling from their
cards. Etienne however triumphed, and soon returned, carrying in his
uplifted arms the score of The Mascotte. The young Eekhofs were
persuaded, and laughing and halting they warbled, with their thin,
shrill little voices, the duet of Pipo and Betinna—


           “O, mon Pipo, mon Dieu, qu’t’es bien!”


whilst Etienne accompanied them, with frequently doubtful chords.

Still the duet was a success, and with rising gaiety they soon warbled,
all four of them—Ange, Léonie, Etienne, and Paul—with a delightful
disregard both of time and tune, now the languishing


           “Un baiser est bien douce chose!”


then the comic


           “Le grand singe d’Amérique!”


and their music was wafted—a fluttering of airy melody—gaily through
the rooms. Eline had seated herself on a stool next the piano, and she
leaned her feverish little head against it, almost deafened with
Etienne’s noisy voice. Her hand kept time on her knee, thus still
showing some little interest in what was going on. She heard the chords
of the piano drumming in her ears, and the sound of it prevented her
from thinking and coming to a decision. Constantly she swayed from one
resolution to another. Yes, she would accept; his love, though not
requited, would yet be her happiness; it was her destiny. No; she could
not force herself, she could not without a shadow of love allow herself
to be bound in this way. And it seemed to her as though her thoughts
were continually swayed to and fro, as if a clock were constantly
ticking in her ears: yes—no—yes—no. It would be a relief to grasp at
anything, however blindly. No; she must only decide after calm
deliberation. Oh, if that clock would only cease! she could not
struggle thus with herself; she had not the strength. She would reflect
no longer; she would let herself be carried away by the invisible
powers that drove her down the steep path; she would yield herself up
entirely to the stress of circumstances; they must decide for her. And
she felt a cold shiver overtake her when their glances met, and she
rose.



Vincent addressed her.

“Well, Elly, have you committed any folly yet; anything outrageously
mad?” asked Vincent, mocking her voice.

Round the piano it was quieter. Léonie was seated beside Emilie, and
was giving her a vivid description of a little dance at the van
Larens’. Etienne had turned himself round on the piano-stool and was
joking with Ange, who had tumbled on the ottoman in a burst of
laughter, and covered her face with both her little hands. Paul joined
in the laughter and turned over the pages of music.

“How? what? how do you mean?” stammered Eline, who did not understand.

“Did you not tell me, a little while ago, that you were about to do
something desperately absurd? now I ask you whether you have hit upon
anything yet? I should like to join you.”

His banter grated on her ears. In her present unusually serious mood,
the remembrance of that period of frivolity seemed to her like an echo
of vanished wishes. No; she no longer had any desire to give herself
over to equivocal absurdities; she would be sensible and practical, as
Otto was. Equivocally absurd, her disappointed passion—if she might
give that name to her folly—had been more than enough; in future she
would not let herself be carried away. And she crushed the feeling of
bitter remorse that rose in her heart with the sharp sting of an adder.

While she was searching for some light phrase in answer to Vincent’s
question, a sudden alarm seized her. A new thought struck her. No, it
was no longer possible; she could not go back. Otto, Betsy, all
expected her to accept; they could not help doing so. If she did not
intend to accept him, why then did she have an express invitation sent
him? It was settled. It could not be otherwise, and after her sudden
alarm a great calm came over her whole being.

“But, my dear girl, I believe you suffer from absent-mindedness,” cried
Vincent laughing. He had asked her why Georges de Woude was not there,
and she had languidly replied—

“Oh, yes; that is true.”

Now she laughed in her turn; she was coming to in the blissfulness of
that calm.

“I beg your pardon, I have a little—” and she placed her hand on her
forehead.

“Oh! headache, I suppose? Yes; I know the disease,” he interrupted
ironically, and gave her a searching glance. “That headache is a family
complaint with us; we suffer a great deal from headache.”

In some alarm she looked at him; surely he could not suspect anything.

“I too got a headache whilst playing, under the hammering of the piano.
It was as though I saw all kinds of colours—green, yellow, orange. When
that little lively girl there—Léonie—sings, I always see orange
colour.”

“And when I sing?” she asked coquettishly.

“Oh, then it is quite different,” he resumed, more seriously. “Then I
always see before me a harmonious climax, from faintest pink to purple,
until the whole is fused together in one delightful coalescence. Your
low notes are pink, your high ones purple and brilliant. When Paul
sings ’tis all gray, with a tinge of violet sometimes.”

She laughed gaily, and Paul—who had heard him—also.

“But, Vincent, these are visions of an over-excited imagination.”

“Perhaps so; but sometimes ’tis very pretty. Have you never experienced
it?”

She reflected for a moment, while Ange and Etienne, who had heard the
latter part of their conversation, came nearer and listened, as did
Paul.

“No; I don’t think I have.”

“And have you never felt that some notes remind you of some particular
odour—for instance, opoponax or mignonette? The tones of an organ are
like incense. When you sing that scena of Beethoven, ‘Ah, Perfido!’ I
always smell the scent of verbena, especially in one of the concluding
high passages. When you sing it again, I shall show you.”

Ange roared with laughter.

“But, Mr. Vere, how lovely to be perfumed like that!”

All joined in the laugh, and Vincent too seemed in a good humour.

“’Tis true, parole d’honneur.”

“No; but I tell you what, some people remind me of different animals,”
whispered Etienne. “Henk, for instance, reminds me of a big dog, Betsy
of a hen, Madame van der Stoor of a crab.”

They screamed with laughter. Otto, Emilie, and Léonie rose from their
seats and approached nearer.

“What is all this about?” asked Emilie inquisitively.

“Madame van der Stoor is a crab!” yelled Ange, with tears in her eyes
through laughing.

“And tell me, Eetje, of what do I remind you?” asked Léonie with
glistening eyes.

“Oh, you and Ange are just like two little pups,” cried Etienne. “Miss
de Woude, with her double chin, is a turkey!” he whispered, wild with
his success, in Ange’s ear, who nearly choked with laughter. “Miss
Frantzen is also a turkey, of another kind. Willem the servant is a
stately stork, and Dien, the cook at the Verstraetens’, a cockatoo.”

“’Tis a menagerie, a Noah’s ark!” screamed Léonie.

“And Eline?” Paul asked at last.

“Oh, Eline,” repeated Etienne, and reflected. “Sometimes a
peacock—sometimes a serpent—at this moment a little dove.”

They shook their head at his extravagant fancies, but still they
laughed gaily.



“Etienne is always jolly,” said Eline to Otto, when the little groups
were broken up, and she nodded smilingly at Madame van Raat, who had
given her seat at the card-table to Emilie. Vincent in the meantime
became the butt of the little Eekhofs, who asked him if he were going
to open a perfumery store.

“Yes,” answered Otto. “He has no reason to be otherwise, has he? He has
all that he desires.”

There was something sad in his words, as if that was not the case with
himself, and Eline could find nothing to reply. For a while they stood
close together, in silence, whilst her trembling hand clasped the fan
at her side, and again her thoughts began to stray.

“Have you nothing to say to me?” he whispered softly, but without a
tinge of reproach.

She took a deep breath.

“Really, oh—I—I cannot yet; forgive me, but really—later, later.”

“All right, later; I will be patient—as long as I may be,” he said, and
his calm tone brought a little peace to her whirling brain. No; refuse
she could no longer—but still, she could not yet decide.

And she could not help admiring his quiet tact, as he conversed with
her on subjects in which neither of them took the slightest interest.
That simple, quiet tact constituted his greatest charm; he was so
entirely himself that it seemed as if his manly frankness concealed
nothing that the eyes of the world might not see. Whilst he spoke, he
attempted to cajole neither himself nor her that there was anything
interesting in the conversation; he seemed only to continue it because
he liked to be near her and speak with her. It was so evident in the
full tones of his voice. His thoughts were not in his conversation, and
he made no attempt to conceal the fact. And for the first time she felt
something like pity for him; she felt that she was cruel, and that he
was suffering, and this feeling again aroused within her that melting
tenderness which she could not understand. Refreshments were handed
round.

“Will you take a lemonade, madam, and a cake?” Eline asked Madame van
Raat, who was sitting somewhat deserted on the sofa, now and again
smiling at the joyous group of young people who were engaged telling
each other’s fortunes.

“Wait a moment,” she continued to Otto; “the old lady is all alone; I
shall go and keep her company.”

He gave her a friendly nod and went to listen to Paul’s horoscope,
which Ange was drawing for him.

Eline took a lemonade, laid a cake on a dish, and offered it to Madame
van Raat. Then she sat down next to the old lady, and took her hand.

Madame van Raat, however, never touched the refreshments, but looked
Eline straight in the eyes.

“Well, how is it?” she asked.

In her present mood of melting tenderness, Eline could not feel annoyed
at the indiscreet question. And she answered, very softly, almost
inaudibly—

“I—I shall accept.”

She sighed, and the tears rose in her eyes, when for the first time she
made that resolution. She would accept. And she could find nothing more
to say to the old lady; that one word filled her mind so completely,
that it absorbed every other thought. For a moment, therefore, they sat
next each other in silence, a little turned away from the joyous group
round the cards. And Eline could hear Ange’s shrill, laughing voice, as
she laid down the cards, one by one, on the table.

“Now just listen, Mr. Erlevoort. I am much cleverer than Madame
Lenormand. Here is yours, king of diamonds. You are surrounded by much
tears, but they are turned into smiles; you will have much money, and
will go and live in a château in the Pyrenees. Or would you rather buy
a villa near Nice? Ah, there she is! queen of hearts, you see. You are
rather wide apart, but all the intermediate cards are favourable. You
will have to struggle against many obstacles before you can reach her,
for she is rather sought after, you see; but—the king of clubs, king of
diamonds, a plebeian even, a social democrat; knave of spades!”

“Black Jack!” cried Léonie. “Ah, fi donc!”

Eline smiled, a little frightened, and wiped away a tear from her
lashes; and Madame van Raat, who had also been listening, smiled too.

“There, just see how beautiful those aces lie,” Ange went on. “No fear,
Mr. Erlevoort, no fear; ’tis all clearing up nicely.”

“The cards seem favourable,” whispered Madame van Raat.

Eline gave a little smile of contempt, but she felt a little upset;
Black Jack had reminded her of Fabrice.



The company had risen from the whist-table, and the conversation became
lively and general. The fortune-telling had given an impetus to the
gaiety all round, and Etienne was loud in his protestations to Ange,
who prophesied that he would be an old bachelor. Not he; he declined
with thanks.

Ange and Léonie persuaded Paul to sing something else, and Léonie
accompanied him in one of Massenet’s songs. In the meantime Betsy
looked attentively at her sister and Otto, and thought she could see
that nothing had yet transpired between them. How Eline did
dilly-dally, to be sure! No; she had managed it better herself. She had
quietly accepted van Raat when he in his clumsiness had proposed to
her. What was Eline thinking about? why in Heaven’s name shouldn’t she
accept Erlevoort? They were quite cut out for one another. And she
worried herself about that sentimental hesitation on the part of her
sister, when she had the chance of marrying into a good family, and a
man in a fair position. Her eye glanced coldly on Eline’s slender form,
to which that hesitating coyness lent an additional charm, and she
remarked it, as she also remarked the unwonted earnestness that seemed
to be diffused over her beauty. What a lot of to-do about such a simple
matter! But when she caught sight of her husband, who was talking to
Otto, she felt even more annoyed; how stupid he was, to be sure! Had he
really no notion as yet why Otto was there that evening?

Madame van Raat left later than she usually did, still feeling
uncertain in her mind about Eline’s decision. She had to some extent
anticipated a sort of family evening, and she felt decidedly
disappointed.

It was now long past twelve, and Madame Eekhof and her daughters,
together with Emilie, Vincent, and Paul, prepared to go, the girls,
amid much laughing banter, being conducted by Henk and Etienne through
the hall to their carriage. Betsy, Eline, and Otto remained behind in
the little boudoir, and the silence somewhat embarrassed them. But
Betsy purposely rose and walked into the drawing-room towards the
card-table, as though to gather up the scattered counters. To Eline it
seemed as if the ground was giving way under her. She could not hide
her confusion from Otto’s eyes, and he, although he had had no
intention that evening of reverting to his request, did not feel
himself strong enough to resist the temptation of the moment, now that
they were alone together.

“Eline,” he whispered, in a broken voice; “oh, must I leave you like
this?”

Almost in terror she gasped forth her pent-up breath in a trembling
sigh.

“Otto—really, truly—I—I cannot, not yet.”

“Adieu then; forgive me, pray, for having worried you a second time,”
he said, and with that he lightly pressed her fingers and went.

As for her, however, she felt herself suddenly relenting into a melting
tenderness. Trembling and shaking all over, she all but fell to the
floor, but she saved herself by rushing towards the door, where she
clung to the heavy draperies, and altogether yielding herself up to her
emotions, she cried—

“Otto! Otto!”

He could not repress a light cry. He quickly turned back and caught her
in his arms, and with his face all aglow with pleasure he led her back
into the boudoir.

“Eline, Eline!” he cried: “is it true?”

She made no reply, but flung herself sobbing on his bosom, her spirit
utterly broken with her inward struggles.

“You will—you will be my little wife, then?”

She just ventured to lift up her face, whilst she lay trembling in his
arms, her only reply being her tearful glance and her faint smile.

“Oh—Eline—my darling!” he whispered, and his lips pressed her forehead.

Voices were heard in the drawing-room. Henk and Etienne were coming out
of the hall, Etienne carrying his overcoat and hat in his hand.

“But where is Otto all this time?” Eline heard him exclaim, and she
could at the same time distinguish Betsy’s voice, who whispered
something.

Otto looked smilingly down upon the little weeping head, which,
suddenly alarmed, was pressed against his bosom.

“Come, shall we go, then?” he asked, and in his simplicity he beamed
with joy.

Slowly, very slowly, she let him lead her away, still sobbing in his
arms, her head hid on his shoulder. Betsy met them with a laugh, and
pressed Otto’s hand with a significant glance. Henk and Etienne were
somewhat surprised.

“Van Raat, may I—may I introduce you to my intended?” said Otto.

It was Henk’s turn to smile now, and Etienne’s, who opened his eyes
wide with amazement.

“There’s a sly old customer!” he cried, and held his finger up
threateningly. “Who would have expected that this evening, now? what do
you think of that?”

Eline, however, still sobbing, relieved herself of Otto’s arm, and
clasped Henk round his neck. He kissed her, and his big voice muttered
kindly—

“Well, I will congratulate you, sissy, with all my heart. But the
deuce! come, don’t cry like that—what’s the idea of that now? Come,
give us a laugh now, for a change.”

In confusion she covered her face with her hands, and now Betsy thought
that it was her turn to give her a kiss, and she just touched the
dishevelled little locks.

“I am very satisfied with my little soirée, very satisfied!” she said
significantly.



Henk wanted Otto to stay a little longer, Etienne was discreet enough
to take himself off, but Eline whispered beseechingly that she was very
tired, and Otto did not insist. He was too happy to wish for anything
more; he would go, brimful of joy. And she thought it very nice of him
that he took leave only with a shake of the hand, as she feared he
would have kissed her before all of them.

The two brothers left, and Eline fled to her room, where she found
Mina, who was just lighting the lamp. The servant-maids had heard the
news from Gerard, who had come into the drawing-room at a very
inopportune moment, and Mina congratulated her, and looked at her with
an inquisitive smile about her lips.

“Thank you—thank you, Mina,” stammered Eline.

At last she was alone. She glanced in the mirror, and she started when
she saw the tearful pallor of her face. Yet it seemed to her as though
her soul glided away in a still, blue lake, that noiselessly covered
her with its waters, a spot where an eternal peace seemed to reign, a
Nirvana, the calm rapture of which was to her a new happiness.



CHAPTER XVI.


It was a fresh, bright May day, after a week of rain and chill mists.
Jeanne had sent her children—Dora, Wim, and Fritsje—for a walk with
their nurse, to the Schevening Boschjes. She herself, however, had
stayed at home, as she was always much occupied, and she felt lonely in
her apartments, sitting there by herself, doing her knitting and
darning in a pale sunbeam which she, regardless of her carpet and her
curtains, allowed to stream freely into the room. Frans was away in
Amsterdam, where he had gone to consult a physician. It was now
half-past one, thought Jeanne, as she glanced at the timepiece, the
tick of which was heard very distinctly in the quiet room. About
half-past five Frans would return, and the time which she had yet to
wait seemed so many ages to her, although she thought it splendid for
once to be able to do such a lot of work undisturbed.

The pale sunbeam fell right over her, but it did not trouble her; on
the contrary she basked in its faint warmth. The light shimmered about
her light-brown hair, and imparted to her sunken white cheeks an
alabaster transparency; it shimmered too over her thin, delicate
fingers, as with a steady, rhythmical motion she plied her needle. And
how she longed for the summer! oh, that May, with its damp misty
weather and its rare bright days, might soon be passed! how could she
have cherished any illusion of May being a month of spring beauty, as
the poets falsely said?

She smiled a little sadly as she bent over the chemisette she was
making, to press down a seam with her fingers; she smiled when she
reflected that every illusion, the smallest even, vanished into air,
while her life rolled on, and the future, which she feared with a
great, mysterious, unspeakable terror, continually faded away, to make
room for that gloomy, monotonous reality. And now—now she shuddered,
now once more that fearful presentiment rose up in her soul, like a
veiled spectre; something would happen to them, some inevitable
disaster would crush them. She took a deep breath, shuddering, her hand
pressed on her bosom; shuddering, not for herself, not for him—but for
the children.

She rose, it was impossible for her to continue her work, and yet she
must not be idle on the rare day when the children left her
undisturbed. Oh, why was she not stronger? And leaning against the
window-sill she let herself be entirely covered by the ray of sunshine,
like a pale hot-house flower longing for light and air, and she gazed,
absorbed in her thoughts of what was to be, into the little square
patch of garden behind the grocery shop below. A lilac was just budding
into leaf, but in the centre or side beds nothing as yet was growing,
and before Jeanne’s eyes there suddenly arose a vision of Persian
roses, such as those that bloomed on their property at Temanggoeng,
big, like pink beakers, full of sweet odour. It was as though she smelt
that odour; it was as though the blushing tint of those flowers
dispelled the dull gray thoughts, and left in their place merely a
longing for warmth and love.

Thus she felt when the bell rang, and Mathilde van Ryssel entered. They
had met each other once or twice at the van Raats’, and they were aware
of a certain sympathy between them.



“I have really come with the evil intention of tempting you out for a
walk,” said Mathilde smiling. “It is glorious weather, and it will do
you good.”

“But, Tilly, the children are out, and Frans as well. Really I can’t, I
have work to do.”

“What insurmountable objects, to be sure!” laughed Mathilde. “You need
not take care of the house.”

“No; but when the children come home, and find me out——”

“Really, Jeanne, that is spoiling them; surely they can manage to do
without you for a moment. I should get my hat and jacket, if I were
you, and come out with me like a sensible girl. What! sewing, are you?
That’s work for a rainy day.”

Jeanne felt a gentle delight at having the law laid her by that soft
voice, which even in its banter was pervaded with a tone of sadness.
And she yielded, feeling so happy, and ascended the stairs to dress,
almost humming the while.

She was soon ready, and after numberless admonitions to Mietje, left
the house with Mathilde. The cool wind seemed to lift a mist from her
mind, while her pale checks became cold and almost got a colour. She
listened to her friend, who told her that she had just taken Tina and
Jo to the van Raats’; Betsy and Eline had asked them to go for a walk
with them and Ben.

“And the others?”

“Oh! Lientje and Nico had absolutely to go out with mamma; mamma was
already in despair that she could not have the other two. I should not
have dared to take them with me,” she said laughing. “Dear, kind
mamma!”

They had passed through the Laan van Meerdervoort and reached the
Schevening road, which they followed. There were but few people about.
Mathilde let herself be carried away by her feelings, and revived by
the clear, fresh air, little talkative though she might be generally in
her reserve, and her silent grief.

“You don’t know how—how good mamma is,” she said. “She lives only for
her dear ones—for her children and her grandchildren. She never has the
slightest want of her own; whatever she thinks or does, ’tis all for
us. And I believe if you asked her which of us she liked best, she
could not tell you. Yes; she is mad with Etienne; Etienne is always
jolly, like a child, and because she too is cheerful and likes a good
laugh, his jokes do her good; but that she cares equally for Frédérique
or Otto, or for my children, I have no doubt. When mamma writes to
London, or Zwolle, or to the Horze, it is one long complaint that she
never sees those stray sheep. You can understand how unhappy she was
when Cathérine and Suzanne married and left her. I believe she would
like to build a sort of hotel, where she could stow the lot of
us—Théodore and Howard and Stralenburg, and all the rest. Dear, dear
mamma!”

They both were silent for a time. The Schevening road twisted itself
like a long gray ribbon before them, with a distant perspective of tree
stems under a network of budding twigs. The sunshine glistened on the
fresh young foliage waving bright under the clear blue sky, and on the
old stems there appeared a new layer of fresh green moss, soft as
velvet. The chirping of birds vibrated through the clear atmosphere in
tones of crystal.

“How glorious it is here!” said Mathilde; “one lives anew. But let us
get into this little lane. The people tire me; I dare say we tire them
too; we are out of harmony with nature’s surroundings. I always think
people so ugly amid green foliage, especially in the early spring. You
see, I am beginning to philosophize.”

Jeanne laughed, brimful of happiness. The world appeared to her
beautiful and good, full of love. And she thought of Frans!



They had seated themselves on a bench, and Jeanne ventured to ask—

“But how about yourself, Mathilde? You are always talking about your
mamma, but never about yourself.”

Mathilde looked up with something like a shiver.

“About myself? I do my best to forget about myself. ’Tis only to the
children that I am still of any use; for them I live and think. If they
were not here, I should be dead.”

In her words there resounded the memory of a dull grief, faded away
long ago into a placid resignation.

“If you have imagined yourself very happy, happy through and with one,
for whose sake you would have sacrificed body and soul, and you
observe—But ah! why speak about that?”

“Does the thought of that cause you such suffering then?”

“Oh no; I have suffered. There was a time when I thought I should have
gone mad, and I cursed the name of God; but that bitter sorrow has been
transformed into a lethargy that is past. I never think of it, I only
think of my four little darlings. And that thought fills my mind
sufficiently, so that I need not become a living mummy. You know, until
now I have been teaching them myself; but ’tis getting time for Tina
and Jo to go to school. Otto says so at least; but I should miss them
very much, and mamma, of course, sides with me there. Darlings!”

Perhaps she only fancied it, but Jeanne thought that in that dull
resignation she could detect a tone of suppressed bitterness, and she
could not help taking Mathilde’s hand in hers and whispering pityingly—

“Poor girl!”

“Yes; you—you are richer than I, you have your children and you have
your husband,” answered Mathilde with a sad smile, whilst her eyes
filled with tears; “and though you have your troubles and vexations,
you have more—more than I. Let that be your comfort when you have a fit
of melancholy. Just think of me, think that I could yet envy you, if—if
everything were not dead within me, everything except that one thing
alone.”

“Mathilde! Oh, how can you speak like that? it pains me!”

“It should not do so, for me it pains no longer. ’Tis only just a faint
memory of what has been, you know; nothing more. But still, ’tis better
to be silent about it; the raking up of these memories does me no good,
but hurts me, though I am almost a mummy.”

“Oh, Mathilde, how is it possible that you can always keep it pent up
within you? I—I could not do so; I should have to give it vent, that
which made me so——”

“No, no, Jeanne; oh, truly no, never more! Do not speak any more about
it, or—I—I shall feel myself brought back to life again. No, don’t;
never again—I beg of you.”

She leaned back against the seat, and tears dropped from her lashes,
whilst with her waxen pallor, and in her sombre black dress, she seemed
a picture of an infinite, unspeakable sorrow. She would not be brought
back to life, she wanted to be dead!



Jeanne did not want to get home too late, so that she might be there
before the children and Frans. So they turned back.

“And now I dare say I have made you sad, when I wanted to refresh you
with a pleasant walk?” asked Mathilde smiling. “Yes; that comes of all
that philosophy; forgive me, do!”

Jeanne could find nothing to say, and shook her head smilingly, to
signify that she was really not sad. And in her inmost soul she had to
acknowledge deeply—though Mathilde’s silent despair had at first
grieved her—now that she herself had once more assumed her ordinary
semblance of resignation, that pity for her friend became fused into a
feeling of peace and rest, as far as her own small troubles were
concerned. By the side of that one great ever-reviving sorrow the
latter seemed to her small and insignificant, the easily-borne troubles
of life, whilst had she been doomed to bear Mathilde’s sorrows, she
would have been crushed beneath them. She felt a remorse that she was
ungrateful for all the good that was bestowed on her, and which still
was hers—a remorse that sometimes she dared to feel herself wretched at
her fate, and yet she had been spared so much sorrow! Frans, he might
have his faults, he might be hasty and disagreeable when he was ill;
still he loved her, a and after a moment’s reflection, he was always
ready to own himself in the wrong; still he prized her. And in that
sweet thought, which made her feel proudly contented, she could no
longer feel sad in sympathy, though she considered herself an egotist
on account of it; but oh! it was so rarely that she felt such a
delicious sweetness pervade her little soul; was it wrong then for a
brief moment to feel an egotist’s pleasure?

Mathilde took her home again, and Jeanne left to herself longed, full
of renewed animation, for her children. Soon they came, refreshed with
their bout in the open, and she embraced them almost impetuously, and
let them tell her where they had been, what they had done. And when
Dora was a little peevish, she joked and played with the little
weakling until she laughed. Life did not seem quite so sombre now; why
not be a bit cheerful?



CHAPTER XVII.


Lili sat reading in the small drawing-room, when Frédérique entered.
She had been paying some visits and came to finish her afternoon at the
Verstraetens’.

“Is Marie out?” asked Freddie.

“No,” answered Lili; “we have been out. Marie is still up-stairs.”

“What is Marie doing there?” resumed Frédérique, in some surprise.
“What in Heaven’s name is she always doing up-stairs lately? Whenever I
come here, she is up-stairs. You haven’t fallen out, have you?”

“Oh no; not at all,” replied Lili. “Marie is doing some drawing, I
believe; or perhaps she has some writing to do, as she often has.”

“Writing what—a letter?”

“Oh, no—a novel, or something of the sort; but you had better not say
anything about it; perhaps she does not like us to know.”

Frédérique was silent for a moment.

“Don’t you find Marie rather changed?” she resumed.

“Changed? Marie? No; I have noticed nothing. Why do you ask?”

“Oh! for no special reason; I was only thinking. Marie is always so
busy just now, with one thing or another.”

“But so she has always been; she always tries to find something to do.
Papa says I am the only lazy one in the family.”

Frédérique was silent; but inwardly she wondered that Lili had not
remarked how lately there was something unusual about Marie, something
excitable and nervous, so very different from her former healthy
cheerfulness. However, she thought, perhaps it was only her fancy after
all.

“You know we are going to the Oudendyks’ this evening,” she said, to
turn the conversation.

“Oh yes; you told me some time ago that you were invited. So you are
going out again, eh? You have been a little blasé for a time, haven’t
you? at least you were always taken ill after an invitation,” laughed
Lili.

“Oh, I felt very ill at ease,” Frédérique answered frankly. “It was,
you know, on account of that folly of Otto’s. But now that there is
nothing more to do in the affair, I wash my hands of it. He ought to
know best, eh? Anyhow, I don’t see the use of fretting because——”

She did not finish the sentence, and her eyes became moist, as an
expression of haughty disdain formed about her mouth.

“But, Freddie,” Lili gently remonstrated, “he has known her so long;
all the time she has been living at the van Raats’; and if he really
cares for her——”

“Oh, there’s nothing I should desire more, than that all may go well,
and they may be happy. But I can’t help it. Eline I cannot bear. Of
course now I force myself to be nice and friendly to her; but you know
it is so difficult for me to make myself appear different from what I
am. But come, let us talk about something else; it can’t be helped now,
and the less I think of it the better. Shall we go up-stairs to Marie?”

Lili agreed, and they went. In the girls’ sitting-room Marie was seated
at a little writing-table; a few sheets of writing lay before her, but
her head was resting on her hand, and with her pen she was, as if lost
in thought, drawing some strokes across a blank sheet of paper. When
Freddie and Lili entered, she gave a sudden start.

“We have come to disturb you in your busy occupations,” commenced
Freddie, laughing; “that is, unless you would rather have us go.”

“Certainly not; you know better, don’t you? So unsociable too of Lili,
to sit down all by herself, down-stairs.”

Lili did not answer; neither of them was in the habit of staying in her
room in the afternoon, and it was Marie herself who was unsociable.

“What is it you are writing? is it a secret?” asked Freddie, with a
glance at the scribbled sheets.

“Oh no,” answered Marie, with seeming indifference. “’Tis something I
started long ago—a sort of diary, a description of our trip in
Thuringia and the Black Forest last year. I wanted to make up a little
sketch about it, something romantic if possible, but ’tis getting
tiresome. I really don’t know what made me start it,” she added softly;
“I’m not cut out for writing, eh?”

“I can’t say,” said Freddie encouragingly. “Just read us a little of
it.”

“Yes; fancy boring you with my school-girl scribble. Pas si bête,”
cried Marie laughing. “You see, a person must do something; I felt
bored, so I started writing. I’ll tell you what it is, Frédérique,” she
continued, with a tragic-comic glance at her friend, “I think we are
growing so old. Yes, downright old; we are getting tiresome. Do you
know, ’tis months since we had a good laugh together, as we used to so
often.”

“With Paul or Etienne?” added Lili, smiling at the recollection.

“With or without them. We used to amuse ourselves without the boys just
as well. But now—I don’t know what you think, but I think we are all of
us awful bores. We are each of us getting our worries—you have for some
time suffered from an antipathy towards Eline. Lili does not speak a
word; she is either in dreamland all day, or overwhelms me with her
romantic musings; and as for myself, out of sheer ennui I start writing
about blue mountains and misty horizons.”

“What will it all end in?” laughed Freddie. “The future looks very
dismal, especially in your case. Behind those blue mountains and the
misty horizon there is something hidden, I know.”

“Something hidden?” repeated Marie. “Oh no, not at all; nothing.”

Frédérique fancied she could see a tear glide through Marie’s fingers,
which she held in front of her eyes. Lili kept herself occupied
arranging a few books in a bookcase.

“Marie,” whispered Freddie softly, “come, tell me. Is anything the
matter? can I do anything for you? I wish you would tell me if there
is. I can see there is something that troubles you.”

Marie rose, and turned her face away.

“Oh dear, no, Freddie; don’t you fancy anything of the sort. You are
getting just as romantic as Lili. There is nothing, really. ’Tis only
that I feel wretchedly bored, that is all; I want some cheerfulness.
Hallo, old chappie!”

Her brother entered, somewhat surprised.

“Eh! what are you three doing here? Talking about your gentleman
friends, I’ll bet!” he cried noisily.

“What a wise remark,” answered Marie. “Just like the men. ’Tis your
natural vanity that makes you say such a thing, though you are but a
boy yourself. Wait a bit, I’ll teach you.”

She ran after him round the table, whilst he, mocking her, deftly
skipped over a chair, which he quickly placed in her way. Freddie and
Lili roared with laughter at their antics. All at once he rushed out of
the room, and Marie after him.

“What a girl that Marie is!” cried Freddie wonderingly. It passed her
understanding. After a while Marie returned, all out of breath.

“Did you catch him?” asked Lili.

“Of course not,” she answered. “That boy is like a goat, so nimble, he
skips over everything. Ah, ’tis a treat, a run like that. I wish I were
a boy.”

Freddie left, and Lili accompanied her down-stairs; Marie was coming
down directly. But she stayed at the window for a while, and looked
out. In the falling twilight, which was wrapping everything in a
transparent ashen-hued mist, lay the canal, green and still,
overshadowed by the leafy boughs of the bordering trees. Beyond it lay
the Maliebaan, dim in the gathering shadows, with a moist thin veil of
grayish dew rising upward from its surface.

Marie looked out and sighed. Yes; she would always laugh away that
feeling, that cruel, gnawing bitterness, out of her heart, as she had
done just now. She was growing old, downright old, and tiresome.
Without mercy for herself she would wrench away that blossom from her
soul, she would again and again blot out that vision. It was torture,
but still she must do it.

And as she stared away into that melancholy mist, ascending in gray
layers over the valley yonder, a beloved face rose up before her moist
eyes—a manly face, with an expression of frankness and sincerity in its
eyes, and beaming with a winning smile; but it was not upon her, but
upon Eline, that that smile threw its brightness.



The tramcars running between the Ouden Schevening road and the Kurhaus
were thronged. At the junction of the Anna Paulownastraat and the Laan
Copes van Cattenburgh they were stormed by waiting crowds, and in a
moment they were filled to overflowing—inside, outside, and on the
platforms. There was a vast amount of pushing to obtain even the merest
standing-room, among the numbers of ladies, who, nervous and excited,
fluttered about in their gay toilets, peering through the windows in
the hope of finding a vacant spot. The conductors pulled the bells, and
shouted to those who were left behind, who turned away and began to
watch for the next car to arrive. The horses started, and the faces of
those who had managed to wedge their way in, and were seated packed
close as herrings, now beamed with happiness after the successful
struggle.

“What a crowd! It’s fearful,” said Eline, looking down upon the surging
mass with a placid smile.

She sat beside Betsy in the open landau, with Henk and Otto facing her.
Dirk, the coachman, had been compelled to halt a moment, but now again
the long file of carriages began to move. Herman, the little footman,
sat on the box with crossed arms, motionless and straight in his light
gray livery with its bright buttons.

“There will be a terrible crowd,” said Betsy. “But it’s in the open
air, so we need not fear we shall get no seat.”

Not a breath of wind stirred through the dense foliage, and after a day
of intense heat and glaring sun, with the gathering twilight a leaden
heaviness seemed to descend over everything. Eline, rather faint with
the heat, leaned back with pale cheeks and spoke little; only now and
then glancing at Otto through her drooping lashes, with an archness
that was full of happiness. Betsy kept up a lively conversation with
van Erlevoort, for Henk was not very talkative either, reflecting as he
was whether it would not have been wiser to have stayed at home
drinking a cup of tea in the garden, rather than rush away directly
after dinner to Scheveningen.

Betsy, however, robust and cheerful, enjoyed the fragrant air, of which
she took deep breaths. She enjoyed the soft, padded cushions of her
luxurious, well-appointed carriage, contrasting so brightly with the
other vehicles; she enjoyed even the sight of Herman’s dignified
attitude, and of the silver initials worked on the hangings of the box.
She was contented with herself, with the luxury that she displayed, and
contented with her company. Eline was so charmingly pretty, just like a
little doll; her dress of light gray étamine was almost striking in its
simplicity, while the coquettish little hat enclosed her face in a
framework of silk. Erlevoort was such a fine-looking fellow, and so
distingué; Henk looked so comfortable and stout, so well-fed—her
husband was really not so bad; she might have fared worse. And she
nodded to her acquaintances as their carriage passed by with her most
captivating smile; no, she must not seem proud, though her fine bay
mares ran never so fast.

“Oh, glorious! the air is getting fresher, I am beginning to revive!”
murmured Eline, raising herself up, with a deep breath, when they had
passed the Promenade. “I feel I want some fresh air, after the
temperature of this afternoon.”

“Come, child, it was delicious!” declared Betsy. “The sort of weather I
should always like to have.”

“Well, all I can say is, I should be dead after a month of it. I say,
Otto, you are laughing; tell me honestly now—do you think it’s
affectation, or do you really believe that I cannot bear such heat?”

“Of course I believe you, Elly.”

She looked at him with feigned anger, and shook her little head
reproachfully.

“Elly again,” she whispered.

“Oh yes; how stupid of me. Well, I do believe I know something!” he
whispered back delightedly.

“What are you two planning together?” asked Henk, with curiosity.

“Nothing at all; eh, Otto? A little secret between us; hush!” and she
held her finger to her mouth, enjoying their mystification.

The fact was she did not wish Otto to call her by the familiar
diminutive every one else gave her. She wanted him to invent one for
himself alone, one that was not worn and stale, something new and
fresh. He did not think it very childish of her, eh? And he had
exhausted himself trying to think of one, but whatever he said she was
not satisfied; he had better try again. Well, had he found something at
last?

“I am really anxious to know what it is,” she whispered once more,
smiling.

“Afterwards,” he whispered back, and then both smiled.

“Look here, until now I have found you less tiresome than most engaged
couples, so don’t you, too, start these intolerable inanities,” cried
Betsy indignantly, but without much anger.

“Well; and how about you and Henk then, at one time!” laughed Eline.
“Eh, Henk?”

“Ah, I should think so!” answered Henk laughing, whilst she, at the
thought of her sister’s betrothal, now years ago, felt a faint
recollection of her feelings in those days rise to her mind, like
something very far away and strange.

But they had long passed by the villas along the Badhuis road, and by
the Galeries at the rear of the Kurhaus, and they drew up at the steps
of the terrace, by the sea.



The Eekhofs and the Hydrechts were seated at a little table close to
the band-stand, when Betsy, Eline, Otto, and Henk passed one by one
through the turnstile. They never saw them, however, and walked on,
Otto’s hand resting on Eline’s arm.

“Look, there are the van Raats, and Miss Vere, with Erlevoort!” said
young Hydrecht. “They are here every evening lately.”

“How ridiculously plain Eline dresses just now!” remarked Léonie. “What
is the meaning of that, I wonder? Nothing but affectation. And just
fancy—a bonnet and veil! Every engaged girl thinks she must wear a
bonnet and veil. Ridiculous!”

“But they are a nice pair,” said Madame Eekhof. “There are less
suitable matches.”

“Anyhow, they walk decently,” said Ange. “Sometimes those engaged
couples make themselves ridiculous—Marguerite van Laren, for instance,
who is always brushing the dust off her intended’s coat.”

Betsy meanwhile, bowing and smiling right and left, thought they had
better not walk about any more, but look for a table somewhere.

Fortunately it was pleasant everywhere; it was even desirable to sit at
some distance from the band-stand, otherwise the noise would have been
too great. So they sat down at a little distance, at the side of the
Conversatie-zaal, where there were still several tables unoccupied, but
from where they could see and be seen.

It was a constant interchange of nods and smiles, and Betsy and Eline
now and again whispered amusedly when they caught sight of some absurd
toilette or ridiculous hat. Eline herself was very satisfied at the
simplicity with which, ever since her engagement, she had dressed
herself; a simplicity which, elegant though it still was, was in too
great contrast with her former luxurious toilettes not to be much
remarked. That simplicity, she thought, brought out her captivating
beauty in a sort of plastic relief, and modelled her slender form as
though it were a marble statue. In her eyes it veiled her former
frivolousness as with a film of graceful seriousness, a seriousness
which to Otto, with his native simplicity, must be most attractive.

She could not help being as she was; she felt it difficult to be
nothing but herself; but, on the other hand, it was easy for her to
imagine herself playing one or another part: this time it was that of
the somewhat affected but ever-charming and happy fiancée of a manly
young fellow, one of her own circle, who was liked everywhere for his
unaffected pleasantness. Yes; she was happy—she felt it, with all the
delight of a satisfied longing in her heart, which had so long craved
for happiness; she was happy in the peace and calm which his great,
silent love—which she guessed at rather than understood—had given her;
she was happy in the blue stillness of that limpid lake, that Nirvana
into which her fantasy-burdened soul had glided as into a bed of down.
So happy was she, even to her very nerves, which were as loosened
chords after their long-continued tension, that often she felt a tear
of intense gratefulness rise to her eye. The stream of people passed by
her incessantly, and began to whirl a little before her eyes, so that
once or twice she did not return their greetings.

“Eline, why don’t you bow? Can’t you see Madame van der Stoor and
little Cateau?” whispered Betsy reproachingly.

Eline looked round, and gave her friendliest nod, when Vincent Vere and
Paul van Raat approached them. They remained standing, as there were no
vacant chairs to be seen.

“Would you two like to sit down for a moment; that is, if Eline cares
to walk?” asked Otto, half rising.

Eline thought it was a capital idea, and whilst Vincent and Paul took
their seats, she and Otto slowly followed the stream of promenaders.
They approached the band-stand, and the high violin movements in the
overture to Lohengrin were swelling out fuller and fuller, like rays of
crystal.

A group of attentive music-lovers was ranged about the band in a
semi-circle. Otto wanted to let Eline pass through the narrow gangway
between the rows of chairs and the standing group, but she turned
round, and whispered—

“Listen for a moment; shall we?”

He nodded his head, and they stood still. How she enjoyed the stately
swell of melody. It seemed to her as though it were not notes of music,
but the blue waters of her lake that flowed by, limpid and clear as the
stream along whose bosom Lohengrin’s bark had glided, and she beheld
the swans, stately and beautiful.

At the loud fortissimo she took a deep breath, and while the brittle
threads of harmony brought forth by the violins spun themselves out,
thinner and thinner in texture, the swans, stately and beautiful, also
floated away.

The applause resounded on all sides; the semi-circle broke.

“Beautiful—oh, how beautiful!” murmured Eline as in a dream. And
delightedly she felt Otto’s hand searching for her arm; life was sweet
indeed!

“Don’t you think it foolish? I always feel myself so—so much better
than at other times, when I hear beautiful music; it is then that I get
a feeling as though I am not quite unworthy of you,” she lisped at his
ear, so that none overheard her. “Perhaps it is childish, but I really
cannot help it.”

She looked at him smiling, but almost anxiously, in suspense at what he
would answer. She often felt some fear at what he might think of her,
as though by one thoughtless word she might lose him; for she did not
yet understand how and why he loved her.

“Oh, don’t for heaven’s sake place me on such a lofty pedestal,” he
answered kindly. “I feel myself so very commonplace, so little raised
above others; you must not put yourself so far beneath me. You not
quite unworthy of me! What puts that idea into your head? Little silly!
Shall I tell you something? I really don’t think that you know
yourself.”

Could he be right? she wondered; did she not know herself? A glad
surprise filled her; she thought she knew herself so well. Maybe there
was yet something in her soul of which she knew nothing, something
perhaps from which her love for him flowed? Was it left for him to
disclose to her her own inward nature?

“Oh, Otto——” she began.

“What?” he asked softly.

“Nothing. I like you so much when you say anything about yourself and
me,” she murmured, full of a blissful feeling to which she could give
no utterance. His hand gently pressed her arm, and a tremor passed
through her, as they walked on amid the laughing, pushing throng
between the tables, stared at by all who knew them.

“Look at Erlevoort and Eline there, walking blissfully side by side,
perdus dans le même rêve. They don’t see us again!” cried Léonie,
almost regretfully, as she passed by them with Hydrecht.



Eline and Otto all at once heard their names softly mentioned. They
looked round and saw Madame Verstraeten with Marie, Lili, and
Frédérique seated at a little table. Georges de Woude had already risen
and nodded to them, smiling. They came nearer and shook hands.

“Hallo, Freddie!” said Otto, surprised.

“Madame Verstraeten was kind enough to ask me to come,” she answered,
by way of explanation. “Otto, we have just received a letter from the
Horze: they are all quite well, and they want to be remembered to you.
To you too, Eline.”

“Thanks, very much!” replied Eline cordially, while for a moment she
sat down in Georges’ chair beside Madame Verstraeten. Marie had turned
very pale, but it was not noticeable under her white veil.

“Théodore writes that Suzanne and van Stralenburg, with the baby, are
coming to stay with them next week, and mamma is all excitement about
it.”

“What, was mamma going to the Horze? And Howard is coming here?”

“Yes; that’s just the dilemma.”

“Dear old Madame Erlevoort!” said Madame Verstraeten.

“Percy wrote he was coming towards the latter part of July. Well, van
Stralenburg cannot stay longer than the twentieth, writes Théodore. So
you can understand”—and she forced herself to look kindly at Eline—“you
can understand how mamma feels about it. To journey to Zwolle, that she
will not be able to manage; and to leave the Hague before the
twentieth, while Howard and Cathérine are coming—that of course she
cannot do.”

“But Howard is also going to the Horze later on, is he not?” asked
Otto.

“Yes; but he will want to stay a little in the Hague first, and take
advantage of Scheveningen,” answered Frédérique. “Mamma is thinking of
all sorts of plans; she would be in despair if she did not see her new
grandchild this summer, you can understand that.”

“Well, then, I shall prevail on mamma to go to Zwolle with me, one of
these days; that will be the best way out of it,” answered Otto. “The
journey to the Horze is still more troublesome.”

“You might try,” said Frédérique. “That would certainly solve the
problem.”

Meanwhile Lili told Madame Verstraeten that she would take a walk round
with de Woude, and the old lady asked Otto to sit down for a moment
until they returned.

“How pretty Eline is, is she not, de Woude?” asked Lili. Since she had
been skating with him she allowed him to call her by her name, and she
called him simply de Woude. “I can’t help remarking it whenever I see
her.”

“Yes; she looks very nice,” answered Georges indifferently.

“No; I think she is downright pretty,” persisted Lili. “How is it
possible that you don’t think her pretty? What a curious taste you
have, to be sure!”

He laughed gaily, in the enjoyment of a secret thought.

“I can’t help it—can I?—if she leaves me entirely indifferent; I have
another ideal of beauty. But if you absolutely want me to think her
pretty, why then I’ll take another look.”

“Oh no, no; I don’t care a bit,” she answered, also laughing; “only all
the gentlemen think her pretty, that’s why I can’t understand that you
don’t. And I can’t make out either why Frédérique does not like her. If
I were a man, I should fall madly in love with her.”

“And fight a duel with Erlevoort, I suppose.”

The first part of the programme was at an end, and the throng of
promenaders grew denser. Georges and Lili found themselves hemmed in on
all sides, and they could proceed no farther.

“’Tis awful,” said Lili. “I don’t see any pleasure in it when there are
so many.”

“Shall we make our way to the sands?” he asked softly.

“If we can,” said Lili, glad at the idea. “Mamma will not mind, I
suppose?”

“Oh, of course not, under my care,” he said reassuringly, and with
evident pride.

They quickly passed through the turnstile. With a feeling of relief
they descended the steps of the terrace, crossed over the road, and
hastened down the broad flight of steps that led to the sands. Here and
there a Scheveninger was strolling along with a slow, measured, heavy
step, keeping time with the swaying of his companion’s thick mass of
petticoats.

And straight in front of the Kurhaus, bathed in the yellow glow of the
gas-light, the waves were washing with refreshingly cool sound.

“Ah!” cried Lili, “how much nicer it is here!”

The sea, calm and unruffled, was flowing on in tints of green, azure,
and violet, here and there capped with glistening white foam all along
the beach. In the sky above myriads of stars sparkled, and the Milky
Way seemed like a cloth of pearls in the midst of the mysterious
infinity of faint blue. From out of the sea there seemed to rise an
indefinable murmur, like that produced by a gigantic sea-shell.

“How beautiful and quiet it is here, after the noise yonder; it’s quite
entrancing!” murmured Lili in ecstasy.

“Yes,” answered Georges.

She nearly stumbled over something; thereupon he asked her to take his
arm, and she did so. It seemed to him as though he had very much to say
to her, and as though he would never be able to express himself without
appearing ridiculous. She too felt a delicious longing to open her
mind, to speak about the sea and sky which seemed to her so beautiful;
but she felt a little ashamed at the poesy that was in her heart, which
contrasted too drolly with the prosy commonplace circles in which they
generally moved. She feared to appear affected, and she said nothing.
They both kept silent as they slowly walked along, with the roar of the
sea in their ears, and with a soft soothing feeling in their hearts
that seemed to them more expressive than words.

They went slowly on, wrapt in their solitude, with the calm of the sea
before them. And he felt that he must say something.

“I could go on walking like that with you for ever,” said he, and his
bantering tone somewhat concealed the meaning of his words.

She laughed; it was only fun after all.

“Then perhaps I might get tired.”

“Then I should carry you.”

“You couldn’t; my weight would crush you.”

“Do you think so little of my strength then? Come, I’ll just show you.”

“But, Georges, how dare you? I shall end by getting angry with you, at
least if you don’t beg my pardon at once.”

“How shall I set about that?” he asked, with mock humility.

She let him spin out a long rigmarole—

“I, Georges de Woude van Bergh, humbly apologize to —— for having—” and
he repeated every word, while their echo vibrated pleasingly upon her
ear.

For she was not quite so angry as she wanted to appear. It seemed to
her as though their walk would never end, as if they would continue
strolling along that light surging strand until they should come within
sight of a fresh horizon.

“Come, we must return,” she said suddenly; “we are going too far.”

They turned back, and were quite frightened when they saw how far away
the Kurhaus lay, bathed in a ruddy glow of light; but to her that alarm
suddenly melted into a tenderness, a soft indifference; what cared she
for the others over there? they were together by the sea.

“Lili, really we must hurry,” said he laughing, somewhat confused.
“Your mother will wonder where we have got to.”

This time she felt quite hurt at his hurrying; he could not be
sensible, then, of that tender indifference; he did not feel as she
did, that they were together by the sea, and that all the rest was
nothing, nothing!

“I really cannot trudge at such a pace through the sand,” she said, a
little vexed, and she clung closer to his arm. But he was inexorable;
she had better lean on his support if she could not get along fast
enough. He certainly could be surprisingly obstinate under the veil of
his gentle affability.

“But, Georges, I cannot really, I am tired out!” she panted peevishly,
although the would-be anger in her voice melted away in a coaxing tone.
He, however, laughingly rushed up the broad steps, nearly dragging her
after him, with her arm clasped fast in his own, and really she could
not help laughing. It was very funny, certainly, rushing along in that
way in the darkness.

Somewhat more slowly they ascended the little steps leading to the
terrace, and while Georges was searching for the enclosure tickets,
Lili shook the sand from her dress.

The second part of the programme had commenced, and the band was
blaring out the metallic fanfares of the march in the Reine de Saba; a
few promenaders were still about, but there was no longer a crowd. They
hurried with apparent indifference, although Lili’s cheeks were red as
fire, to their little table. Madame Verstraeten was seated alone with
Marie and Frédérique; Otto and Eline were gone.

“Good gracious, where have you two been hiding?” cried Marie, while
Georges and Lili sat down on the chairs, across which a cloak had been
thrown to reserve them. “I have been walking with Paul, and Eline and
Otto could not really keep your seats for you any longer.”

“We made almost superhuman efforts to reserve them, did we not, madam?”
added Frédérique.

“But where have you been, then?” asked Madame Verstraeten wonderingly.
“In the Conversazione Room, looking at the dancing?”

Georges told them of their walk by the sea, and Lili inwardly admired
him for the tact with which he replied to her mother’s questioning.



Henk and Vincent were seated by themselves at a table near the
Conversazione Room, while Betsy and young Hydrecht were strolling about
in a somewhat too boisterous flirtation, and Eline and Otto had sat
down for a moment next to Madame Eekhof, whom they had passed by four
times without any greeting, as Ange declared.

“I was nearly dead with this terrible heat to-day,” muttered Vincent.

“Yes; Eline can’t bear it either,” answered Henk, emptying his glass of
Pilsener.

Vincent drank nothing; he felt rather giddy at the incessant surging
round and round of all these people. He rarely went to Scheveningen; in
the morning the heat was unbearable on the scorching sand, and at night
it tired him too much. Once or twice he went, just for the sake of
saying he had been.

A question to Henk was on his lips, one which he scarcely dared to
put—a request for money. The second time that Henk had advanced him
money, he had not done so with his usual brusque bonhomie. Vere’s
eternal impecuniosity was beginning to tire him—it was always the same
tune! This had not escaped Vincent; but still he could not help it, and
he began with an introduction, with an assumed lightness of manner.

“I think I shall be able to repay you part of my debt this week, van
Raat. I am expecting money. Only for the moment I am awfully short. If
I had not taken advantage of your kindness so often already, I would
ask your assistance once more; but I am afraid I’m getting indiscreet
now. I shall see and get along just for this week.”

Henk did not answer. With his stick he sat slowly beating time to the
music.

“It’s a nuisance that I did not come to an arrangement with that
quinine affair,” resumed Vincent. “But you see I have just received a
letter from a friend in America; he is rich and is well connected, and
will get me an introduction to a business house in New York. But for
the moment, you know—I say, van Raat, you would be rendering me an
immense service—lend me another fifty florins.”

Henk turned round to face Vincent, with a passionate movement.

“Look here, Vere, is there never going to be an end of that bother? I
must frankly admit that it is beginning to sicken me. One day ’tis
fifteen hundred florins, then a hundred, then fifty. What—what in
Heaven’s name are you waiting for then? What is it you intend to do?
why do you laze about so, if you haven’t a cent in the world? why don’t
you try and get something to do? I can’t keep you, can I?”

Vincent had felt a vague presentiment of a coming storm, and let the
curt disjointed sentences which Henk in his clumsy passion grunted out,
pass over him without contradiction. But his silence made Henk feel
almost embarrassed, and the sound of his own voice reverberated roughly
in his ears. Still he proceeded—

“Then again you talk a lot of nonsense about money from Brussels—or
from Malaga; another time it is to come from New York. When is it
coming, I should like to know? You understand, it won’t ruin me if you
don’t pay me what you owe me, neither shall I ever trouble you about
it; but taken altogether it’s now not far short of two thousand
florins, and I am getting sick of it. Don’t in Heaven’s name keep
loafing about in the Hague here; look for something to do.”

Henk’s passionate tone was already giving way to a kindlier one, but
Vincent remained silent, his eyes fixed on the points of his boots,
which he was gently tapping with his stick, and Henk was at a loss what
to say next. And it was a relief to him when Vincent at length lifted
up his head and whispered—

“It’s quite true—you are right—but it’s not my fault—circumstances.
Anyhow I shall see what I can do—excuse my troubling you.”

He slowly rose from his seat, while Henk, whom that placid resignation
greatly embarrassed, sought in vain for some appropriate phrase.

“Well, good-night, au revoir!” Vincent said with a faint smile, and he
nodded to Henk without offering him his hand. “Good-night; I must be
off.”

Henk wanted to give him his hand, but Vincent had already turned his
back on him, and Henk saw him slowly picking out his way through the
throng, now and then raising his hat with a languid movement.

Very dissatisfied with himself, Henk remained seated alone at his
table. After a while, however, Eline and Otto returned and laughingly
expressed their sympathy for his loneliness. Betsy too was soon after
brought back by Hydrecht, whose hand she cordially pressed. It was
late; many people had already left before the last number, and now that
the concert was at an end, the crowds slowly moved away through the
Kurhaus. Gradually the noise of the music and laughter-laden atmosphere
subsided into a restful calm, whilst here and there the gas-lamps were
already being extinguished, and only a stray group or two were still
sitting down, enjoying the balmy air, which was growing fresher and
purer at every moment.

“It’s glorious here; shall we sit a little longer?” asked Betsy.

“Let us rather have a drive round,” said Eline; “at least unless you
think it will be getting too late, and the horses are not tired, Henk.”

Betsy thought Eline rather eccentric to want to drive so late at night,
but still the idea pleased her. And they walked to the rear of the
Kurhaus, where the carriage was waiting.

Eline thought the wind had risen, and preferred to sit forward under
the half-closed hood, next to Otto. Betsy told Dirk to drive home
through the Van Stolkpark.

The outlines of the villas looked dim and shadowy between the vague,
dark masses of foliage, through which now and then a gentle gust of
wind rustled with a lulling sound. But the clatter of the horses and
the light rumbling of the wheels along the road drowned the sighing of
the wind with a noise that remained unbroken by words.

Betsy lay back comfortably, and enjoyed the cool night air. Henk was
still under the uncomfortable influence of his conversation with
Vincent, whom he thought he had hurt, and Eline let her thoughts wander
away in a delicious reverie. She had removed her hat, and she bent a
little towards Otto, and listened to his regular breathing. He,
effectually hidden in the shadow of the raised hood, had his arm round
her waist, and had drawn her a little towards him, so that her cheek
nearly lay on his shoulder. And she was very happy, she wished nothing
more than thus, in his arm, to be driven along in the evening breeze,
beneath the gently rustling foliage. She could conceive of nothing
sweeter, than thus to lean against him, to feel the passage of his
breath through her hair, and his arm about her waist like a girdle of
love.

And yielding to the delicious influences of the moment, she let her
head fall on his shoulder.

“What name have you thought of for me?” she whispered in his ear.

“Nily,” he whispered back, and whilst she felt his arm clasp her waist
more closely, her lips inaudibly repeated the name, the echo of which
resounded through her being like a caress of jubilant love.



Mathilde van Ryssel had taken a tent by the sea, and told Jeanne
Ferelyn to come and sit there with her children as often as she chose.
At first, out of diffidence, Jeanne had only occasionally availed
herself of the invitation; but Mathilde was pressing, and Jeanne now
came very frequently. Sometimes they both arranged that they should
start in the morning early, and take some sandwiches—the children could
get plenty of milk to drink at the milk stall; and so they would sit
down, both of them under the awning of the tent, chatting over their
work, whilst their children were delving with their little spades in a
big sand-pit in front of them, or were busy along the beach,
constructing the most wonderful aqueducts. And Jeanne fancied that her
children were getting more robust and less peevish, now that they were
in company with the noisy, playful little van Ryssels, and she and
Mathilde gazed delightedly at the boisterous little band. Jeanne
especially felt the influence of that frequent intercourse with
Mathilde, in whom she had found a friend who understood her troubles,
and who, with her sad experience and placid resignation, was ever ready
to advise and aid her. They spoke frequently about their children and
their domestic affairs, and Jeanne thought Mathilde, used though she
was to the cosiest of surroundings, exceedingly practical and frugal.

But those pleasant days by the sunny seaside did not last long, for the
Ferelyns had to leave. They were going to Boppard, where Frans was to
undergo the cold-water cure, and Jeanne racked her brains trying to
calculate the probable expenses of the trip. How could they afford to
stay at Boppard perhaps for six weeks, with their three children, while
at the same time they could not give up their rooms in the Hugo de
Grootstraat?

Madame van Erlevoort, with Otto and Eline, who wanted to make the
acquaintance of her fiancé’s relatives, had been to Zwolle for a day or
two, and the old lady was in raptures about the little van Stralenburg,
a baby plump and firm as any she had seen, with such a head of curly
dark hair. She was grateful to Otto for having pressed her to make the
journey to Zwolle; to the Horze she went every summer, and the trip to
her country seat was such an ordinary occurrence that she saw no
inconvenience in it at all; but any other removal from her home circle
pained her, as though she were tearing herself away from her dear ones
for ever. It was a luxury to her to be back once more in her roomy
house on the Voorhout, with its somewhat faded, old-fashioned
furniture, but full of comfort and ease. Eline thought the van
Stralenburgs most charming people: Suzanne, a darling little mother,
not pretty, at times rather careless in her dress, but so unaffected
and genial, so mad with her little boy, that it was a treat to behold
her; her husband, a good-natured, kindly fellow, but thoroughly spoilt
by his wife, who was constantly at his beck and call, and who ran up
and down the stairs for him, in a way that made Eline sometimes roar
with laughter. No, she would never be like that to Otto; he had better
be sure of that. But although she thus spoke laughingly to Otto, at the
bottom of her heart she felt it would be bliss indeed thus to devote
oneself entirely to one’s husband, as Suzanne devoted herself to van
Stralenburg; to exist but for him and be his faithful slave.

And then a charming picture of home life with Otto, of the life that
would be hers, would arise to her imagination, ever active, and ever in
want of vivid imagery, which even in the happiness of to-day could not
refrain from calling into being a yet happier future.

In this mood, which filled her soul with idylls, she saw in everything
but a reflection of that happiness, and the people with whom she
mingled all seemed to her genial and kindly, never giving themselves up
to bitter quarrelling, and living for each other, without a semblance
of egotism. Scenes with Betsy appeared never destined to recur, now
that she answered her sister’s sharp tone in a voice full of
gentleness, as though she was loth to desecrate her happiness by a
single discordant sound. A great calm came over her nerves, and she
herself could not refrain from wondering at her equable, cheerful
good-humour, quite undisturbed by the usual periodic attacks of
listless melancholy. No gray and black mists surrounded her; it was as
though she breathed a light atmosphere, full of brilliancy, fragrance,
and sparkle.

For a day or two after his talk with Vincent, Henk felt very ill at
ease. In his native kindliness he did not like to hurt any one’s
feelings, and he thought he had wounded Vere’s pride. After all, the
poor devil could not help it, that everything he undertook failed. So
Henk had called on Vincent, and four times he wanted to put the sum he
had asked of him in his hands; but Vincent refused to accept it, and
instead, in fact, had repaid Henk a considerable portion of what he
owed him. How he had managed to procure the money remained a puzzle to
Henk, as everything else about Vincent was a puzzle to him. At home,
Betsy reproached her husband with his want of tact in dealing with
Vere, and she, in her vague fear of that cousin, in whom she suspected
a latent power, which could at will crush her with all her strength of
mind, resolved at any price to make him forget her husband’s
brusquerie. Théodore had invited Eline to come and stay at the Horze,
and she was to go there towards the end of July together with the
Erlevoorts and the Howards, who were just now in the Hague, and remain
in Gelderland all through August. It would therefore, so Betsy thought,
be lonely in her big house on the Nassauplein; the idea of going out of
town with Henk did not much fascinate her; she would rather make a trip
to the South at the commencement of the winter, when Eline should be
married; and it was therefore as much from a longing after change, as
from diplomatic cordiality, that she invited Vincent to pitch his tent
with them during Eline’s absence. She made her request with the most
charming manner possible. She would miss Eline so terribly, she would
be so lonely, and Vincent could be so sociable, and chat so pleasantly
about his wanderings; so he must not refuse, he would be doing her an
immense favour. Vincent was overjoyed at the request, opening to him as
it did a prospect of peace and placid luxury. He would lead a life of
luxury without having to spend a cent, a month long! and a month of
rest seemed to him, in his wretched hand-to-mouth existence, a period
of bliss without end, an eternity of happiness. He therefore accepted
Betsy’s invitation with a secret gladness, outwardly however with a
certain condescension, as though wanting to show that he still felt
hurt at Henk’s refusal, and as though he were happy to give Betsy an
opportunity to make up for van Raat’s unfriendliness.



CHAPTER XVIII.


Lili was cross, very cross, her lips trembled, and the tears nearly
stood in her eyes.

“I really don’t see why he cannot be asked,” she answered Marie
pettishly. “He is a regular visitor here.”

“But, Lili, how can you be so foolish? Mamma asked him once or twice
this winter, and surely we are not quite so intimate with him that we
should invite him to accompany us into the country. When you begin to
ask strangers, there is always a sort of constraint.”

“But he is very sociable.”

“That’s true. He improves on further acquaintance, I must admit; but
still we don’t know him as we do Paul and Etienne.”

“Oh, they are nice boys! They do nothing all day long but lounge about
from the Witte to Linke, and from the Bordelaise to the Bodega, and
always with that wretched Vere. We don’t see them at all just now; Paul
occasionally condescends to call, and Etienne has now become quite a
myth. Ask Vere, if you like,” she concluded pettishly; “then you will
have the trio complete.”

Marie shrugged her shoulders.

“Now don’t be angry with me, Lili, because mamma won’t ask de Woude.
’Tis not my fault,” she answered softly.

“Oh no, not at all! But ’tis always so when I—when I have an idea. It’s
always pooh-pooh’d. I won’t bother about it any more. I don’t care a
rap for the whole party.”

She left the room, with difficulty repressing her tears, while Marie
took up her book with a sigh.

Madame Verstraeten had gone to sit down beside her husband in the
conservatory. She had overheard something of Lili’s short passionate
sentences, and a thought filled her that brought a reflection of
hesitation over her kindly face.

“What troubles you?” asked the old gentleman.

“Oh! it is about de Woude,” whispered Madame Verstraeten hesitatingly,
so as not to be understood by Marie. “Lili wants me to ask him for the
party, but——”

“Well, why not? I don’t dislike de Woude, although he is rather
foppish. He can be jolly enough with the girls——”

“But, Charles, really we must not encourage that. When I see him I am
always as polite as possible to him, but there’s no occasion for us to
encourage him, is there? of what use can that be? Lili is almost a
child yet, and gets her head full of fancies; but what—what can come of
this now?”

“But why must you all at once think they want to marry? For the present
it is only a question of inviting him.”

“Yes, yes, I know; but you never see them when they are together, as I
do. I wish you would come to Scheveningen once or twice.”

“No, thanks; I’m much obliged to you.”

“Then you would see for yourself. You can’t get him away from our
table. He is discreet enough not always to accept when I ask him to
come and have an ice; but he stays till we go, and scarcely says a word
to any of his acquaintances. With Marie he’ll just take a little walk,
pour acquit de conscience, and after that ’tis Lili here, and Lili
everywhere. So you understand I don’t see much good in it.”

“Do you think then that Lili——?”

“Of course, without question! Everybody talks about it too, and they
know it; but they don’t care, bless you! I don’t know—I really
don’t—what will come of it all,” said the old lady, and once more that
hesitating shadow stole over her face.

Mr. Verstraeten sat for a moment in contemplation: then he whispered
something to his wife, and for a long time they talked together in an
undertone.

Marie however could not get along with her reading, so she went
up-stairs to Lili. She found her sobbing, with her little head buried
in the pillows.

“Lili!” she cried softly.

Lili started when she heard Marie’s voice.

“Oh, leave me alone, do!” she cried impatiently.

But Marie took her hands and forced her to look up.

“Lili, how can you be so foolish?” she said, in her gently penetrating
tones. “You are making yourself miserable about nothing. In this way we
won’t be able to get along at all together, if you sit and brood like
that at every word that is said. Lili, come now.”

“Oh, do let me alone!”

“Do you think it so nice, then, to make yourself unhappy, and lie here
alone, crying? Why don’t you speak to me frankly? Isn’t it much better
to trust one another, and be open and straightforward?”

How gladly would she herself have spoken, and unbosomed herself to Lili
or to her mother! But no, she could not, there were some feelings that
were best hidden.

Lili raised herself a little, and from her tear-stained face she
brushed away the dishevelled hair with her hands.

“What would you have me say, then? You know all. There is nothing that
Georges can do finds any more favour in mamma’s eyes.”

“Come, you exaggerate. Both papa and mamma like him very much.”

“Oh yes; I know. But if it comes to showing him a little courtesy—And
you too——”

“What then?”

“Didn’t you say he was a stranger, who could not be asked?”

“If I had known that that would have caused you pain, I should have
said something else. Only I can’t bear to see you agitating yourself
about nothing, Lili. Why, you carry on as though your life were for
ever ruined, and all that because mamma thinks it better not to ask de
Woude.”

“Well, it isn’t very pleasant for me. I have—I have already spoken to
him about the picnic, and—of course he expects to be invited.”

“But why are you so hasty, then? ’Tisn’t very nice for mamma either,
when people begin to talk about you two. Only yesterday Madame Eekhof
asked——”

“What do we care about Madame Eekhof, if we like each other? If you
were to trouble yourself about everybody——”

An almost mocking smile formed about Marie’s mouth.

“Yes, Lili,” she answered with an underlying sadness, which however was
lost upon Lili, who heard only the laughing banter of her tone, “it’s
very terrible! You care for Georges, and Georges cares for you, and all
the world is against you—mamma, and Madame Eekhof, and everybody, eh?
’Tis sad, very sad, isn’t it? And I can quite understand how little
hope you have that it will ever be otherwise! How sad, how unfortunate
it is, to be sure!”

“Oh, Marie! how can you talk like that when you know—when you know it
pains me?”

“Yes; I am cruel, eh?” Marie resumed, but her smile grew gentler.
“Come, Lili, do cease crying now, and give me a kiss; forgive me for
what I said. Shall I have another try, and see if I can induce mamma to
change her mind?”

“Oh, do, there’s a good soul! Mamma will consent if you ask her.”

“Yes; no one refuses me, eh? With me all goes smoothly. ’Tis only
against you that everybody’s hand is raised. Poor, poor child!”

Lili laughed between her tears as she looked at Marie.

“Marie, how droll you are when you sermonize like that! It makes me
laugh, really.”

“All right, sissy, you laugh away; let us laugh as long as we may.
Well, good-bye; put your hair straight a little; I am going to mamma.”

She nodded to Lili and left the room, envying her sister who could
freely express what she felt, and as she was going down the stairs she
smiled a little sad smile when she thought of Lili’s grief and despair
about Georges. Her sister seemed to her as a child crying for its toys;
she could already see Lili’s little face, now so bitterly sorrowful,
beam with gladness, as it would do when she, Marie, should return to
her in half an hour.

Happy Lili! that she might weep so freely—that she might exclaim with
such exultation—“What do we care for Madame Eekhof, if we like each
other?”

They were bound for a farm-house, kept by a farmer with whom the
Verstraetens were well acquainted. The road taken lay along the
Loosduinschen Weg, and the passengers by the brake felt far from
comfortable in the sweltering rays of the mid-day sun, which poured its
fierce rays mercilessly down upon their heads. Madame Verstraeten and
Mathilde sat on a back seat, with Nico between them; Marie, Lili and
Frédérique, Paul, Etienne and Georges were their vis-à-vis, the front
bench being occupied by Tine and Lientje, and the little cousins
Verstraeten; Johan and little Cateau van der Stoor sat on the box. It
would be a cosy little party, entirely among themselves, without the
presence of strangers, who would only have interfered with their
freedom. Marie was taking handfuls of cherries from a big basket and
distributing them all round, and Etienne, between his mouthfuls, was
relating how Marguerite van Laren had declared that a brake was a
plebeian conveyance.

“When the van Larens go to a picnic they always go in court carriages,
I suppose, with powdered footmen!” said Georges.

“In toilettes à la Watteau, and leading little lambs attached to pink
ribbons,” added Lili, and they smiled at each other.

Every one laughed, and they felt in a very good humour, the girls in
their simple cotton frocks, the young men in their light summer suits
and straw hats.

“Cateau, will you have some cherries?” asked Marie, and a handful went
across to Cateau. “There you are, divide with Jan.”

“Oh, I shall get my share,” cried Jan, in his loud voice. “Toos, shall
I show you a little trick?”

“What sort of trick?” asked Toos.

“Look, you see those two cherries, don’t you? Now then, put that one in
your mouth; that’s right.”

“Well, and what then?” asked Toos, doing as she was asked.

“Then I shall take the other, do you see? There!” continued the rascal,
and opened his mouth for the second cherry with a smacking kiss on
Cateau’s lips.

“I say, Jan!” said Madame Verstraeten indignantly.

“That Cateau! what a stupid girl!” cried Freddie laughing.

“I didn’t know what he was going to do,” declared Cateau; “that
wretched boy!”

“Come, Toos, nonsense, you knew all about it!” teased Paul.

Cateau was in despair because Paul refused to believe her.

And the brake rattled on along meadows full of fat grazing cattle,
their hides of black and white glossy as satin, while the willows along
the edges of the ditches waved their fans of silver-gray foliage from
the summits of their gnarled stems.

“I think a willow is such a melancholy tree, don’t you, Georges?” asked
Lili.

“Oh, Lili is getting poetic!” cried Etienne. “Come, Lili, an ode to the
willow.”

“It seems I can’t say a thing but you must all laugh at me,” answered
Lili pouting. “I must be very ridiculous?”

And they continued to tease her, whilst the cherries rained thick and
fast in everybody’s lap, amid general laughter. The road grew hilly,
whilst in the distance the duny heights arose. Here and there was a
villa, hidden amid the foliage, or a farm-house, with fields of turnips
and cauliflowers, and rows of climbing beans, or a little garden full
of sunflowers, geraniums, and tuberoses. A washerwoman busily wringing
clothes by the side of a ditch raised herself up and smiled, and two
peasant children ran behind the carriage to catch the cherries which
Jan and Cateau threw to them.

The road undulated between yellow fields of oats and flax, bespeckled
with the blue and red of corn-flowers and wild peas, until at length
the farm-house was reached. The farmer’s wife appeared at the gate with
a kindly smile, and from all sides they sprang from the brake, while
Madame Verstraeten and Mathilde lifted down an array of boxes, baskets,
and hampers. The driver got down from the box and led his steaming
horses to the stable. Jan Verstraeten, little Cateau, and the young van
Ryssels soon took possession of the two swings. Jan had promised Madame
van Ryssel that he would be careful, and Cateau would look after Nico.

“They are just like a married couple with their offspring!” laughed
Marie, as she followed them with her eyes.

“I’ll drive them all away from the swing in a moment; I want to swing
as well,” cried Etienne noisily, intoxicated with the sun and the fresh
air. “Lili, will you have a swing with me presently?—at least, if de
Woude does not mind,” he whispered, with longing eyes.

“De Woude has nothing to say about me. But I don’t care for swinging,
it gives me a headache, thanks.”

“I am madly fond of it, Eetje,” cried Marie; “I shall be ready in a
moment; but high, very high, do you hear? Up to the clouds.”

“Come, let us go and look for a nice little spot, a little further on
the dunes,” said Paul.

“Oh, of course; Paul is thinking of his comfort again. But the dunes
are very hot, Paully,” said Freddie.

“No; there are trees, oaks I think, the other side of the pavilion.”

“Right away, then. It really is too hot to bustle about much. I am of
Paul’s opinion; I like a lazy picnic: lounging in the shade and
watching the clouds overhead,” lisped Lili.

“Lili always manages to unite the languorous with the poetical,”
laughed her sister. “In Heaven’s name, de Woude, propose something. We
are all chattering at once, and you—you say nothing.”

Georges laughed, and they went, picking their way through the
overhanging foliage, and pushing back the leafy branches, which again
closed behind them with a rustling sound. Lili started, frightened at a
spider which hovered over her attached to its silvery thread, and when
de Woude brushed away the insect they became the objects of general
teasing: she, as the timid maiden; he, as a brave knight, slaying the
dragons that surrounded her.

“But what have we done, that you are always down upon us?” cried
Georges.

“Oh, Georges, don’t you trouble yourself about it,” said Lili. “They
think they are very witty. Oh, Paul, how you let us clamber along in
this heat. ’Tis quite a journey to that pretty spot of yours. And those
tiresome branches too. Ooh!”

She glanced, pouting, at her finger, which had received a scratch from
a thorn.

“Let me walk in front of you,” whispered Georges, and he said it so
softly and glided so deftly in front of her that the others, amid their
laughter at Lili’s mishap, did not notice it. The two dropped behind a
little, and Lili smilingly followed after him, while Georges held back
the branches until they could no longer touch her face.

“Let them laugh! You don’t care, do you?” he asked, entirely absorbed
in his happiness.

“Not a bit,” she answered calmly, shaking her little fair head under
the big hat, while a mocking smile formed about her mouth. “We can
laugh at them now. Who is that shrieking?”

“Etienne, of course,” said Georges.

Paul and Etienne had come upon a grassy spot beneath the chestnut
trees, from which a small panorama could be seen: some meadow-land,
interspersed by the straight lines of the ditches, sparkling under the
bright sky, and here and there a cow. In the distance a little
windmill, and beyond it a border of poplars, stately and slender.

Lili and Georges approached, and found the others in rapture.

“It’s glorious here,” said Paul. “Cool moss to lie on, and a fine
view.”

They all agreed that it was a pleasant spot, and sat down on the
ground, tired with their reconnoitring. They removed their hats, which,
together with the lace or red parasols of the girls, soon covered the
dark greensward with glowing colour, whilst here and there a stray
sunbeam, penetrating through the foliage, threw a myriad of glittering,
dancing dust-particles across the light cotton of their frocks, and the
yellow and brown shades of their hair.

“It isn’t so very shady here, after all. At all events I am quite in
the sun,” said Lili, hiding herself in the rosy shade of her
en-tout-cas, and she cast an indignant glance on Paul, who had a very
shady place, and was lying full length on the ground, his head cosily
hidden in a handkerchief.

“Hush, Lili, don’t talk; go to sleep,” he whispered, with closed eyes.

“You are very entertaining; you sleep on then. But I am scorching
here.”

“Shall we go and look for a better spot, Lili?” said Georges.

“Yes, do; that’s a good idea,” thought Paul.

“And just whistle when you have found one,” said Etienne.

Georges promised he would. They rose, after which Lili, leaning on him,
descended the dune.

“That Lili is always so fussy,” yawned Paul, in his handkerchief.

But his laziness was too much for Etienne, who pulled him down the
hillock by his legs, to the great amusement of the girls.

It was very warm, however, and they could not help it—they too began to
feel lazy. They would walk about after lunch. When peace had been
restored between Paul and Etienne, Frédérique laid her head on Eetje’s
knees, whilst he tickled her ears with a straw; Paul was half asleep,
languid with heat and comfort, and Marie sat staring contemplatively,
with a suggestion of sadness about her mouth, at the meadows and the
ditches and the grazing cattle.

The path along which Georges and Lili descended was a very easy one.
She floated down, as it were, her hands clasping his shoulder, and he
hurried at a quick pace. Quicker and quicker he went; and she laughed
lightly; it was as though she were endowed with wings.

“How stupid of them to stay there under that burning sun! Look, over
yonder, under those trees.”

“Those chestnuts?”

“Yes; shall we try?”

“Yes.”

They clambered up, he assisting her, and penetrated through on to the
wooded hillocks. It was delightfully cool and shady there, whilst just
a few paces off the sun was scorching.

“Oh! isn’t it pretty here?” cried Lili. “And look, violets!”

She sat down on the mossy sand, and picked the flowers. And he lay down
at her feet, too happy to say much, and played with the red tassels of
her parasol.

“Come, now, you must whistle, Georges, as a signal for the others to
come,” she said archly, knowing full well that he would not.

“I can’t whistle, I never could,” he answered, and looked at her
laughing.

She laughed too, and threw her violets in his face. He gathered them
up, and placed them in his button-hole. Then he took her hand, and
looked in her face.

“Do you like me?” he asked, his eyes fixed on hers. She laid her little
white hands on his shoulders, and looking him straight in the face,
slowly bent her head.

“What?” he asked, full of tenderness. “Do you like me?” he repeated,
and she bent down, so that his lips touched the little locks on her
forehead, and kissed them.

“Yes,” she said, and she let her head rest against his face. “Yes, I
like you.”

Thus they remained for a while, whilst he, in his uncomfortable
posture, enjoyed the weight of the little head on his face. But when
she raised herself, and once more smilingly looked at him, he
approached closer to her side, and laid her arm round his neck.

“Do you know, Emilie——” he commenced.

“What?” she asked.

“Emilie has been speaking to my father; mightn’t she come and speak
with your parents?”

“Yes,” she answered, with a beaming smile. “But I don’t know—I don’t
think——”

“Emilie knows how to talk.”

“You are very fond of her, eh?”

“Yes—and of you too.”

She pressed his head closer in the soft bend of her arm and gave him a
kiss on his forehead—her first!

And the odour of the moss and the violets became mingled together into
a fragrant sigh, whose sweetness made her feel faint, whilst her little
hand closed caressingly, and disarranged his light-brown hair. She
listened, still with that same happy smile, to his soft voice, as he
was telling her of the conversation he had had with his sister, before
he knew whether Lili would ever care for him. For a time he had
certainly felt anxious; now, however, the whole world seemed to him one
smiling landscape.

“Emilie thought you would not have a poor husband. Won’t you have a
poor husband?”

“Are you poor?”

“Well, I am not rich.”

“All right, then I will have a poor husband. I can be so economical.
Sometimes I make a month’s dress money last me for three months. And
don’t I always look neat?”

“Charming.”

“But I don’t believe you are very economical. I think you have a great
many more wants than I.”

“I shall have no wants, when I have you. You will be all to me.”

“Does Emilie care for me?”

“Rather! she shall be our little mother. And you will accompany me
everywhere? To Cairo? To Constantinople? To the Cape?”

“To Lapland if you like—everywhere.”

“My own little woman.”

He clasped her close to his bosom and kissed her. It was as though the
world vanished from them and left them alone in paradise. It seemed to
them as though no other couple had ever loved so fondly, as though
there had never been any love but theirs.



“Mamma wants to know if you are coming to lunch?” cried Johan van
Ryssel to the four, lying sunning themselves yonder. “You lazy people!
hallo! you are all asleep, I believe.”

And he clambered towards them and fought with Paul, whose big limbs,
stretched at their full length, irritated him. Frédérique and Etienne
raised themselves up, and admitted being hungry.

“Through doing nothing, I suppose?” cried Jan, who came to call them
too. “We have been swinging and riding in the donkey-cart and climbing
a haystack, and you—you can do nothing but doze.”

“Hush! more respect for age, please,” said Marie with dignity.

They all descended the path along which they had come, again struggling
with the overhanging branches that barred their passage, when they
heard a whistling behind them. On turning round they caught sight of
Georges and Lili, full of mysterious gaiety.

“We have found a nice little spot, very cool!” said Georges ironically.

“Oh, so cool!” repeated Lili.

At that they became the butt of indignant glances, and so they wisely
lagged behind a little; still they took good care to be in time to join
the others at the lunch-table.

Madame Verstraeten and Mathilde had been very busy, notwithstanding the
heat. On the coarse white table-cloth there arose heaps of little
rolls, together with dishes full of cherries and strawberries, and a
big basin of cream between two golden tulbands. [2] Sixteen chairs were
ranged around the table, and the little van Ryssels, flushed with the
heat, tired after running, with sparkling eyes and moist hair, looked
at it all with longing. Nico was already seated at table rattling his
fork against his glass, and all now sat down, and Madame Verstraeten
and Mathilde were soon busy handing round the different things.

“De Woude, take what you like,” said Madame Verstraeten, and soon the
spot resounded with noisy laughter, whilst the rolls and the tulbands
disappeared as if by magic, and the fowls were running about nervously
round the table, keeping close to Nico, who to Mathilde’s despair
offered them immense slices of bread. Jan in the meantime found a fresh
cause to reproach the three young men with their laziness.

Behind the farmhouse there was a broad stream, and a little boat lay
moored alongside. Jan and Cateau wanted to disport themselves in it,
but Madame Verstraeten would not permit them, unless some one older
than they accompanied them. So after lunch they stormed up to Paul and
Etienne, who were to row them; Jan promised to be a good steersman.

“Do you think Georges and Lili are safe together?” asked Paul, as he
pushed off the boat from the shore with his scull. “Come, Etienne, keep
time.”

“Where are they? Oh, look, there they go, behind that hedge!” cried
Frédérique. “Marie, fancy you as elder sister allowing such a thing.”

Marie laughed kindly.

“Oh, let them be happy,” she answered simply.

Etienne made himself very busy, just to hide his want of skill as an
oarsman, whilst he made the strongest possible movements with his oar.
Paul grew more desperate every moment.

“I say, Etienne, you don’t know anything about it; for heaven’s sake
don’t splash like that.”

A shower of spray fell upon them.

“You are soaking me,” said Frédérique indignantly.

“Go along, do you think I can’t row?”

Cateau and Jan laughed at Etienne, and he carried on in such a
ridiculous way, that Toosje at last summed up courage to ask Paul to
let her have a row; for she looked upon Mr. van Raat as the captain.
Etienne, in spite of his boisterous remonstrances, which nearly caused
the boat to capsize, was removed from his seat, and Cateau set herself
down triumphantly beside Paul, full of eagerness to keep time with him
in the lifting and dropping of her oar, which she clasped, without fear
of blisters, closely in her hands. And she enjoyed it when their
sculls, as if moved by one power, feathered in light and measured
stroke over the greenish water.

“Splendid, Cateau; you understand it!” said Marie. “Jan, just steer
across to those lilies.”

Jan steered, and the little boat glided slowly to a pool coated with
duckweed, upon which the white cups of the water-lilies floated amid a
wealth of flat, glossy green leaves. Marie bent forward, grasped a lily
by its tough slimy stalk, and tugged and tugged until she pulled the
flower out of the duckweed.

“Over there, look, there are a lot,” cried Jan, pointing to the other
side.

And they glided on between overhanging willows, their silver-leafed
branches bending over the water, and a long line of meadow-land, and
Marie mechanically pulled the muddy flowers out of the water. She no
longer heard the laughter of the others; how little Cateau and Etienne
were having a lively dispute as to in what fashion an oar was to be
handled. She continued, without fear of soiling herself with the mud,
wrenching out the flowers, whose stalks she cast at her feet, like so
many slippery eels; she wrenched and wrenched so hard that the stalks
nearly bruised her hands. Thus too one could wrench a thought from
one’s mind, though the heart bled from it.



The young van Ryssels, whom Mathilde did not trust in the boat while
Etienne was in it, again consoled themselves with their swing. Tina
pushed Nico, who was sitting very dignified, to and fro, whilst Johan,
with Lientje sitting between his legs, disported himself on the second
swing. But now approached Marie and Etienne, and when Nico was tired of
his dignified attitude they both clambered on to the plank.

“High, Eetje, very high!” cried Marie.

Etienne, with his feet firmly placed against the plank, soon sent the
swing forward.

“Ah! I see you are a better hand at swinging than at rowing,” cried
Marie.

She too pushed the swing forward, and it swung higher and higher,
whilst her dress fluttered in the wind, her hat blew off, and a few
hairs dangled about her face. She took a deep breath, as high up in the
air she hung over Etienne almost horizontally, and swayed up and down.
She felt a sensation as if an unfathomable abyss yawned beneath her,
and as if she rose higher and higher into the blue sky, borne upward on
the wings of a great bird. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, and
she fain would have let go the ropes, and in a desperate flight plunged
herself into space.

Then she caught sight of the four children below, who were staring in
open-mouthed and envious wonder at the “big folk” who were allowed to
swing so high, and she wanted to call them, but her tongue refused to
utter a sound. Etienne was as if intoxicated, and higher, still higher,
swung the plank.

“Etienne—enough—enough, Etienne!” murmured Marie, and she closed her
eyes.

And she felt quite dazed when the great bird slowly slackened the speed
of its flight, and at last ceased altogether. She tottered when she was
on terra firma once more.

Etienne picked up her hat.

“A glorious swing, wasn’t it, eh?” he cried, out of breath.

Marie nodded smilingly, and with a gasp and a sigh brushed the
dishevelled hair from her face. And when Etienne took to his legs and
ran, shouting to his little cousins that they could not catch him, and
when the young van Ryssels ran after him, Nico last of all, waddling
along on his fat little legs—then Marie, on the grass by the side of
the swing, burst into tears. She thought of Lili and Georges, how happy
those two had been, whilst she, Marie, had sat gazing at the meadows
and the cows until stars shimmered before her eyes; and how happy they,
Georges and Lili, had been, while she had been wrenching the lilies out
of the water—hard, very hard, with all her might.



CHAPTER XIX.


“Eline, Eline!” was shouted from the garden. Eline sprang out of bed in
a fright, on finding it was half-past seven. At the Horze the breakfast
hour was eight, and so she hurried with her toilette. Half dressed she
walked to the open window, and looked out. There were Théodore’s two
eldest girls, Marianne and Henriette, sixteen and fourteen years old.

“Good morning!” Eline said cheerily.

“What, are you up already? Well, that’s quick, I am sure! Are you
coming down soon?”

“Yes; I shall be ready in a moment.”

“Morning, Eline!” she heard a new voice shouting. Eline looked out and
caught sight of Gustave, a good-looking little fellow of ten, with a
pair of saucy blue eyes, a regular street arab, with ever-dirty hands,
and comical as a young clown.

“Morning, Gus,” she cried.

“I say, Eline, you know what you promised me?”

“No.”

“You will marry me, and not Uncle Otto, eh? You have promised me, you
know.”

“Yes; all right, Gus. But I must make haste and dress, or I shall never
be ready!” cried Eline, again busy with her hair in front of the glass.

She could hear the bustle in the garden increase every moment, and it
made her nervous. Her fine eyes were still rather small, her fringy
curls did not fall as she wanted them. Again from out of the garden,
full of sunlight and shadow, a cheery hum of voices ascended, among
which she could distinguish Théodore’s big voice, as well as the lusty
shouts of the little van Ryssels.

“Eline, Eline!” again came from many, many voices.

“Yes, yes; I am coming!” Eline shouted back almost impatiently, and she
buckled her belt and rushed out of her room, through the long corridor,
sombre in its brown oak panelling, down the broad stairs, and out of
the hall.

In the garden Cathérine Howard was walking with Otto, her brother. She
was not pretty, but she had a pleasant cheerful face, and she was
almost as lively in her movements as Etienne.

“Oh, Otto, I can well understand it,” she said affectionately, as she
hung on his arm. “I think she is a dot of a girl. From Freddie’s and
Mathilde’s letters I expected to see something of a coquette, because I
really didn’t much remember, it’s so long since I saw her, and then it
was only for a moment or two at a time, when she was living with that
old aunt—a widow, a Madame Vere, I believe, was it not?”

“Yes,” said Otto.

“But now, on closer acquaintance, I think she is a darling. There is
something so winning and frank about her way of speaking, something
very simple and unaffected, and yet distingué. And she is a little
doll, really very pretty.”

“Do you think so?” said Otto.

“I should think so. You may well be proud of her; it isn’t every one
who can get such a wifie as that. Ah, there goes the bell! they are
always early birds here.”

They walked towards the open room, which looked on to the garden, and
entered. Old Madame van Erlevoort was already seated at the long
breakfast-table, and gave a smiling nod to her son and daughter. Eline
stood talking to Théodore, who reminded her neither of Otto nor of
Etienne, as he stood there sturdy and broad-shouldered before her, with
his well-set powerful frame, and his short full beard; but in his loud
cheery heavy voice there sounded the native, healthy good-nature of the
Erlevoorts.

His wife, the young Madame van Erlevoort, or Truus as he called her,
was still occupied, with the assistance of Mathilde and Frédérique, in
making a few more preparations for the meal. Miss Frantzen set the
little van Ryssels on their chairs, and fastened their napkins about
their throats. Etienne came in from the garden with Cor, Théodore’s
eighteen-year-old son, who was a midshipman, and was now staying at the
Horze on furlough. They were followed by the girls and the boys, Willy
and Gustave, full of jokes and fun at the expense of their English
uncle Howard, whom they did not understand, and whom they were to teach
Dutch.

“Good morning, Nily!” said Otto, approaching Eline.

“Good morning, Otto!” answered Eline, and she offered him her hand, and
they whispered something together. She felt herself very happy in the
new charm which a busy family life had opened up to her. To her, who as
a child had had no one but her sister for a playmate, and whose early
girlhood was half dreamed away in the depressing surroundings of her
aged aunt’s home, it was a newly-revealed happiness to be in the midst
of such a joyous stir, and she began to view life from another
standpoint than she had done while she was yet under the glamour of
soirées and balls at the Hague. Every one was cheerful and pleasant,
even Frédérique; the children she allowed to clamber on to her shoulder
at their sweet will, freely letting them caress and fondle her with
their greasy little fingers, without the least fear for her dress or
her head-gear. She was in love with Tina, the dainty little miss, whom
Eline’s charm of manner irresistibly attracted, as it had once
attracted Cateau van der Stoor, and at table Eline’s seat was always
between Otto and Tina. Old Madame van Erlevoort sat between her two
youngest grandchildren, Edmée and Kitty Howard, the only child of her
English son-in-law, and when she glanced along the table beaming with
youthful gaiety, it seemed to her as though there could be no one in
the wide world happier than she, with her gray hair and her youthful
heart.

After breakfast Théodore proposed a trip to the so-called “big tree,”
for he declared that of the many big trees of Gelderland the one at the
Horze was the biggest. Howard, Etienne, and Cor were to accompany him;
Eline and Otto with the children joined them; even Edmée and Kitty,
under the care of the three girls, stormed the covered cart that was
ready to convey them.

In the breakfast-room an Atlantic gale seemed to have raged. The table
was a chaos of plates and glasses, the floor was bestrewn with
serviettes, in the midst of which lay Tina’s hat, a spade of Nico’s,
and a ball of Edmée’s.

“Isn’t it rather too noisy for you, mamma?” asked Truus, taking the
hand of Madame van Erlevoort—who was still seated at the disordered
breakfast-table—in hers. “Really the children make such a fearful din,
that it seems quite a relief when they are gone.”

“Come,” said the old lady, “you ought to be ashamed to talk like that.”

“My four youngsters often nearly drive me to despair too,” remarked
Mathilde; “but with the exception of Cor, who is gradually growing a
little more staid, yours seem to take the palm for noisy young
scapegraces.”

“Don’t you trouble yourself about me, Truus,” said the old lady. “All
through the winter I long for the summer to come, when I can go to the
Horze, and it does me good to be with you all. And I think it very nice
of you that you have asked Eline.”

“Next year, when they are married, I have already asked them to come to
London during the season,” remarked Cathérine. “I like her very much.”

Young Madame van Erlevoort looked rather thoughtful as she folded up a
serviette.

“And you, Truus,” asked her mother-in-law, who observed it, “you like
her too, don’t you?”

“What shall I say, mamma? I know so little of her. I think it very nice
of her that she adapts herself so entirely to our ways and habits, so
that I have no occasion to stand upon ceremony, as with a stranger; I
haven’t the time for that. So I do think it nice of her. But you are
aware I don’t at once go into raptures about people.”

“That sounds too diplomatic to please me, child. As for me, I either
like a person or I don’t.”

“Oh, you must not think I mean more than I say. I have only known Eline
a week; she has made a favourable impression upon me, I think her very
charming, but I don’t yet quite know whether I actually feel for her or
not.”

It was on Mathilde’s lips to say that she, who had known Eline for
years, was not quite certain of that either, but she said nothing.

“And then again—but you must not be vexed, mamma, will you, now that we
are on the subject?”

“No, no, child.”

“You see, I can’t help thinking there’s something in Eline as if she
will never feel herself at home among our family. She adapts herself to
us, as I said, but I am not so sure that it comes quite from her heart.
I don’t cause you pain with what I say, do I? There is nothing I should
like better than to find that I was mistaken in Eline, and when I know
a little more of her—eh, mamma?”

She hesitated to say it right out; she did not care for Eline. She was
a sturdy sensible woman and a good mother, ruling over her little
kingdom with loving care and prudence, who, whilst ever friendly and
cheerful, was also determined and firm, and made her will pass as law.
In the firmness of her character she generally came forward straight
with her meaning, but this time she knew that, as Otto’s intended wife,
mamma already looked upon Eline as one of the family; she had noticed
that Eline could with a single loving word or a single caress touch the
old lady, and she did not like to pain mamma in her son’s intended. But
in their rural atmosphere—that she could not deny—Eline introduced a
discord, as of something artificial, something unreal, and this
irritated Truus. She could not know that Eline was perhaps more herself
at the Horze than she had ever been elsewhere, that indeed she felt
happy there in the simple family life, that she felt as though a new, a
purer, and a fresher life had fallen to her share; she could not
penetrate Eline’s inner thoughts, she could but see on the surface; she
saw not the sweet calm of those nerves, so long overstrung in a life of
excessive culture and luxury; she saw only the native worldliness
glimmering through a veil of affected simplicity, and this irritated
her, as the big blue silk sash on Eline’s print dress irritated her.

Cathérine Howard was all indignation. How was it possible that Truus
could say such a thing? it was certainly not very becoming to an
intended sister. And she galloped along about Eline with almost
childish ecstasy, in such affectionate words, that the old lady,
disconcerted at her daughter-in-law’s ideas, soon again beamed with
pleasure.

“No; really, Truus, I can’t make you out. I on the contrary admire
Eline, because, stranger as she is among our family, she so quickly
made herself at home. I can assure you that when I came to London with
Howard—I did not know his family at all, that’s true—but I must say I
felt a little bit like a fish out of water among them, cordial though
they all were. But Eline—dear me! why ’tis as if I have always known
her; she is so easy, so accommodating, you have no trouble with her
whatever. No; I really can’t understand that you can even imagine that
she will not feel herself at home amongst us; I can’t say it’s very
nice of you, I am sure.”

Truus laughed at Cathérine’s indignation, and excused herself as well
as she could, and as the servant was coming in to clear the table, the
old lady with Mathilde and Cathérine went up-stairs, and sat down in
the roomy, well-shaded balcony, while Truus remained invisible for the
rest of the morning, absorbed in her domestic duties.



The cart was already long out of sight. Théodore, Howard, Etienne, and
Cor walked in front, and Otto and Eline followed, under the shadow of
her big lace parasol.

The conversation of the four men was a mixture of English and Dutch;
Howard declared he could understand the latter, and was even able to
speak a word or two, while Théodore was continually coming to grief
with his English in his explanations about tenants and lands. Some
labourers in their Sunday clothes passed by with a respectful salute.

The road lay bathed in sunshine between the glowing gold of rye and
oats, and not a breath of wind stirred the stalks. Beyond, white and
red, gleamed the blossoming buckwheat. In the distance arose a
farm-house from between a group of trees, with a line of smoke rising
like a faint gray plume against the blue of the sky.

“I suppose you feel yourself here like a king in your own country?”
said Howard.

“Oh no!” answered Théodore. “I feel myself more peasant than king. But
look round a moment; there, right across the garden, there’s our
palace.”

They turned round and stood still, so that Otto and Eline soon overtook
them. Through a break in the dense foliage the Horze could be seen in
the distance, white as milk, with its little shutters and slender white
turrets, the big vine-clad balconies relieving the white monotony with
leafy intervals. The lake lay as a round mirror in the midst of the
fresh greensward, bespeckled with a white fluttering flight of pigeons.

“What a very pretty view!” said Eline, enraptured. “But see, who is
that waving to us?”

“Oh, I suppose it’s grandma and the aunts,” cried Cor.

They noticed in the shadow of a balcony a number of dark outlined
figures, who appeared to be waving handkerchiefs, and they all returned
the signal, whilst Etienne shouted “Hurrah.”

“Come, let us make haste now,” said Théodore, “or we shall never get as
far as the big tree.”

Eline spoke English fairly well, and with her Howard got on the best.
He engaged her in a lively conversation, whilst Eline on Otto’s arm, in
the shade of her parasol, which he held, laughingly replied to him. And
Eline herself wondered how it was that without the least effort she
made an agreeable impression upon every man with whom she came in
contact, whilst the sympathies of those of her own sex she could only
succeed in enlisting by dint of exercising all the arts of her loving
affection.

Through her conversation, full of cheerful banter, the thought flashed
like lightning—Madame van Erlevoort cared for her only on account of
Otto; Cathérine liked her out of light-heartedness, but their sympathy
was not firmly rooted in affection; with old Madame van Raat, with
little Cateau, with Tina, it was otherwise. And with a smile she leant
heavier on Otto; what cared she for all of them? his love well repaid
her for what she missed in others, his love was her wealth, and for the
sympathy of others she cared nothing.

To the big tree it was a good half-hour’s walk. The road bent through
the golden corn-fields, along hedges pink with blossom, by the side of
hilly pine-copses, fragrant with pungent odours, whose dark, sombre
foliage afforded a grateful shade from the brilliant sun-rays.

Suddenly, at a bend of the road, the little village of Horze was
revealed as a surprise to the eyes of the party; a few cottages, a
baker’s shop, a minister’s house, an inn, some stables, all scattered
around a little church; and Eline glanced round wonderingly—she did not
see the village, she said.

“But here it is—there—that is the village,” said Otto.

“What! That house and a half?” asked Eline, her eyes big with surprise.

They all laughed, and Etienne asked her if she had expected to find a
sort of Nice or Biarritz.

“At least something like Scheveningen, with a Kurhaus—eh, Elly? I say,
Elly, do you know the difference yet between rye and oats?”

“Not quite. Buckwheat I know when I see it—flax I know, very light
yellow—and potato-fields I know. But rye and oats and barley, no; of
them I know nothing whatever. Don’t worry me about them, Etienne! But,
Théodore, is this indeed Horze? Are you really lord and master of
these—one, two, three, four barns?”

And she roared with laughter under the broad brim of her big straw hat;
and they all laughed at Eline’s innocent surprise, although Théodore
felt a little hurt.

Eline, however, quickly regretted her jest, which she felt was not
quite in harmony, and she declared that it was full of picturesque
spots, a little house like that with a cluster of trees, very pretty,
really.

“And the big tree, where is the big tree?” asked Eline.

They passed through the village, between the pecking fowls, which
scampered away frightened, while the blacksmith and a couple of
farmers, to each of whom Théodore addressed a few words, heartily
greeted their landlord, remaining for a while staring after his guests.
They crossed over a meadow, and Théodore shouted to a boy to hold a cow
close by them, as Eline was afraid of the huge, fat beast, with its
big, staring eyes and chewing mouth.

“Etienne, Cor—do leave off, Cor!” she cried, on Otto’s arm, to Etienne
and Cor, who, to frighten the cow, set up a melancholy boo! boo!

“You see, Eline, that’s because you laughed at Horze,” cried Théodore
in his big bass, but she looked at him laughingly and so softly between
her half-closed lashes, that he was quite disarmed, and asked Etienne
and Cor to stop their silly noise. At the end of the meadow stood the
big tree, an oak with a colossal stem, tall and powerful as a giant.
Frédérique, Marianne, Henriette, and the children had already ensconced
themselves between its spreading roots. Howard and Eline were urged on
all sides to give vent to their admiration for the tree. Eline mustered
forth a few words, such as colossal, immense; but Théodore noticed from
the mocking little smile that played on her features, that the oak had
made no impression whatever upon her, and he held up his finger to her
threateningly, until she burst out in a peal of laughter, which was
renewed when Howard, in a very serious tone, declared—

“A big tree, indeed! I never saw such a big one! Quite interesting!”

“Wait, I shall give it to you!” cried Théodore, and he ran after Eline,
who fled shrieking with laughter until she fell down panting for breath
on the grass, and holding out her hands, cried—

“Théodore, leave off, do you hear? I shall call Otto!”

“I’ll show you! you naughty girl! Call Otto if you like. I’ll show
you!” and he grasped her wrists and shook her in fun, whilst she acted
as if he hurt her terribly. Then he assisted her to rise, and she
promised, still laughing, not again to show so little appreciation of
the beauties of nature.

The children with their English uncle were standing hand in hand, and
trying to measure the tree.

“Absurd of Théodore to run after Eline like that,” muttered Frédérique,
and Etienne overheard her.

“I say, you are getting tiresome,” he cried. “Why, you can’t bear a
joke any longer.”

By the side of the little church there was a hilly pine wood. There
Eline sat down on the moss, and rested her head on her hand. Otto sat
beside her. They could just hear the faint tinkling of a distant bell.
It was church time. Some country people in glossy broadcloth and
shining silk aprons were walking, prayer-book in hand, along the road,
and Eline with her eyes followed them, themselves scarcely visible
behind the close-standing stems. The scattered church-goers were few in
number; a few—late-comers—followed hurriedly, and all was quiet under
the peaceful influence of a rustic Sunday rest. In the distance was
heard the bleating of a goat.

It is true Eline had imagined the Horze more grandiose and luxurious,
and the very simple life that was led at the country house made her
smile at times when she called to mind Ouida’s English castles, full of
dukes and princes, such as those in which she had her abode during her
watch at Aunt Vere’s sick-bed. It was certainly very different, that
splendour of an ideal aristocracy, and this simplicity of a well-to-do
but necessarily frugal aristocracy, and yet she would not have
exchanged her present circumstances for anything, and she talked
smilingly to Otto about Ouida and the English castles, and declared she
gave the preference to the Horze, as she preferred him, her poor
country squire, to the wealthy Scotch duke, after the type of an
Erceldoune or a Strathmore, such as she used to dream about formerly.

Yes; Eline felt her happiness growing greater and greater in that
peaceful solitude beneath the dark pine leaves, whilst Otto’s voice,
deep and full, sounded in her ears. He told her how he could not yet
understand that she was his for ever, and that ere long they should be
as one; and he told her that she had but one fault—that she misjudged
herself. He, yes, he knew her as she really was; he told her that there
were latent treasures hidden within her, and that it would be his
privilege to try and bring them to light. In the fullness of her
happiness she became frank and outspoken, even to herself, as she never
had been; she looked at him almost pityingly, and answered that he
would yet discover in her much that was bad, when he knew her better.
No, indeed, he did not thoroughly know her, although he thought so.
There was so much going on in one’s heart that one could not always
disclose; at least, so it was in her case, and she must confess that
her thoughts were not always of the best, neither was she always so
even-tempered as she appeared to be whenever he saw her. She could be
peevish, and nervous, and melancholy without real cause; but certainly
for his sake she would endeavour to transform herself into something
like the image he had formed of her for himself; but what an idealist
he was! She felt herself pure and good in that confession; she knew now
that she could freely reveal to him thoughts which she would not always
have confessed to herself; neither was she any more in fear of losing
him through some careless word; she saw how he loved her, and how she
must be dearest to him in the moments when she spoke to him about
herself in that simple way, and often it seemed to her as though he was
her conscience, to which she could say all that a girl might say. And
the more she depreciated herself in those moments of sincerity, the
more he adored her, the more he thought he could read her very soul
beneath that glamour of beauty and grace.

They heard the hymns of the peasantry proceeding from the church, like
a deep, broad stream of simple piety, and in their present mood that
unskilled flood of song seemed full of a poetry that mingled with the
poetry of the dark tints of the foliage, with the fragrance of the pine
wood, with the love that was in their hearts. And Eline felt her heart
swell, and she raised herself up a little, and resting her curly little
head on his bosom, she could not keep herself from twining her arms
around his neck, and when she felt herself thus leaning against him
with her bosom on his heart a sudden sob shook her.

“Eline, dearest, what—what is the matter?” he softly asked.

“Nothing,” she answered, nearly dying in the exquisite ecstasy of her
love and her great happiness; “nothing; let me be—I am so—so happy!”

And she lay weeping in his arms.



At the Horze the hours of rising and bedtime were early, and the days
fled by. The life there, with the exception of a few rainy days, was
almost exclusively an open-air life. Their cheeks and their little
hands were sunburnt, and they began to look like little negroes, the
young van Ryssels, the two boys, Willy and Gustave, and Edmée and Kitty
Howard. Among the pigeons which fluttered from their house over the
lake they fluttered round, sometimes anxiously followed by Miss
Frantzen, Truus’ governess, and Cathérine’s English nurse; especially
by Miss Frantzen, who was in constant fear at the thought of Nico and
the water. They inspected the aviary and the stables, and were on the
best of terms with the gardener and his men, with the coachman and the
stable-boy. They fed the birds and the fowls and ducks, and rode round,
firmly held by the good-natured stableman, on Théodore’s unsaddled
riding-horse, or went swimming, or visited the gymnasium, where they
watched the feats of Théodore, who was very powerfully made, and of
Howard, who was more lithe and supple, whilst Otto declared he had lost
the art, and Etienne swung wildly from ring to ring and jumped over the
vaulting-horse. But it was at Cor that the little van Ryssels stared in
open-mouthed wonder, as they saw him, with a rather conceited
expression, very calmly and deliberately go through the most difficult
evolutions, in all the youthful strength of his long, slender limbs.
After coffee the boys played cricket with Howard, or in the shade of
the lofty trees in the park joined in lawn-tennis with the girls, or
lay lazily under a tree with a book doing nothing at all, their hands
folded behind their heads. After dinner they walked or floated about a
little in the little boat on the lake, and the evening came, and it was
ten o’clock ere they thought of it.

And her happiness, and the luxury of that sunny country life, made
Eline feel so entirely herself, that she wondered whether she really
were the same girl of some months before. She felt quite another being;
it seemed to her as if her soul had escaped from its glossy draperies,
and now was before her in all its simplicity, in the nude whiteness of
a statue. She no longer veiled herself in her affectation, she no
longer played a part; she was her own self, her Otto’s darling, and
this sincerity lent such a new charm to her movements, to the slightest
word she uttered, that Truus, to the triumph of Cathérine, admitted she
had been mistaken in her; that Frédérique would sometimes sit talking
to her for hours, with sisterly frankness; that Madame van Erlevoort
called her an angel. When she was alone and for a while revelled in her
fresh train of thoughts and emotions, the tears started to her eyes, in
gratitude for all the good bestowed on her, and she only wished that
time would not fly by, that the present moment might remain for ever.
Beyond that she desired nothing, and around her there hovered an
infinite rest, an ethereal calm, an ecstasy of bliss.



They retired early at the Horze; at half-past ten every one was at
rest. Eline had been chatting for an hour in Frédérique’s room, and she
felt happy at Frédérique’s ever-growing sympathy. She had been sitting
on the edge of the bed, whilst Freddie was already inside it, and they
had talked to each other about all kinds of matters. At times they
laughed much, but subdued their laughter, for it was very quiet in the
house. At length Eline softly slipped out on the tips of her toes, and
once more found herself alone in her own little room. She lit her
candle and slowly proceeded to undress, with an unconscious and happy
smile about her lips. For a moment she remained seated, and mused, with
her thick hair hanging down, and her bare arms and throat, and the same
smile still on her lips. She wished for nothing, nothing more, she had
all that her heart desired.

And she opened her window and looked out. The rain had ceased, and an
odour of damp foliage was wafted towards her. The sky was clear, except
for a few filmy cloudlets, and the brilliant crescent of the moon
seemed as though placed in relief against the deep blue heavens; the
fields lay silently spread out before her; a single little windmill
lifted its black wings motionless in the pale moonlight; the ditches
gleamed like streaks of silver, and a fragrant freshness arose from the
slumbering landscape, like a soft faint sigh. Eline leaned against the
window, and folded her arms across her bare throat. To her it seemed as
though that fragrant freshness, that faint sigh, refreshed and
sweetened all her thoughts as with an odour of field flowers, that
chased away the unhealthy, enervating miasma of her former emotions,
like an overpowering perfume of musk and opoponax. She felt herself so
young, as she had never felt before, and oh! of that she was
certain—never had she loved as she loved now—never, never! Her Otto!
When she thought of him, she did not feel it necessary to call to her
mind some idealized image; she thought of him as he actually was, so
manly and frank in his genial simplicity, and with one single thought
that ruled his whole being, the thought of her. His love was so rich,
so full, his love filled him completely. And hers grew every day, she
thought—no, it could grow no more! No further wish was hers, no more
brooding over the future. In due course it would unfurl itself before
her, a perspective glowing with brightness and gold! Nothing more
remained than the stillness of that lake into which her soul had
glided, nothing besides the rest and the love of that blue ecstasy,
full of bliss! Only that, nothing else, nothing more! What indeed could
human soul yet wish for?

Only one little darkening streak amid all that blue. Only the fear—the
fear that it would ever be different. It was so long since she had
prayed, she did not even know how to pray; but now, now she would
gladly have done so, have prayed that it would ever be thus, that it
might never change, always that soft happiness, always that restfulness
and peace, that blue ether.

“Never, never again as once! God—ever thus, ever as now! Were it to
change, I should die,” she whispered inaudibly, and as she folded her
hands a tear trembled on her lashes. But it was a tear of joy, for in
her happiness that vague fear was dissolved like a drop in the ocean.



CHAPTER XX.


At the Hague, August passed by glowing hot, but the nights were cool on
the terrace at Scheveningen, or in the tent of the Bosch. It was Sunday
evening, and Betsy stayed at home; old Madame van Raat had not been to
see her for so long, that she asked her mother-in-law to come around;
Sunday was not much of a day at Scheveningen. They were to drink tea in
the conservatory, the glass doors of which were already open. Henk
walked with Madame van Raat through the garden, and the old lady
admired his splendid roses. Betsy and Vincent sat alone.

“I have had a letter from Eline: she is coming back with the Erlevoorts
on Wednesday. The Howards will remain a little longer at the Horze,”
she said.

“Indeed?” answered Vincent. “And when Eline returns I must go, I
suppose?” he asked bluntly.

Betsy felt alarmed, but she smiled very pleasantly.

“The idea! Not at all. You know, our house is always open to you, until
you have found something for yourself. Don’t you hear anything
from—what is the name of that friend in New York?”

“Lawrence St. Clare. No; I have not heard anything from him for some
time. You see one forgets one’s friends when they are so far away. I
can’t blame him.”

He leaned back in his cane chair with an air of something like
resignation. In the meantime he felt himself very well at ease, and
agreeably soothed by the luxury which surrounded him. The garden was
well kept, rich in flowers and statuary. And in those surroundings, in
the presence of Betsy, very elegant in her light summer dress, by the
soft glitter of the silver and the Japanese porcelain, he felt himself
safe against the many unpleasantnesses of life. It was rest, monotonous
if you like, but soothing and refreshing. Betsy he knew how to master,
but it was unnecessary to make his power felt; besides, he was too lazy
for it. Was not his present life an easy one? what should he trouble
himself about?

“What would you say if I were to seek a wife?” he suddenly asked,
inwardly thinking of the pleasures a wealthy marriage might provide
him.

“A wife! oh, a splendid idea! Shall I try and find one for you? What
sort of one do you wish?”

“Handsome she need not be, only elegant. Not too unsophisticated or
idealistic. Money of course.”

“Of course. A foolish love-affair I certainly don’t look for in you.
What do you think of the Eekhofs?”

“Are you mad? two giggling ninnies—and no money, is there?”

“Some say there is, others declare that they live too extravagantly;
any way you might try and find out. But were you in earnest, Vincent,
or was it only by way of saying something?”

“Not at all. I think I should do well if I married. Don’t you think I’m
right?”

Betsy looked at him searchingly, and her glance was full of secret
contempt. With his lack-lustre eyes, his languid movements, his
indolent voice, he did not much impress her as an ideal husband for a
young girl.

“Not quite. I think you are a terrible egotist; neither do I believe
that a wife would find much support in you. You are weak—I mean
morally, of course.”

She soon regretted her words and felt irritated at her own imprudence.
She nearly shuddered when he looked at her with that mysterious smile,
with those soft, dull, snake-like eyes.

“And a wife has always need of support, eh?” he said in measured tones.
“You too, don’t you—you find your support in Henk? you depend entirely
upon him, and he is strong enough—I mean physically, of course?”

Every word he uttered he emphasized as with a spiteful meaning, and
every word pierced sharp as a needle into her domineering nature; but
she dared not answer him, she shrank back in fear and only smiled, as
if he had merely made a jest. He too laughed, a kindly gentle laugh
like hers, but full of veiled revengefulness.

They were both silent for a while, conscious of the struggle under that
outward show of good-nature, until Betsy began gently to murmur some
complaints about old Madame van Raat, who always misunderstood her, and
with whom she could never agree; and whilst he sat indifferently
listening to her, she felt how she abhorred him, how glad she would
have been, after having him in the house for a month, to give him his
congé; but she knew that she could never do it without risking a
terrible scene; he would continue hanging about till the end of time,
and she could not think of any means to get him away. It was all Henk’s
fault; if he’d only given him that wretched little sum the idea would
never have entered her mind to ask him into the house. She detested
Vincent, and she detested herself for her fear of him. She was rich and
happy; what harm could he do her? But the more she argued, the more the
fear clung to her, like an enervating idiosyncrasy, of which she could
not free herself.

Madame van Raat and Henk were slowly returning from the garden, and
they sat down in the conservatory at one of the open glass doors. But
after a few words about the roses, the old lady grew quiet and pensive.
Amid the luxury of her son’s house a certain chill, a vacuum, seemed to
seize her and make her melancholy, even more melancholy than she was in
her own lonely house. She had never had that feeling before when she
was with Henk; but now it seemed as if her love for her son did not
yield sufficient warmth to dispel that chill vacuum. And suddenly the
truth struck her. She missed Eline—Eline who, wherever she went, beamed
forth the light of her fascination; she missed her dear child, so
different from Betsy, so loving and sympathetic. And she could not help
saying in her sad voice—

“Your house seems deserted without Elly. What will it be when she is
married and gone away for good? Dear Elly!”

She did not hear what Betsy and Vincent answered; she did not hear what
Henk said; she let her gray head fall upon her bosom and sat staring in
front of her, the bony hands folded in her lap. Life seemed hollow to
her, a gray existence full of grief, full of partings and tears, in
which men hovered round, sombre and sad, like so many tragic phantoms.
And she shuddered when Betsy asked her whether she was cold.



Betsy, though she had never confessed it, had, just like her
mother-in-law, in spite of Vincent, who “was so sociable,” also found
it lonely and miserable in the house. There was so little change in the
summer; it was eternally the tent and eternally Scheveningen; she was
really getting sick of it. And now that Eline was back, beaming in her
fresh happiness, which seemed to diffuse a rustic odour through Betsy’s
drawing-room; now that Eline was full of tales about the Horze, about
Théodore and Truus and the children, about the Howards and the little
van Ryssels, Betsy perceived that Madame van Raat was right—that Eline
was the charm of her house. Now Betsy herself commenced to look forward
with some misgiving to the time when Eline would leave her, and that
misgiving greatly softened her ordinary acerbity. Otto, whom she
formerly thought too formal and affected, she thought charming, now
that she frequently saw him, for she had insisted that he should often
come to dinner.

At table the conversation once more grew lively and cheerful, quite
different from the slow, dragging discourse between herself, her
husband, and Vincent. To Eline her manner became gentle, out of
gratitude for the old pleasantness which she had brought back with her,
and they held endless consultations about Eline’s trousseau, which it
was now time to see about, if she wanted to marry in the coming winter.
Their afternoons they spent together with dressmakers and in shops;
they travelled together with Otto to Brussels, where Eline wanted to
order her wedding-dress, rich but simple, nothing but white satin,
without lace or furbelows.

Eline in the meantime, in all this stir and bustle, had little time
left her for thinking, and only in the evening did she get any rest. In
the evening they often stayed at home. It was September. Scheveningen
gradually lost its attractions, and now that Otto came to dinner it
generally grew late without their noticing it. She sat with him in the
garden, or in the violet boudoir, and she became quite used to her calm
happiness; it seemed in fact as if she had never known anything
different. Everything was so restful and contented within her, that she
almost longed for some emotion. But no, she loved Otto; that single
emotion sufficed for her. Never anything but that; always that calm,
always that blue ether!



CHAPTER XXI.


Georges de Woude van Bergh studied hard for his examination for
Vice-Consul, and one day Emilie had betaken herself to the
Verstraetens’ and had a long talk with Mr. and Madame Verstraeten,
whilst Lili, very nervous and unhappy, had found much comfort in
Emilie. Emilie had laughingly apologized for her unceremonious visit;
but really her aged father was ailing and never went out, and she
managed everything for him, took everything off his hands, even to a
request for access for his son. No; she was certainly not of Georges’
thinking, that one could live without money, and quite understood that
Mr. and Madame Verstraeten also could not harbour such an idea; but
after all the boy had a prospect, had he not? and the pair of them
seemed to have so much set their minds upon that folly, that one could
not talk them out of it. The question really was, had Mr. and Madame
Verstraeten any personal objection to him, or would they permit the two
to wait until they could begin life together without too great a risk
of starvation? Would Mr. and Madame Verstraeten be able, at a given
moment, to part with Lili? And if they did not quite refuse, how would
they decide? A regular engagement, or only a—well, a union of hearts,
nothing more? It was a pity, certainly, that the two had made
themselves somewhat conspicuous, and that the whole town knew of it,
but they were a pair of unsophisticated children, and in time they
would be more prudent. The question now was—and Emilie summarized her
questions once more with her genial hearty manner, but inwardly a
little anxious about the reply.

And Madame Verstraeten sighed and shook her head thoughtfully; but the
old gentleman, to Emilie’s joy, did not make any insurmountable
objections. But still he had his objections. Lili was so young, such a
child; would it not be better if she did not bind herself yet, and took
time to make sure that he was Mr. Right? He liked de Woude very much;
he had noticed too that the boy had something in him; but still, were
not his optimistic financial ideas based rather too much on his love?
Had he really no more wants than now in the blindness of his affection
he imagined? He was used to a certain degree of luxury. Emilie listened
attentively, fully convinced of all those difficulties, about which she
had once spoken to him herself. But now—now she had allowed herself to
be persuaded into the folly of this visit, and she did not want to be
faithless to her boy; now she wanted to make it appear as if all those
difficulties merely existed in Mr. Verstraeten’s mind, and so she would
endeavour to remove them. Thus it was ever. When one had committed one
absurdity, one fell from one folly into another, and now she would be
compelled to argue against her own convictions. It was a difficult
task, talk as she might, and it was perhaps to her Georges’ misfortune
that she could plead so well; but dear me, the boy was so smitten, and
perhaps after all he was right! There were other little households that
were not rich—small officials, sub-lieutenants. No, no; at bottom she
was really committing an absurdity; but it could not be helped, it was
too late.

And while she pleaded for Georges, she was inwardly angry that he had
brought her to do such a thing. Could she, then, refuse that boy
nothing, and must she herself be a party to bring about his ruin?

But she kept her word, and pleaded so well that Madame Verstraeten went
to fetch Lili, who wept bitterly and kissed Emilie fondly. But an
engagement was out of the question for the present. Madame Verstraeten
did not care about these poor folks’ engagements, which sometimes
lasted for years, and Emilie declared to Lili that a union of hearts,
sanctioned by her parents, meant much already, under the existing
circumstances. It was better so, after all, was it not? If on further
acquaintance they did not suit each other, there would be no harm done;
and if they grew to like each other more and more—well, so much the
better. Come; she should not look at it too gloomily, the victory
gained over the steel-clad hearts of her parents was not an unimportant
one. And what more did she really want? To marry at once—reception
to-morrow—in a day or two to the Stadhuis and the church, and then make
their entry in a little attic somewhere! Yes; that would be very nice!

Lili laughed between her tears, and kissed her parents; whatever papa
and mamma thought fit, she was satisfied.

That afternoon Georges was asked to dinner, and after the meal a
splendid September night was spent in the garden. It was late when
Georges left; late when Marie and Lili retired to their room and
undressed. Marie listened kindly and patiently to Lili’s chattering
about hundreds of plans for the future. She would love to travel, and
Georges’ employment gave promise of that. Snugly she crept into the
cool sheets, smiling at the rosy visions of her fancy, her arms bent
over the little head encircled by its dishevelled mass of fair hair.
Marie too crept into bed, and for a moment all was quiet in the dark
room, when there was a gentle knocking at the door, which the next
moment was opened. The girls started in alarm.

“Hush, hush! ’tis only me,” whispered a soft, subdued voice, and they
saw a small, bent figure in white night-gown and cap, with a lighted
candle in hand, enter the room. “Hush! I was only coming for a little
chat.”

It was old Dien, the ancient servant of the Verstraetens’, the
good-natured old body who was always so handy when they had parties or
tableaux-vivants. She approached, treading softly in her stockings,
while the candle-light reflected a yellow glow on her shrivelled,
white-capped face.

“But, Dien, you frighten me! You look like a ghost!” cried Marie.

“Hush, quiet! They are all in bed; but I thought you wouldn’t be asleep
yet. I want to have a little chat—may I?”

“Certainly, Dien; certainly you may,” said Lili with animation. “What
have you got to say?”

Dien seated herself on the edge of Lili’s bed.

“You can understand, old Dien is not so old but she can tell when
there’s something stirring. And you see, when she does notice it, she
can’t keep it to herself; she must out with it. You little rascal!” She
held up her finger to Lili threateningly.

“What is it, Dien?” asked Lili.

“Come, deary, now don’t you keep yourself so innocent! Do you think I
don’t know why you cried as you did this afternoon, and why Miss Emilie
made such a long stay in the conservatory? You see I thought there was
something then,” she continued, winking her sunken eye, “and I began
thinking to myself, and there you are—at half-past five in he marches,
and stops nicely to dinner, eh?”

“Get along, Dien; what are you prattling about?”

“No, no; Dien doesn’t prattle. Dien knows what she knows well enough.
And you too, you know what you’re about.”

“What is it then?”

“Well, child, you are quite right. There’s a steady boy he is. Such a
nice, gentle little face, with a neat little fair moustache. A proper
little hubby for you. You are rather dainty yourself. They are well
matched—eh, Miss Marie?”

“Cut out for each other,” yawned Marie from between her sheets.

“You like him then?”

“Rather!” answered Dien. “And he is always so polite to me and Bet. He
always says it so nicely when I open the door to him: ‘Ah, Dien, how
are you?’ Always a word or two to say, you know. Not a bit proud, and
he never forgets to wipe his feet.”

Lili roared.

“You aren’t angry because I say so?”

“No, not at all, Dien; I am very glad he is in your good books.”

“Sleep you won’t for yet awhile, eh? You see, in the daytime I am
always too busy, and now it’s just a nice time for a snug chat. And
Dien may give you a bit of advice, eh? You see, I have been married
too, and it isn’t all honey, child. Yes; at first you think ’tis very
nice to play the wifie, but later on come the youngsters, and the cares
come with them; I have had three of them you see. And what a bother it
is to bring them up! And you know I haven’t had much pleasure of them.
One died, a boy, when he was fourteen, and the other wasn’t quite what
he ought to be, and went to the Indies. Only my girl—yes, she’s a good
girl; you know, she’s in Rotterdam, married to a tailor.”

“Yes, Dien.”

“And, I say, when do you think you will marry?”

“Oh, Dien! really I don’t know yet. We won’t get married for a long
while yet, and you mustn’t chatter about it; do you hear?”

“No, no; don’t you fear. You see, Bet too, she isn’t blind either. Do
you think it will be a twelvemonth yet?”

“Oh, quite. But come, Dien, go to bed now.”

“Yes, deary. But you see, when the youngsters come, those little
fair-haired dots—you are both of you so fair—I shall leave your ma, and
come to stay with you. What do you say to that?”

“What, as nursemaid? No, thank you, you will be much too old for that
then.”

“Oh! I should wash and scrub them nicely, don’t you fear!”

“Dien, I think you are saying improper things!” cried Marie. “Fie!”

“What is there improper in that? But come, I must be off; why, it’s
half-past twelve. And do you hear, Miss Marie, you must make haste and
have your turn—that little dot has stolen a march on you; don’t you lag
behind now, do you hear? Will you see to it?”

“Yes, Dien; I shall do my best,” said Marie.

“Then dream about it nicely. And you too, deary, you dream about him.
And tell him that Dien thinks him a nice boy, with his little
moustache—will you, eh? Will you, you little rascal?”

She grasped Lili, who again roared with laughter, jestingly by the
shoulders.

“Yes, yes, Dien, I shall. But you need not shake me like that—ooh!
Good-night, Dien.”

“Good-night, little pets. Hush, child, don’t laugh like that. You will
wake the old folks. Hush, hush! I am going—quiet now!”

Dien left, looking yellowish-white in the glow of the candle, with a
final wink, full of mystery, her footsteps quite muffled by her woollen
stockings.

“That silly Dien!” lisped Lili, still laughing, and half asleep.

The room was once more in darkness, and it was quiet, very quiet, and
Marie lay with her head on her pillow, her wide-open eyes fixed on the
dark ceiling.



CHAPTER XXII.


Vincent felt very ill and weak, and his condition became so serious
that Dr. Reyer forbade him to leave his room.

He followed the doctor’s advice, drinking little, abstaining from
smoking, and giving himself over completely to the soothing influence
of the restful atmosphere that surrounded him.

His days he passed in Eline’s boudoir, as Betsy could not spare him a
sitting-room to himself. There he would lie down on the Persian divan,
an Eastern dressing-gown snugly wrapped about him—a memento of his days
of luxury in Smyrna—his bloodless fingers clasping a book in which he
did not read a line. It seemed to him as though all ideas had vanished
from his brain, as if, in fact, his whole being was fading away in a
languid calm, in a sense of weariness like that induced by prolonged
and severe bodily exertion. His mind was filled with petty, childish
thoughts, rising up like bubbles, to burst asunder the next moment. His
pleasures were as petty as his thoughts, and he felt gratified when Dr.
Reyer praised him for his obedience, while he suffered acutely whenever
he had to wait a few moments for Eline to bring him his breakfast. And
beyond that he felt nothing; he simply lay down, gazing round Eline’s
room, and counting the pictures, the ferns, and all the smaller objects
of luxury that were scattered about.

In the morning Eline sat down beside him and read to him or sang a
snatch or two from a favourite opera; and Vincent would lie and listen
as in a dream, lost in a strange vision full of faint odours and
subdued tints, all wreathed and entwined one with another as in a
kaleidoscope of colour and perfume. He did not speak, and Eline too
said little, penetrated as she was with a feeling of romantic
joyfulness, a joyfulness such as she had known when keeping her nightly
vigil at Aunt Vere’s bedside—the pleasure of devoting herself to the
care of an invalid. She became more and more interested in Vincent, and
the loving care with which she tended him gradually had the effect of
deeply endearing him to her.

In the afternoon she usually stayed at home until after four, when Otto
came to fetch her for a walk; and then, when he gently rebuked her for
not taking sufficient care of her own health, and for sacrificing
herself too much for Vincent, she would look at him almost tearfully
and ask how he could possibly fail to feel the deepest sympathy for
Vincent, who was so forsaken, so unhappy, and so weak. The busy
negotiations about her trousseau with Betsy were somewhat interrupted
by these cares, and on one occasion even she remarked to her sister
that she thought it a terrible thing to have to marry in November, when
Vincent would perhaps be dying. She could not help fancying that
Vincent’s illness was caused by a secret passion for her, a passion the
secret of which he had until now most jealously kept. For he had never
before made such a long stay in the Hague; he had now been in the city
for nearly a year, whilst he never used to remain longer than a week or
two. Poor Vincent—for the present her watchful care of him brought him
solace and comfort—only, would not all that careful solicitude, those
constant attentions on her part towards him, feed the flame of that
passion that was for ever destined to be so helpless, as it was only
her Otto she might care for, no one else? She would have been glad
could she have confessed those thoughts to another; but to whom could
she do so? To speak to Otto about it, that seemed to her scarcely
proper; whilst if she made Betsy her confidante, she was certain to ask
her why she must always fill her head with such nonsense. How about
Madame van Raat though?

Yes, she was the person to consult; she would call on Madame van Raat
one morning alone, without Otto. But when she did see the old lady, she
found it such a difficult matter to shape her suspicions about Vincent
in words, that when her visit came to an end she had not uttered a
syllable of her confession. And she comforted herself with the sad
reflection that Vincent would probably die before they were married,
and that in that case her ministering care would have somewhat
sweetened his last days.

The days passed by, and in the meantime the suspicion that Vincent
cherished a secret passion for her grew more and more into a certainty,
until she began as it were, involuntarily, to yield herself up to an
absorbing pity for her poor ailing cousin. Her happiness, that had
seemed so placid that it could not be broken, glided more and more from
the vain grasp of her fingers, and a sense of nervousness and unrest
became daily more diffused over her being, while in the meantime she
lacked the courage to unbosom herself to Otto; for when she thought of
Vincent, a mist appeared to come between herself and Otto, a mist that
grew denser and denser and threatened to part them from each other. She
shuddered at the thought, and after having passed half the day in her
nervous unrest by Vincent’s side, she would long to be again with Otto,
in whose placid temperament she hoped to find a healing balm for her
perturbed spirit. Soon after four he came, they went for a walk
together, he returned with her to dinner, in the evening they often
stayed at home, they were much alone together, and when at night he was
gone and she had retired to her room, she had to do her utmost to
restrain herself from bursting into tears, for she found that she no
longer drew from his presence that restfulness and peace which once it
had brought her. On the contrary, now and then his calmness even
irritated her, as something indifferent and phlegmatic, which, in her
present mood, brimming over as it was with unrest, repelled her,
especially when she contrasted him with Vincent, in whom she suspected
a world of still, agonizing grief was hidden. Even Otto’s simple ease,
beneath which only so recently she had seen such a wealth of love,
irritated her now.

Would he never then burst forth in a storm of passion, in a tempestuous
torrent about—about anything, whatever it was? Would he ever remain so
calm, so placid, so eternally equable? did he then never feel conscious
of something struggling with something else within his heart, something
that boiled and seethed within him, and which must pour itself forth in
a torrent of words? Could nothing move him, nor rouse him from that
rest which seemed all but lethargy? Kind and affectionate, yes, that he
was, but he was incapable of deep feeling; perhaps his calmness was
nothing but egoism after all, an egoism which another’s grief was
powerless to move!

Thoughts such as these made Eline feel wretched and unhappy. Oh, great
heavens! they were the spectres, the grim spectres, that were fast
crowding in around her. No, no, they should not drag her along with
them, she would scare them away, away; but in vain, still they rose up,
one after another, chilling her with their icy breaths of gruesome
doubts, and she struggled against them—a fearful struggle! She forced
herself to think again those sweet thoughts which had filled her with
an idyllic happiness during her stay at the Horze; she forced herself
once more to find back her placid peacefulness, her ethereal
ecstasy—but alas, it was in vain! And when she began to feel conscious
of that one sleepless night, when a deep silence prevailed throughout
the house, and when she, with great staring eyes, was lying so lonely
on her bed; when for the first time she felt conscious of that, in all
its cruel truth, and felt that those days had passed away for ever,
that they would never more smile upon her with their golden glory of
light and joy, then at last she burst out in a wild, tempestuous
sobbing, so tempestuous and wild as she had never sobbed before, and in
her passionate outburst she flung herself upon her pillow as though
that were her happiness, as though that were the bird that slipped
through her fingers. She shook her head—no, no, she would, she must be
happy again as before, she would, she would love her Otto, as she did
before in the pine wood—love him! No, it was impossible, it must not,
it should not be—she would, would force herself, with all the strength
and energy of her will, to continue to love him, as she had done
hitherto; she would still cling close to him, as she now clung to her
pillow and the gruesome, grinning spectres should not be able to tear
him from her arms. All remained silent in the house; only, there she
heard the big clock in the kitchen down-stairs, tick, tick,
unceasingly, and an intense terror seized her as she listened to that
hard, metallic, rhythmic sound. A terror lest her happiness should not
allow itself to be forced back into her soul; a terror lest some
invisible power should push her down, down along some steep sloping
path, while she would fain ascend upward, ever upward. And then
followed a fury, a tempestuous fury, because she felt it so plainly,
and yet would not feel, and because she remained too weak to make a
strong, decided effort to resist the encroachment of the unseen powers
that ever seemed to mock and taunt her.



The next morning Eline went early to see Vincent; she wanted to hand
him a big letter that had come for him. He was lying as usual in his
Turkish dressing-gown on the divan. Still, slowly and gradually, he was
recovering; Dr. Reyer had even told him that he might take a little
walk, but the rest had become dear to him, and he answered that he did
not yet feel equal to walking. When Eline entered he gave her a
friendly nod; he had grown used to her thousand little cares, and he
felt grateful to her for them, and this gratitude brought a kindly glow
into his eyes which Eline mistook for love. She handed him the letter
and asked how he felt.

“Pretty well. I am getting on gradually,” he said wearily, but suddenly
he raised himself up and quickly tore open the envelope. Eline was
about to sit down at the piano.

“Ah, at last!” she heard Vincent exclaim almost joyfully.

“It is from New York, from Lawrence St. Clare!” said Vincent, quickly
reading through the letter. “He has found something for me—a place at a
good business house.”

Eline felt suddenly alarmed.

“And what do you think of doing?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

“To go as soon as I am better, but—but I am not, and I am afraid I
shall not be yet awhile,” he concluded languidly.

“To go where—to America?”

“Yes—certainly.”

“Are you glad you can go, then?”

“Of course; why should I hang about here any longer now that I can get
a situation?”

He scarcely thought of what he said. He fell back in the Persian
cushions, and a maze of bright-hued visions rose before his mind. He
remembered his former life of endless change, of ever-changing
perspective and glimmering horizon—change was life, change it was that
would cure, that would rejuvenate him.

Eline, however, felt deep pity for Vincent. Yes, indeed, he was very
pleased that he could go, before her wedding most likely, so that he
need not be witness of what to him was probably a very painful sight.
Yes, indeed he loved her—and suffered accordingly.

“Vincent,” she said at last.

“Well?”

“Vincent, really—just think about it, don’t be too rash—you are still
so weak. Suppose you should have a relapse? Ask Reyer’s advice first.”

“But, Elly, haven’t I always been as I am now? I never was robust,
and—and you don’t want to keep me; besides, and what if I do stay
here?” he asked with a smile.

To her that smile seemed sad and forced, and she reproached herself for
endeavouring to keep him there. No, he must go; only, maybe perhaps
things would change—change so that he need not go at all. She felt
giddy, and it all began to dance and shimmer before her eyes—the
thought that rose to her mind, she dared not think. It would be too
terrible. Too terrible for Otto, too terrible also for herself. That
day, when Otto came, Eline felt, instead of the usually so grateful
warmth which his presence had at one time called forth in her heart,
nothing but an icy indifference. Oh, God, how did that come about, how
did that warmth chill down like that? She did not know, but so it was,
and she had not the power to change it. She gave him a friendly nod,
and held out her hand to him. She could not look him in the face, but
her heart was deeply moved with pity. There he stood, Otto, by her
side, his gentle, kindly glance fixed upon her, her hand in his, as he
leaned against the back of her chair. Yes, there he stood by her side,
he full of love, and she—she felt nothing but cold, chilly
indifference! No, a thousand times no! it might not, it should not be,
she would force herself, she pitied him too much.

“Nily—what is the matter, child?” he asked softly, as he felt the
nervous, pressure of her fingers on his hand.

“Oh—nothing—nothing, only a headache, I think,” she answered faltering,
and she looked at him for the first time that afternoon. His eyes
looked deep into hers, and she was on the point of flinging herself in
wild remorse on his bosom, to cling to him and never to release her
hold. But again that unseen power withheld her.

“Is it no longer to be forced back? Will it never come?” she thought
hopelessly. They remained alone, and it was some little time yet before
dinner should be ready.

“Nily—little woman, tell me, aren’t you well?” he asked anxiously.
“Your hand is cold.”

“I am a little feverish—we have been out driving in an open carriage
with Vincent.”

“I hope you are not going to be ill.”

“Oh, no; it will pass over.”

She looked at him smilingly, and all at once, in a rush of despair, she
flung both her arms round his neck.

“You are so kind, so loving,” she whispered in a broken voice. “You are
so kind, and—I am so fond, so very fond of you.”

Vincent did not yet feel strong enough to join them at dinner that day.
At table Betsy was telling Otto of the letter from America; Vincent was
about to get a situation in New York.

“And when does he intend to go?”

“As soon as he is better. I shall be thankful enough when he is gone.”

Eline could no longer contain herself.

“Reyer says he must not think of such a thing for some weeks yet!” she
said sharply, with an angry glance at Betsy. “But of course——”

“Of course what?”

“If it were not for the sake of decency, you would, ill as he is, turn
him out of doors.”

“If I could—yes, I should certainly. And once for all, this I tell you,
he shall never come here again. Fancy hanging about here like this!”

“But, Betsy—he is nearly dying!” cried Eline, trembling with rage.

“Oh, nonsense!”

“What’s nonsense? If you saw him as I do,” she screamed.

“Never mind, Eline, don’t let us fall out about Vincent. The fellow
isn’t worth it. Why, you make a melodrama of it. Don’t make such an
exhibition of yourself, for goodness’ sake.”

“Yes, I know; ‘Don’t make an exhibition of yourself.’ That’s what I
always get treated to when I show a little feeling. But you—you have no
heart—you——”

“Eline,” said Otto softly.

Gerard was coming in with the joint. The silence was painful.

“You have forgotten the gravy, Gerard,” said Betsy.

Gerard left the room.

“Yes, you—why you would tread a person underfoot if he were only ever
so little in your way, if he upset you in the least in your brutal
egoism! You think of no one but yourself, and you can’t even understand
that everybody else is not equally despicable, and——”

“Eline!” said Otto again, as Gerard was coming in once more, this time
with a gravy tureen.

“Oh, hold your tongue, do, with your ‘Eline! Eline!’ Qu’est-ce que me
fait cet homme! Betsy ne veut pas le voir—mais je t’assure, que Vincent
se meurt. Il s’est endormi dans ma chambre, pâle comme un linge,
essoufflé par la fatigue, que lui a causé cette stupide promenade
recommandée par Reyer. Et c’est pour cela, que je ne veux pas souffrir,
qu’on l’accuse d’indiscrétion et de tout cela. S’il ne fut pas si
malade, il ne resterait pas longtemps chez nous—j’en suis sure...!”

She spoke passionately, with eyes aflame with rage, and the French
words fell from her lips sharp and cutting as needles, haughty and
savage.

Betsy, too, was boiling with rage. Gerard left the room, but she made
no reply and restrained herself.

“Nily, dear,” said Otto, “I bear Vincent no ill-will, although I don’t
feel much sympathy with him, but still I shall be glad too when he is
gone.”

“Indeed—you too, eh?” she hissed.

“May I finish?” he resumed, clasping her icy hand in his. “Yes, I shall
be glad when he goes, at least if his presence in the house is able to
excite you like this. You are quite beside yourself. You don’t know
what you are saying, Nily; at least not with what force you are
speaking.”

His quiet words drove her frantic.

“And you—you—with your eternal calmness, your eternal phlegmatic
calmness!” she burst, nearly shrieking, as she rose from the table and
flung down her serviette. “It drives me mad—that calmness! Great
heavens, it drives me mad! Betsy crushes me with her egoism, and you
with your calmness—with your calmness, yes, your calmness! I—I—I can’t
bear it any longer—it suffocates me!”

“Eline!” cried Otto.

He rose and grasped her wrists, and looked her straight in the eyes.
She expected something very terrible, that he would fling her down,
strike her. But while he continued to hold her hands he only shook his
head slowly, and his voice sounded full of sorrow, as he simply said—

“Eline!—for shame!”

“Great God! I—I am going mad!” she screamed in a fit of sobbing, and
she tore herself away from his grasp, and rushed out of the room, as
she went, dragging some glasses from the table, which fell with a
tinkling noise in shatters on the ground.

Betsy trembled with rage, and wanted to run after Eline. Otto, however,
stayed her.

“Let her be, I beg of you!” he entreated.

Henk too had risen, and when Gerard came in they all three felt very
much confused before the servant, about the abruptly interrupted
dinner, and about the shattered glass.

“Never mind—never mind, Gerard!” said Betsy almost humbly, “never mind.
Clear the table.”

It was impossible for them to assume a nonchalant air. Gerard must have
noticed that there was something wrong, though his face remained ever
so calm and dignified.

Eline in the meantime had rushed up-stairs into her bedroom and thrown
herself on her bed. Then she began to sob—but Vincent must not hear it.
She sobbed and sobbed until it grew dark; then she heard Vincent
walking in the adjoining room, but she lay still and wrung her hands
and choked the sobs in her bosom.



Otto had sat down in the drawing-room, and was staring with moist eyes
on the ground when Henk entered. He noticed a tear in Otto’s eye, and
Henk was roused from his wonted quiet kindliness, and began to boil
within him.

“Erlevoort!” said he, and laid his hand on Otto’s shoulder.

Otto lifted up his head.

“Erlevoort! come, old chap, be a man! Sissy is sometimes an awkward
little craft to manage, but she is not bad at heart! You must not take
notice of what she said to you, do you hear? She was only angry with
Betsy, because she rather likes Vincent, and so by accident you got
your share of it. But you must take no notice of it. That’s the best
way to punish her.”

Otto did not answer; his mind was too much filled with doubt that
Henk’s kindliness could have cheered him. He recollected how he had
once told Eline that she had but one single fault, that she did not
know herself, that there were hidden treasures within her, that he
would arouse those latent gifts, but now he saw but too well that he
had not the power to do so, that he only irritated her, and—that he
drove her mad!

“She can be confoundedly hasty at times!” resumed Henk, as he walked
inwardly enraged up and down the room. “But any one whom she likes, and
whom she can look up to, can lead her easily enough, and then—Shall I
go and have a talk to her?”

“I should—let—her be!” replied Otto, speaking with difficulty. “I dare
say she will herself——”

He tried to think himself in her place, and to guess how she now felt.
But it was in vain, he could not think, he still smarted too much under
the blow she had given him. Never had he heard her utter such words
before, in that strident, shrieking voice; never before had he seen her
features so distorted—even to ugliness—by her passions; and try as he
might, he could not collect his thoughts under that great torturing
grief that cut him to the quick.

It pained Henk to see his weary, hopeless attitude. And suddenly he
felt himself nerved to action. No, he would not permit it, that Eline
should thus treat Otto with contempt, he would not permit it. With a
firm and elastic step he left the room. Henk went up-stairs and entered
Eline’s boudoir. He found no one there, for Vincent, tired as he was
after his first trip, had already gone into his bedroom, quite
unconscious of the storm that had been raging down-stairs. Henk knocked
at Eline’s door.

“Eline!” he called.

There was no answer, and he quietly opened the door. On the floor lay
Eline, her slight form quivering with inaudible sobs, her face hidden
in her hands. He waited for a moment, but she did not move.

“Eline, get up!” he said curtly, almost commandingly.

Savagely she lifted herself up, and savagely she shrieked—

“What is it? What do you want here? Go away.”

“Get up.”

“I won’t; go away, go away! I tell you, go away!”

He bent over her and grasped her wrists, full of a passion that made
the blood rush to his face. He hurt her, and she gave a cry of pain.

“Confound it! Will you get up?” he hissed between his teeth, almost
beside himself with rage, while he drew her up savagely. His flushed
face, his flaming eyes, and hissing voice terrified her. Falteringly
she let him pull her from the floor.

“What do you want?” she asked once more, but calmer this time, and with
apparent haughtiness.

“I shall tell you what I want. I want you to go at once—at once, do you
hear—to Erlevoort and ask his pardon. Perhaps you don’t remember what
you have been saying in your mad passion, but you have offended him
deeply, you have insulted him. Go, and at once!”

She looked at him in much alarm. His determined, commanding tones made
her tremble, and she was speechless with terror as she saw him, with
his big powerful form, pointing to the door.

“You will find him down-stairs in the drawing-room. Are you going now?”

She trembled all over, but she would not let him triumph.

“I won’t.”

“If you won’t, I shall drag you down the stairs until you lie at his
feet. I swear I shall do it, I swear I shall!” he hissed syllable by
syllable into her face.

She stepped back in alarm.

“Henk!” she cried, shocked that he durst say such a thing to her.

“Are you going?”

“Yes—yes, I will go, but—Henk! Oh, don’t, don’t speak like that to me!
Why should you? Great heavens! am I not unhappy enough already?”

“That is your own fault, your own doing, but that is no reason why you
should make another unhappy too, especially Erlevoort.”

“Yes, yes, you are right,” she sobbed, quite broken at last. “I will
go, but come with me, come with me, Henk.”

He supported her as he took her from the room and led her down the
stairs. But when she entered the drawing-room she felt frightened.
There was no one there but Otto, who was seated on the sofa, leaning
his head in his hands. For a moment she stood still, undecided what to
do, but Henk looked at her, and his glance and also the sight of Otto’s
silent despair caused her to hesitate no longer. She fell on her knees
before him and wanted to say something, but she was unable to utter a
single word for violent sobbing, which at length seemed to melt away in
a copious stream of tears. She laid her throbbing, glowing head on his
knees, and took his hand, and sobbed and sobbed until her heart nearly
broke. He did not speak either, and looked her deep in the eyes.

At last, with a great effort, she could just say, while Henk remained
standing like her judge behind her—

“Forgive me, Otto, forgive me, forgive me.”

He nodded his head, slowly and softly, not quite satisfied with her
remorse, feeling, so to speak, disappointed with something in her
manner, which was not what he had expected, but he bent over her, drew
her towards him, and kissed her forehead.

“Forgive me, Otto, do forgive me.”

He softly clasped his arm around her, and pressed her for a moment to
his bosom, while she still continued her sobbing, and he closed his
eyes in order to prevent the tears from penetrating through his
eyelashes. For he knew it, he felt it—it was all over.

The evening passed by somewhat gloomily, although Henk, in his frank,
kindly tones, assured him that it was all right again. Of Eline he took
his leave with a sad smile. Eline then begged Betsy’s pardon in
presence of Henk. Betsy gave her a little nod of approval and said
nothing. And afterwards when Henk told her how he had forced her to go
to Erlevoort, she looked at him almost with admiration—for she would
never have thought that in a struggle with Eline her husband would
prove the stronger of the two.



Some weeks sped by, and day by day Eline found herself more and more
unhappy, for she felt that all was over, that she could not force
herself to love Otto, and she nearly died with grief under the reproach
of his sad smile. And one afternoon she kept her room, and told Mina to
say that she was ill, and was not coming down-stairs. Otto asked if he
might come and see her in her room, but she sent word that she was
tired and needed rest. And gradually, but distinctly, a determination
became fixed in her mind: she must do it, she owed it to his happiness
and her own. The next day she would not receive him either, much as
Henk urged her to do so. She only shook her head slowly; she could not
do it. She was ill. Reyer? No, she did not want him. And she kept to
her room, while Otto dined down-stairs with Betsy, Vincent, and Henk,
and left early.

That evening she remained for a long time lying on her sofa, staring
into the darkness. At last she lit the gas, closed the curtains, and
sat down at her writing-table. It must be. Calmly and determinedly she
commenced to write, stopping every now and then, and reading every word
to herself—


   “My dearest Otto,

   “Forgive me, I beg of you, but it cannot be otherwise. Ask yourself
    the question if I can make you happy, or if I would not make your
    life a burden to you. I thought I could have made you happy, and
    that thought I shall always cherish, for it has comprised my
    greatest happiness in the past. But now——”


As she wrote the words the tears started to her eyes, and suddenly she
burst into a violent sobbing and tore up the paper. She did not feel
capable of giving him such pain. Great God, she could not do it! But
what then should she do? Let matters rest where they were until perhaps
in the end some catastrophe occurred to compel a parting? No, no, a
thousand times better to part in friendship with a last sad farewell!
But already she had caused him so much pain against her will, she
wished in future to give him as little pain as possible, and now—oh! to
be swayed thus to and fro in such a struggle as that, alone and
forsaken, without any one to support her, without really knowing what
she wanted or what was her duty! She was too weak for it, for such a
struggle as that. She took up a fresh sheet of paper, however, and once
more began to write—


   “My dearest Otto.”


A few lines followed easily enough, very similar to the first letter
which she had torn up. But how should she tell him further, how? Still,
all at once her pen rushed along over the paper, savagely forming as it
went letters that were all but illegible, but still she wrote on page
after page of wild, almost incoherent sentences, in which she over and
over again bitterly reproached herself for the way in which she had
treated him, and finally released him from his engagement. The long,
rambling letter, full of repetitions, and blurred with her tears, she
concluded with the pathetic prayer that when one day he should have
found a girl who was worthy of him, and who would love him
disinterestedly, he would still not quite forget her. Her whole being
went out to him in that final entreaty.

“Then think sometimes of me, without hatred or bitterness, and have a
little pity for your poor Nily.”

The letter was written, the envelope sealed, and after much painful
hesitation she at length summed up courage to ring for Gerard, to whom
she handed it to post. Then a wild terror seized her, and she had a
sensation as of icy water running down her back.

Now Gerard was in the street, she thought, now he had reached this
house, now that, now he approached the letter-box in the Nassaulaan.
And it seemed to her as if she could hear the letter falling into it
with a thud, like that of a coffin falling down an open grave. She was
on the point of swooning away, for in the terribly overstrung state of
her nerves, it seemed to her as though she were surrounded on all sides
by tangible terrors and hideous spectres. And all at once, as if
awakening from a nightmare, she felt conscious of what she had done, a
deed that was irrevocable! She felt herself trembling and quivering all
over as in a fever. To-morrow, to-morrow early, Otto would receive the
letter, that letter.

Great God, it must not, it could not be! It was her very happiness that
she had flung away, because the rest and the peace of that happiness
had bored her! Yes, it was her happiness which she had cast away, and
which she could never regain.

It seemed to her as though the ceiling would come down and crush her,
she could scarcely breathe. And she rushed with faltering steps to the
door, out of her room, across the landing and into Betsy’s bedroom.

“Great God—Betsy—Betsy!” she screamed with a choking voice. Betsy was
in bed and awoke with a fright. A confused idea of something terrible,
a thought of fire, of murder, arose to her mind.

“Who! What! What is it? What is it, Eline?”

“I—oh, great heavens—oh!——”

“What is it, then? What is it, then, Eline?”

“I have—I—have——”

“Well?”

“Sent a—letter to—Otto.”

“A letter?”

“I have—I have written him. I have—broken it off. Oh, great heavens!”

Betsy had sprung out of bed, and she stood trembling before Eline, who
had crouched down on the floor, and lay sobbing hysterically, her face
hidden by her dishevelled hair.

“What do you say?” she asked, completely crushed.

Eline said nothing more, she could only sob.

Henk came in.

“What is the matter?” he asked anxiously.

“Eline has written to Otto, she has broken it off!” said Betsy in a
tremulous voice.

Henk stood still in blank amazement, and could not utter a word. But
Eline lifted up her head, and wringing her hands and nearly delirious
with grief, she said—

“Yes, oh heavens! yes, I have broken it off. A long letter—I have sent
him—and, oh! ’tis terrible—’tis terrible—but I don’t know what I am
doing, I don’t know what I want, I don’t know if I care for him or if I
don’t, or if I care for any one else. I don’t know anything—and, oh!
’tis all a-throbbing, a-throbbing in my head. I wrote
him—because—because I thought it was my duty—I should have made him
unhappy. But it is terrible, terrible—that I should have done it.
Perhaps I ought not to have done it, perhaps I could have yet cared for
him. Oh, God! I would it was all over with me now, I would I were dead,
for I can bear it no longer, I can bear it no longer!”

Dull and lifeless the words fell from her, while she crouched down on
the floor, wrung her hands, and slowly rubbed her forehead on the
carpet.

Betsy glanced at Henk: what should she do? The secret spite she felt
against her sister melted away for the moment in a great pity at the
sight of Eline’s grief. And when she saw her husband continue staring
like one demented at Eline, she felt annoyed that he could find nothing
better to do. She lit the gas, and wrapped a cloak about her—and
Eline’s altered features alarmed her, now that she sat staring vacantly
before her with her eyes red with weeping, her hands folded on her
knee.

“Oh, Elly, Elly! How could you do such a thing?” said Henk in a husky
voice, as he thought of Otto.

Eline did not answer, and only slightly moved her head.

“Oh, my head is bursting!” she faintly murmured.

“Are you in pain?” asked Betsy.

“Oh!” groaned Eline.

Betsy dipped a handkerchief in some water and bathed Eline’s face, her
temples, and her forehead, from which she brushed away the dishevelled
hair.

Henk had sat down. He did not know what to do, what to say; he only saw
Otto before him.

“How could she do it? How could she do it?” That was his only thought.

“Is it better now?” asked Betsy gently.

Eline smiled contemptuously.

“Better—no—but it is cool—the water——”

“Will you have something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

She sobbed no longer, but her tears still flowed. And slowly, almost
inaudibly, staring vacantly all the while, she said—

“Oh, not to know what to do—not to know—and then to do a thing like
this, against your will. Poor, poor fellow! And this terrible pain—oh
God!—it is as if I am going mad.”

“Come, Eline,” said Betsy, “let me take you to your room.”

She led Eline away like a child, and like a child she undressed her.

“Oh, my head!” groaned Eline, and she fell back exhausted on her
pillow. Betsy undressed her further and covered her, then she bathed
her face once more with a wet cloth.

“Come, try and sleep a little now. There is nothing more to be done for
the present—perhaps it will all come right again later on.”

Eline shook her head.

“Shall I sit down by your bed?”

Eline did not answer, and lay staring vacantly before her. Betsy closed
one of the red curtains and sat down.

The little white night-lamp glowed like a star on the table, and in the
panelling of the wardrobe, in the toilet glass, over the flask and
vases, on the muslin toilet duchesse, fitful gleams of light played
hither and thither, while the big, black shadows lay about everywhere,
motionless and gruesome, like so many dark spectres. Betsy sat
shivering in her dressing-gown; she wanted to think, but could not, for
continually the one idea returned to her mind, that Eline had written
to Otto. The hours dragged slowly by, and Betsy heard it strike one,
half-past one, two o’clock. Then the groaning behind the bed-curtain
died away. Betsy rose, and peeped through for a moment; it seemed Eline
was asleep, she lay motionless with closed eyes. Slowly and quietly
Betsy left the room.

In his own room Henk was still seated, leaning his head in his hands.
Neither of them went to bed, and they sat whispering together, now and
then listening whether any movement could be heard in Eline’s room.
They both feared something indefinable, of which they could not speak,
something that continually filled their thoughts with a vague, dread
terror.

“Hush!” cried Betsy all at once, for Henk was still whispering, and she
heard something. Both listened. From Eline’s room there came the sound
of a violent sobbing, the sobbing of a soul in despair, passionate and
loud. A chill trembling came over Betsy.

“I am so frightened,” she faltered in a quivering voice.

Henk left the room as quietly as possible, and walked across the dark
landing. The servants were in bed, the whole house was in darkness. In
Eline’s sitting-room, however, the gas was alight. There he sat down,
and he heard Eline in the adjoining room—she was sobbing, sobbing with
such intensity as he had never heard any one sob before; it sounded
hoarse, screeching, wild, as the voice of a sorrow that was past
comforting; every sob must pain and torture her, every sob re-echoed in
his own brain; with every sob he waited for the following. At last the
sobbing died away in a soft groaning, then it ceased altogether. All
was still. And Henk’s hair began to stand on end in his terror at the
tragic stillness that now reigned throughout the big house. He rose, he
was no longer master of his actions, he wanted to be certain, he must
see. For a moment, but for a moment only, he hesitated to enter Eline’s
bedroom; then he opened the door and entered.

On the rumpled bed, in the ruddy reflection of the curtains, lay Eline
with distorted features, her hair falling a dishevelled mass about her
head. The blankets she had cast aside. She seemed to sleep, but yet
every moment an inward sob appeared to shake her very frame as with a
shock of electricity, and under her eyes there were two deep, dark
circles. Henk looked at her, and his lips trembled with emotion at the
sight of that painful sleep. Gently he covered her with the blankets,
and he felt that she was very cold. A little longer he stood staring at
that tear-stained face, then he passed through the boudoir, where he
turned down the gas. And then that same tragic stillness filled the
dark house completely, that night of grief and terror.



CHAPTER XXIII.


In the morning Eline’s letter was handed to Otto. He would not give
himself the time to retire to his room, but walked straight into the
drawing-room, and throwing himself on the first seat he came to, he
opened the letter. And he commenced reading those words of grief and
remorse. There was no need for Eline to assure him that she had
suffered, suffered intensely in the writing of it. Thus much he read in
every word, and with every word a fresh dart of sorrow was plunged into
his breast. He read too, although she did not write it in so many
words, that every effort on his part to find his own happiness in her
love—even if he succeeded in once more calling her affections into
being for him—would be in vain; the lesson that he read from her
letter, in language which to him was clear and unmistakable, was that
they were separated for ever, because she had not possessed the
strength to preserve her love. A great, an immeasurable despair filled
him; he thought that had she had the strength, had she remained true to
him, he could have made her happy, because in the restfulness of his
own soul, in the soothing calm of his own love, she would have closed
her eyes and slumbered, to awaken again at last full of peaceful
happiness. Once he had felt certain that such would have been their
future; now, however, that idea appeared to have been but an idle
fantasy, nothing more.

Once again he looked through the letter, and it seemed to him as though
only then did he read it aright; yes, she was lost to him, lost
forever! A void, a hopeless vacuum surrounded him in his solitude in
the midst of the luxurious drawing-room, full of inanimate lustre, full
of big, chill mirrors and costly furniture, and with his moistened eyes
he looked around him and shuddered. Then he fell back on his chair, and
covered his face with his hands, and a single, painful sob escaped his
pent-up bosom. He felt a sensation as if everything within him was
being shattered and broken, as if that single bitter sigh, like the
breath of a hurricane, had dispelled and destroyed every budding
blossom of hopefulness with him—it seemed to him as if with him there
was nought left but that great, that immeasurable despair, and at that
moment he would fain have died. Softly he sobbed and sobbed, and a
feeling of bitterness arose in his breast. Had he deserved this, he who
had once discovered such a treasure in himself, he who had desired
nothing better than to make another share that treasure, that treasure
of peace and rest? His treasure was despised, and now he felt himself
poorer even than the poorest, and empty, utterly empty, in despair and
lassitude.

The door was slowly opened. It was Mathilde. She approached him as a
sad image of pity, she sat down beside him, and tried to remove his
hands from his face. He started violently, and looked at her with two
great, wildly staring eyes.

“What have you come to do here?” he asked in a disconsolate voice. For
there was nothing to do for him, nothing; he was dead to everything.

“What used you to come to me for, five years ago, when you used to sit
down beside me and draw me close to your side? And what did you come to
me for one evening, also five years ago now, when my husband—had—left
me—my husband, whom I have never seen since. Tell me, what did you come
to me for then? Did I then ask you what you ask me now?” she said
reproachfully. “You have had a letter from Eline, I know it, I have
seen the envelope. You need not tell me what it was about. I can feel
it instinctively. But, Otto, let me share your grief, do not turn a
deaf ear to my pleading.”

She saw his chest heaving under the mighty sob which he repressed with
a violent effort, and she threw her arm round his neck, and forced him
to lean his head upon her shoulder; and in his own sorrow he started,
terrified at the recollection of hers, of her grief, of which she never
spoke, and he felt that indeed she must sincerely desire to comfort
him, when for his sake she thus plunged herself anew into that great
sorrow of the past.

“Why do you speak about that?” he asked, for he knew that she suffered
least when she suffered in silence.

“So that you may feel that I understand you. And so that you may see
that I live still, and must continue to live; and especially to show
you that all the grief on earth is not yours exclusively. Perhaps that
idea may comfort you a little.”

“Oh!” he burst out sobbing, and he clung close to her, and tremblingly
handed her the letter. “There, read! read!” he cried.

She read the letter, and stroked his hair as if he had been a child.
Yes, that was as it should be, now he no longer forced himself to
control his feelings, now he felt not ashamed, in his obstinate
manliness, of his copious tears. And while she read, she thought of
Eline.

“Did she know what she was throwing away?” she mused. “What would she
do if she saw him thus? Is she not worthy of you, my Otto, my own
brother? or is it only that she is unhappy, unhappy as we are?”

Madame van Erlevoort came in with Frédérique. They had heard the news
from Henk.

Mathilde lifted up his head.

“There is mamma!” she said simply, as though she would no longer retain
him, now that another demanded his attention. But when he saw his
gentle mother, melting away as it were in his grief, deepest pity
filled his soul. He must comfort her.

“Mother, mother, do not cry like that! ’Tis not so terrible!” he cried
out in despair.

Frédérique remained standing, leaning against one of the folding doors.
Of her they took no notice whatever. Mathilde, mamma, could soothe and
comfort him, but she, she was of no use to him at all; she was silly,
childish, and would not know what to say to him. She remembered how,
one day, long before his engagement, she had spoken to him about Eline;
but now she had nothing to say, absolutely nothing. For, of course, she
did not understand what sorrow was, she herself had never suffered, she
had no feeling, she was a stone.

“A stone! they think I am a stone!” she repeated softly to herself, and
she remained leaning against the door-post and sobbed inaudibly,
disconsolate at the thought that she could not comfort Otto. She felt a
hand on her shoulder, and she turned almost haughty at being thus
misjudged. But when she saw his sorrowful face; those moist eyes, in
which, for the first time, she beheld tears; when she saw those lips
trembling under his moustache, and the deep furrows over his brow, she
flung herself, brimming over with pity, on his bosom, and clasping him
tightly in her arms, covered his face with burning, passionate kisses.



CHAPTER XXIV.


Vincent was busy packing, for the next day he would be leaving for
London. Henk tried to make him alter his mind and stay, but only
half-heartedly, for he felt well enough that when Vincent was once
away, a great obstacle to the peace of the house would be removed, and
Betsy would no longer be irritated by the presence of a cousin whom she
hated, whom she feared, and whom in her fear of him she had nurtured
and tended until she abhorred him. In the morning before his departure
Vincent had a last chat with Eline in her boudoir.

“Then you are going, really?” she asked.

“Certainly, my dear girl. You can see for yourself that Betsy can’t
bear me any longer.”

“What are you going to do in London?”

“I have to call on some acquaintances there—to arrange some money
matters before I go to America.”

“Are you going to America, then?”

“You know I am; haven’t you yourself brought me St. Clare’s letter?”

“I—I did not know that you had decided for certain. Poor Vincent!”

He looked at her with a quiet smile; not quite recovered from his
weakness, it rather soothed him to be pitied.

“Do you pity me so?”

“Yes—indeed, I pity. You are beginning your wanderings again, and who
knows if I shall ever see you again. Perhaps never, never again!”

She sighed.

“I am always happiest when I am on my wanderings.”

She felt an eager desire to ask him if she might accompany him, if she
might by his side also seek her fortune far away. But she did not know
how to shape her question, and she waited to see if perhaps he would
say something. For did he not love her? had he not wanted to go away
for her sake? Now there remained nothing more that need separate them.

“He is afraid to speak,” she thought, and she could not say whether she
was glad or sorry that he was afraid.

“Happiest on your wanderings!” she repeated musingly. “It is
possible—you are a man, you can wander. But I am a girl, I have always
lived a quiet life here. Happy am I? Heavens! No, that I am not!”

He glanced at her for a moment, as if about to ask her something; but
for a while he remained silent. Then he asked—

“And why—are you not happy?”

“Why!” she murmured.

She waited for him to proceed, until perhaps he should put to her the
question which she had awaited for days past. But no doubt it was owing
to a sense of honour and decency that he did not ask it; it was but
such a little while ago as yet that she had written to Otto. Still she
thought she could detect the presence of love beneath his soft accents,
and she looked at him. A ray of sunshine glinted along the
window-curtain into the room and fell upon him where he sat,
surrounding him with a kind of halo, and she started back in sudden
alarm when she observed by that brilliant light how he resembled her
dead father. This alarm caused her heart to pulse the quicker, and she
fancied that she loved Vincent for the sake of her father’s memory,
because in him she saw a victim of the world’s conventionality, and
thus she invested him with something ideal and romantic.

He, too, looked at her with pity in his heart, for he knew that she had
flung away her happiness. He had often done so himself, he thought; but
in his own case the fact had never disclosed itself to his eyes with
such distinctness as it did now with regard to Eline. For a moment he
wanted to tell her as much, but he could see no use in doing so, and so
he said nothing. She would never have admitted it.

“Vincent!” she faltered at last, with her nerves painfully overstrung
in the suspense of waiting, waiting for that which never came.
“Vincent, tell me—perhaps we shall never see each other again—have you
nothing—nothing to say to me?”

“I have, and a good deal, Elly dear; I have to thank you for having
tended and nursed me like a dear little girl, here in your own room, at
a time when you yourself were suffering.”

“How do you know that I suffered?”

“I have a little knowledge of human nature.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t think so. I have not suffered, I pity—Otto, but I have not
suffered myself.”

As she uttered that lie she felt it tortured her, but it was for the
sake of Vincent, who loved her, and who must not know of her own grief.
He looked at her penetratingly, asking himself why it was that she
lied, but he was at a loss to account for it, he could not understand
it at all; the only thing he did understand was that in the soul of
woman there always remained something that was strange and mysterious,
a mist that could not be penetrated. Neither did she understand him.
She could not understand why he did not ask her to love him, now that
there was nothing more to separate them, and now that he was on the
point of going away. In another hour he would be gone. Oh, perhaps he
thought it was too late. She sighed, and eagerly she said—

“Vincent, one thing you must promise me; if ever I can do anything for
you, write to me, and I assure you I shall not disappoint you. Will you
promise me this?”

“I promise you, and I thank you.”

“And something else. I know you are often in want of money. If at
anytime I can help you with any, pray write to me. Just now, for
instance, I have two hundred and fifty florins in cash lying here; are
they of any use to you? if so, they are at your disposal. May I give
you the money?”

She had already risen to open her escritoire, but he grasped her hand
with something like emotion.

“Elly—Elly—no, Elly—not that—thank you very much. It is most kind of
you indeed, but I could not return you the money for ever so long
perhaps.”

“Oh, come now, don’t—don’t refuse me. ’Tis a pleasure to me, I assure
you.”

“Once again, I don’t know how to thank you, but really—I—I cannot
accept it—really I can’t.”

She stood still, and her cheeks turned white as marble. Yes, yes,
indeed, he loved her, how could she doubt it? If he did not, would he
have refused to accept the money? Yes, she could see it, he would not
owe her money, because he loved her. But why did he not speak then?

At length he rose, the cab was to be at the door in a few minutes.

“Now I must really go,” said he. “Good-bye, Elly dear, good-bye; thank
you a thousand times for what you have done for me.”

“Good-bye, Vincent, good-bye.”

He made a movement as if he wanted to kiss her, and she threw her arms
round his neck and kissed him on both cheeks.

“Think of me sometimes, will you? I am fond of you, and I am really not
fond of many persons; I can count my affections easily enough. Well,
good-bye, Elly, good-bye, and perhaps, au revoir.”

Once more she kissed him, her eyes full of tears, and as he went she
threw herself on the sofa, and nodded her head to him for the last
time. He disappeared, closing the door behind him.

For a while she sat staring at that door. And when, after a few
moments, she heard his cab move away, she wondered that he had kissed
her so unreservedly and coolly in that final moment of parting. She
wanted to muse about him, because she did not understand him; she
wanted, too, to probe her own feelings and discover if she really loved
him, but she felt tired and her head ached, and with a weary sigh she
fell back in the cushions, covering her face with her hands.



It was the third day after Vincent’s departure, but although he had
left the house, there had been another tiff about him between Eline and
Betsy, who had spoken her mind about her “wretch of a cousin” in the
presence of visitors, and to Eline’s intense annoyance. The time had
now come, Betsy thought, when she should once for all let Eline know
that she was mistress in that house; and so, with the full intention of
doing so, she walked up-stairs in the evening into Eline’s boudoir.

“What do you want?” Eline said haughtily. “I should like to be alone.”

“May I remind you that you are in my house, and that if I feel inclined
to come here I shall do so! I have something to say to you.”

“Make haste then, for I tell you again I wish to be alone!”

“You wish! you! What right have you to wish, I should like to know? You
are in my house, and it isn’t for you to wish! Who do you think you
are, eh?” shrieked Betsy, exciting herself to a towering passion. “Do
you imagine you are a princess, and can do exactly as you like? or do
you fancy that I am going to be dictated to by you in the presence of
strangers?”

“Don’t you think I know what to say without your valuable advice? I
don’t want your advice, so there! And I assure you that in future,
whenever I hear you speak in that disgraceful way about Vincent, I
shall make you hold your tongue. Thus much I assure you.”

“Indeed, you assure me—you do, eh? But I don’t want your assurance, I
tell you. I have no intention to trouble myself in the least about your
idiotic tenderness for Vincent! Perhaps it was he from whom you learnt
the politeness to interrupt one among strangers as you dared to do to
me? I can’t understand how you can have the impertinence, I can’t
really. Why, they must have thought you were crazy. Well, if you are,
that must be your excuse! Fancy calling me vulgar; and what are you,
pray? you, who forget the very rudiments of politeness, and have——”

“Yes, I know, I have heard it before—have had the impertinence to
interrupt you, you were going to say. Do say something else for a
change. But you shall see that I dare more than that, if you attack
Vincent again. You think him false, do you? But I think you are false,
you who invite him here yourself, and then drive him out of the house,
you who for no reason whatever go on about him like a washerwoman! It
is you, you who are false!”

“Keep your beautiful epithets to yourself, please.”

“Then you just keep that wretched abuse of Vincent to yourself too,
please!” shrieked Eline, boiling with passion. “I won’t, do you hear, I
won’t hear it any longer. I have stood it long enough for the sake of
peace, but now I won’t stand it any longer! Do you understand?”

“Indeed, won’t you stand it any longer? Perhaps it was all on account
of that darling Vincent that you could not stand Otto any longer
either?”

“Hold your tongue!” screamed Eline.

“Or perhaps you are smitten with that reptile, and that is why you
treated Otto as if he had been a schoolboy with whom you were having a
little joke? You won’t bear my abuse of Vincent any longer, will you?
but I tell you that I won’t be compromised any more by you! Not bad,
I’m sure! To start with, you are silly enough to break your engagement,
and, out of pure caprice, without the slightest reason, you have made
yourself the talk of the town; then you carry on here in my house with
Vincent, as if you were in love with him, and as a wind-up you dare to
be impertinent to me before strangers! Well, I am not going to bear it
any longer, do you hear? If you have learnt that unmannerliness in your
philosophic discourses with Vincent——”

Eline could no longer control herself. Her nerves were strung to their
utmost tension, and quivered under Betsy’s insults as under the touch
of rough hands. And Betsy’s allusion to Otto, to her sympathy for
Vincent, which she fancied she had so successfully concealed, made her
furious. She grasped Betsy’s wrists in the nervous strength of her
fingers, and in a voice shrill with rage she cried—

“It is enough! Hold your tongue, I tell you. Don’t talk any more about
Otto, don’t say another word about Vincent, or I—I—I’ll do you an
injury! Don’t aggravate me any longer. Take care!”

Betsy wrenched herself free from her grasp.

“Eline, are you mad?” she cried, but Eline did not allow her to finish.
She remained standing in front of Betsy and clenching her trembling
hands.

“I tell you, you aggravate me, you aggravate me with that eternal
rubbish about your house. ‘My house! my house!’ I know I am in your
house, but I did not ask you to take me in, and I won’t be reminded
that I am in your house, as if you did me a charity. I am not dependent
on you although I am in your house, and I won’t be dictated to by you,
not in anything. I am free, quite free, to do just as I please.”

“Oh no, you are not; you are in my house, and you must behave yourself.
And if you don’t know how to behave yourself, I shall tell you, so long
as you are here!”

“And I won’t be told by you how I am to behave!” shrieked Eline. “I
tell you, I am free! I don’t want your house, about which you make so
much fuss, and I swear to you that I shall not stay another moment in
it! That I swear to you, I swear it, by all that is sacred! Enjoy your
house to yourself, or choke in it for my part!”

She was scarcely conscious of what she said. She had worked herself
into a paroxysm of rage, and with a rapid movement she picked up her
cloak from the floor and flung it round her shoulders. Then she rushed
towards the door, but Henk, who on hearing the loud voices had come
upon the scene, stopped her.

“Eline!” he began severely.

“Let me go, let me go!” she screamed like a wounded tigress, and she
pushed his big body aside with such a frantic strength as made him
stagger. Once more he attempted to stop her, but again she pushed him
aside, rushed out of the room, and down the stairs.

“Eline! In Heaven’s name, Eline! you don’t know what you are doing!” he
shouted to her from the landing, and rushed after her.

She heard no more. She had but one single thought: to fly from that
house, away from a shelter where she was reproached for her presence.
She saw nothing more; she saw neither Gerard nor the servants, who
stood looking at her in blank amazement; she hurried along the
vestibule, flung open the glass doors, and quickly drew the bolt from
the street-door. But now, now she heard behind her a rattling noise;
the door fell to with a bang, shattering the glass on the floor with a
loud crash.



Then the street-door too slammed behind her, and she found herself in
the street. The rain was falling in torrents, and the blustering wind
blew open her cloak, and beat in her face as with a damp thong. It was
impossible for her to plod on in the teeth of that boisterous
hurricane, and she turned the other way and allowed herself to be
driven along aimlessly by the force of the wind, which flew at her back
like a gigantic vampire, with big, tearing claws. Aimlessly she let
herself be carried along in that pitiful, that dismal night. In the
street she saw no one, and in her loneliness, in the lowering gloom, in
the splashing downpour, in the wild gusts of the storm, she at length
felt herself conscious of her position, and a chill, indefinable terror
overtook her. It seemed to her as though she had been suddenly wrenched
away from out of the midst of every-day life, and found herself plunged
into a sphere full of nameless, terrible anxiety and blank, dismal
despair. She nearly died with fright at the darkness that enveloped her
like a black shroud of grief, at the deluge which was pouring down upon
her bare head, utterly without protection from the wind gusts which
nearly blew her cloak from her shoulders, and numbed her with cold in
the thin black silk dress that fluttered about her in the buffeting
wind. Her little patent shoes went splashing along through mud puddles
and thick mire; her dishevelled hair hung dank and dripping down her
temples; and under her thin cloak she felt a chill moisture gliding
down her neck and down her bare bosom. She knew no longer where she
was; she started in fright at the twigs that fell about her, at the
howling of a watch-dog in a house she passed. And she saw no one, no
one.

But her condition brought her to herself. She felt conscious of having
fled from her sister’s house. She would fain have stood still for a
moment to reflect, but the strong wind thrust her forward, as though
she were one of the autumn leaves that were whirled about her head. And
she let herself be blown along, and collected her thoughts, while
tramping forward with involuntarily hurried footsteps. Despite her
pitiful condition, she felt neither remorse nor regret at the step she
had taken. And suddenly she felt astounded at her own courage. She
would never have imagined herself possessed of the pluck to run away in
such a night, without knowing whither to go. But she forced her
thoughts to take some practical shape, she could not continue wandering
about in this way, she must have an object.

All at once she noticed that she had reached the Laan Copes van
Cattenburgh. Driven forward by the wind, she hurried along the
rain-sodden, muddy path, while the storm swept in sullen fury across
the Alexanders-veld.

Continually she had to step back before the shower of loose twigs which
the wind blew from the trees, and she began to perceive that she was in
danger of being crushed by some falling trunk. A fear for her life
prevented her from thinking, but the more intensely that fear numbed
her heart, the more eagerly she nerved herself to do so. Whither in
Heaven’s name should she go? A chill tremor seized her—a vague,
undefined dread—while her wide, staring eyes were trying in vain to
peer through the dense gloom. To whom was she to go? To old Madame van
Raat? No, no, fond as she was of her, the old lady would be sure to
take the part of her son and her daughter-in-law! To the
Verstraetens—her brother-in-law’s relation? Everything began to surge
around her, and she—she felt herself lost in her black solitude, and
gradually sinking lower and lower into an abyss of grief and of mire!
Otto’s figure rose to her mind, and she would have given all that
remained her of her life could he have come to her at that moment,
could he have there and then borne her away in his arms, clinging to
his heart, to some abode of warmth, light, love, and safety. Her
courage all but failed her to go farther, she could have flung herself
down in that mire through which she plodded, and remain lying there,
letting the winds sweep over her until her last breath should have
escaped her! But no! that would be all too cowardly after the pluck she
had already shown, and now she must, she would set her mind to think of
some place of refuge. Not Madame van Raat—not the Verstraetens—in
Heaven’s name whither should she go then? And all at once, like a
lightning flash darting through the gloom of that night of blank
despair, an idea struck her, and her mind reverted to a certain suite
of humble apartments, to Jeanne, her friend of former days. Yes,
thither she must go: she knew no one else, and she could not for ever
go on wandering along in that pouring rain, in that howling storm; and,
bracing herself up to face the buffeting wind, she hurried
round—numbed, chill, and wet to the skin—by the Alexanders-veld in the
direction of the Hugo de Grootstraat. There, over on the opposite side
of the field, she could just see the backs, lit up here and there with
a faint gas glimmer, of the houses on the Nassauplein, but she could
not distinguish which of them was theirs—hers no longer. A wild,
longing remorse now filled her poor, despairing heart at the
recollection of all she had lost yonder, at the thought that she had
yet to plod on for so long through the raging storm ere she could reach
the Ferelyns. And she was tired, tired unto death, tired from her
quarrel with Betsy, tired with the rain that was unceasingly beating
down upon her face, cold and cutting as thongs of steel, tired with the
wind against which she struggled as with an immense black monster, that
was dashing her to and fro as though she had been a human battledore.
She felt more fatigued with every step she took in her little patent
shoes, which were bespattered with mud, and with every movement
threatened to slip from her feet. And oh! she could have died with
misery, with distress, with grief.

But forward, still forward she must go, and she fought and struggled on
with the monster and slowly gained upon it. In this way she reached the
Javastraat, and then she turned to the right, towards the Laan van
Meerdervoort. The hurricane shook her as though it would break her like
a reed, and a heavy branch struck her on the shoulder, and scratched
her face so that she screamed with pain. And suddenly, with despair
overmastering her body and soul, desperate with fear and grief, she
made an attempt to start running, running as if for very life, and
fly—fly to the Ferelyns. But the furious wind stopped her, it was in
vain, she could only proceed slowly, painfully, step by step.

“Oh God! What have I done?” she cried in wild despair. Those familiar
streets, along which she trod almost daily, seemed to her, in that
noisome darkness, as the unknown ways of a demon city along which she
was doomed to wander like some accursed phantom. She passed by Madame
van Raat’s house, and she had to summon forth all her courage, all the
strength of her will, not to knock at that door, that would surely open
to her, and admit her to light and warmth. But no, it was too late,
Madame would be asleep; besides, she would reproach Eline with her
flight from the Nassauplein. And she plodded on, driven forward by the
wind and by an obstinate fixed idea, towards the house of the Ferelyns.
She went on, on, although with every step she took she felt her thin
little saturated shoes growing heavier, heavier than lead. She turned
at the Spiegelstraat—how much longer should she have to suffer? She
counted the minutes—then—then she entered the Hugo de Grootstraat. And
the furious rain beat down more savagely than ever on her face, more
roughly than ever the wind tugged and tore at her cloak, when—thank
God!—she stood at their door. She could see no light anywhere, but she
did not hesitate. Here only could she find safety. And she rang the
bell violently, roughly, passionately, as with a tintinnabulating cry
for help.



The time to her seemed unendurably long before any one answered. But at
last she heard steps coming down the stairs, the bolt was drawn with a
grating sound, then the door was slowly, stealthily opened, and a face
appeared at the opening.

“In God’s name!” she cried imploringly, and pushed the door quite open
and rushed inside. “It is I, Eline.”

The door closed and she stood in the darkness before Frans Ferelyn,
who, in utter amazement, shouted out her name. At the top of the stairs
appeared Jeanne with a lamp, and in her longing for light, for warmth,
for glow, her will once more got the better of failing strength, and
she hastened up the stairs.

“Jeanne!—Jeanne!—I implore you—help me. It is I—Eline, oh, help me!
help me, do!”

“Great heavens, Eline!” Jeanne cried, as she stood paralyzed with
astonishment.

“Help me, do. I have—run away from them. Help me, do, or I shall die.”

She sank down soaking wet at Jeanne’s feet, and where she lay the
stairs were soon wet with the water that dripped from her cloak.

“Great heavens, Eline! Eline!” cried Jeanne, who could not believe her
own eyes.

Eline had burst out sobbing, and remained crouched at Jeanne’s feet.
Jeanne attempted to lift her up; and wherever her hands touched her,
she felt her icy cold and soaked through with the rain.

“In Heaven’s name, Eline, what have you done? What has happened? You
are so wet—so wet—wet and cold all over. Great heavens, Eline!” She led
Eline, who walked with tottering steps, into Frans’s little office, and
set down the lamp. Eline fell exhausted on a chair, the dirty
rain-water oozing through her clothes.

“Yes—yes,” cried Eline. “I have run away from them, I could not stop
with them any longer. And I have come to you—because I don’t know where
else to go. Oh, Jeanne, do, do help me!” she went on, in a voice broken
with sobs.

Jeanne trembled with nervousness and pity.

“Tell me about that afterwards, Eline. Let me undress you—you will be
ill in these wet things.”

“Yes, yes, undress me, do—that cloak, those shoes, oh, I am sick of
myself. I am all over mud. Great heavens! oh, that I were dead!” She
threw herself, trembling all over, backward in her chair. Frans had
come into the room.

“Oh, Frans, just look here,” said Jeanne, shaking with excitement, and
pointed to Eline. “I hope she won’t be ill.”

“Without a hat, in that thin, low-necked dress! I shall try and light
the fire down-stairs. You undress her.”

He was still as if paralyzed with Eline’s appearance, and he too
trembled with pity, quite unable to speak, as he saw her sitting in
that chair, the water dripping from her hair on her white face and down
her throat, her black evening dress clinging to her like a wet flannel.
But he went. He must be up and doing.

And outside raged the storm.



She was now in their well-lit sitting-room, lying on a couch which
Frans had placed by the side of the flaming stove, and she shivered
with fever under her woollen blankets. And yet she felt a grateful
sense of well-being in that light, in sight of those flames, intensely
grateful that she was saved from the demoniac powers of darkness.
Suddenly she raised herself up.

“Jeanne,” she shrieked in a hoarse voice to the little trembling woman,
who was preparing a steaming hot drink. “Jeanne! I implore you, forgive
me for keeping you up such a night as this. But, in Heaven’s name,
where was I to go to? Oh, that rain, that wind! It drives me mad to
think of it. I had no idea that a person could be in such distress as I
have suffered this night. But really, I could not stay with them any
longer. As for that Betsy, oh, how I hate her.”

“Eline, I entreat you, be calm now.”

“Why did she mention Otto’s name? What right has she to mention Otto’s
name? I hate her! I hate her!”

“Eline! Eline!” Jeanne cried, clasping her hands.

She flung herself before the couch.

“Eline, I beseech you, I beseech you, in Heaven’s name! Be calm! Rest
yourself now, Eline.”

Eline, with her feverish, staring eyes, looked long at Jeanne, then she
threw her arm round her neck.

“Lie down and rest yourself now, Eline; rest yourself, if you cannot
sleep.”

A hollow sob burst from Eline’s throat.

“Oh, you are an angel!” she whispered in broken tones. “I shall never
forget what you are doing for me, never. It is as if you have rescued
me from an abyss of despair. Oh, that mud! You care for me then, Jany?”

“Yes, yes, Eline, of course I do; but rest now, rest yourself now.”

“Oh! rest myself.”

That single word ‘rest’ cut Jeanne to the quick. Eline pronounced it in
a voice full of despair, as if for her there would never more be any
rest. Still she allowed Jeanne to ensconce her snugly in the pillows,
and emptied the glass that Jeanne offered her.

“Thanks, thanks, Jany,” she faltered.

Jeanne covered her up with the blankets and sat down beside her. The
windows rattled in the wind, and the bare branches beat furiously
against the glass. The clock over the chimney struck three.



It had just struck three, too, in the house of the Van Raats, when
Frans Ferelyn drew up in front of their door in a cab. The storm still
roared and shrieked like some wounded monster that was savagely
fighting for life above the housetops of the dark city. Frans sprang
from the cab and rang the bell. He noticed that the gas was lighted in
the vestibule.

The door was opened immediately by Henk, who appeared to be expecting
some one. But on seeing Frans rush inside, he stepped back in
astonishment.

“Is that you, Ferelyn?” he cried.

“Yes, don’t be alarmed,” said Frans, calming him, for he saw that Henk
was in a terrible state of excitement. “It is all right; Eline is with
us.”

He walked further inside, crushing the glass that lay scattered all
over the vestibule.

“With you, is she? Thank God!” exclaimed Henk. “I was mad, mad; I did
not know what to do! Thank God she is with you.”

“Come in, Ferelyn,” came in a trembling voice from Betsy, who appeared
at the door of the dining-room.

The servants were also in the vestibule, and their frightened faces
cleared up a little, while they retired whispering into the kitchen.
Frans entered the dining-room with Henk.

“You need not be alarmed, madam; really, for the moment it is all
right. Eline was wet through, but Jeanne has taken her under her care.
You can imagine what a fright it gave us when we heard such a loud
knocking at the door, and at such an hour, and we saw her soaked
through.”

Suddenly he noticed Henk’s face.

“But I say, what has happened to you? Your cheek is all over blood.”

“Oh, that’s nothing at all. When Eline ran away I rushed after her, and
through the wind the door in the vestibule fell to and broke the glass.
The shattered glass sprang into my eyes, and so I could not at once run
after her. Still, as soon as I could I got out into the street with
Gerard, to drag her home again if necessary. But it was so confoundedly
dark; the gas-lamps were blown out in the storm, and I could see
nothing of her. I did not know what to do. Then we went to the
police-station on the Schelpkade, and they sent out some night-watchmen
to find her. She was in such a state. I thought perhaps she might have
made an end of herself, and in this infernal weather anything might
happen to her. My eye pains me; I shall go and see an oculist
to-morrow.”

Betsy fell down with a sigh in a chair.

“Oh, ’tis terrible, terrible!” she faltered. “That girl can behave like
a maniac sometimes!”

“Of course, if you do your best to drive her mad!” cried Henk angrily,
with his hand on his eye.

“Ah, bien! Yes, blame me for it.”

“Van Raat, there is just a thing or two I want to say to you,”
interrupted Frans. “In the first place, I came round here without a
moment’s delay, because I feared you would be terribly anxious about
her.”

“Old chap, I don’t know how I can thank you.”

“Never mind about that just now. But Eline has positively declared that
she would not go back to you. Now I need not tell you that such an
affair as that soon gets wind; people begin to talk, and all that, and
that! not very pleasant. And the servants know all about it too, don’t
they?”

Betsy gave Frans a grateful look for touching that point.

“Oh, well, how can you help that?” cried Henk impatiently. “People will
always talk.”

“Yes, that’s true enough; but anyhow you come round to my house as soon
as you can to-morrow, and see if you can’t persuade Eline to return
home. That is, of course, if she is not ill; just now I thought she was
rather feverish. So you had better let her rest a bit now; but come as
early as possible to-morrow.”

“All right,” said Henk, with a dazed look.

“I believe she was delirious when I went out to fetch a cab, but still
she seemed very determined. She would not go back, and she gave me her
keys. She asked me”—and he looked at Betsy—“to arrange her things here
and pack them. But I think she said it all in her passion; I hope in
any case that by this time to-morrow we shall have come to some
amicable arrangement.”

“Look here, Ferelyn!” said Betsy uneasily; “you can well understand the
despair I am in. Good gracious, it isn’t the first tiff I have had with
Eline, but who could imagine her capable of such a mad freak as this?
And as you say, all the Hague will be talking about it. Therefore if
you can manage to persuade her to come back, I shall be for ever
grateful to you. Our house is always open to her; and as for those
keys, you had better leave them here. I am of your opinion, and think
it will all come right yet. Good heavens! what a blessing that she came
to you! But in such a night as that, alone, out in that storm! How
could she have done it? Good heavens! How could she have done it?”

Frans had still to talk about one or two matters with Henk, who asked
him to stay till the morning, as Frans had sent his cab away, and the
weather was still frightfully boisterous. Gerard conducted Frans to
Henk’s dressing-room, where he removed his wet clothes.



Early next morning Henk drove with Frans to an oculist. It was only a
vein that had burst in Henk’s eye, and after a little grain of glass
had been removed from it with a lancet, he felt greatly relieved. But
across his cheek there was a long, ugly cut.

“I look as though I had been in the war,” said he, with an attempt at a
smile to Ferelyn, as soon as they were in the carriage again, on their
way to the Hugo de Grootstraat, “and indeed, old fellow, it does seem
as if we were all at war just now. I have got enough of it already.”

Ferelyn could not help pitying him when he saw that kindly honest face
suffused with a gloomy melancholy. It was evident enough that Henk
looked forward with a deal of misgiving to the interview with Eline.
But the ordeal was spared him. Eline passionately refused to receive
him, and in the adjoining room he sat and listened anxiously to the
reproaches she levelled at Frans. Why did Frans want to bring him? Why
had she given Frans her keys? Was Frans, too, no longer to be trusted?

Eline’s voice sounded hoarse and rough, and to Henk it seemed that she
was delirious. Then he heard a soft, reproachful whispering of Jeanne,
followed by the sobbing of Eline, who accused herself of ingratitude.

Soon Frans came back, shrugging his shoulders.

“She won’t see you. You had better resign yourself to it. I believe she
is in a violent fever. Do you think Reyer is still at home? If so, I
should drive down to him if I were you.”

“All right,” said Henk dejectedly, “I will go.”

Eline was still lying on her couch covered with woollen blankets, and
she groaned softly as if in pain.

“You are so kind to me, Jany, but you see of course I can’t remain
here, and trouble you like this,” she went on, sorrowfully. “You
haven’t very much room. I must be an inconvenience to you. This
afternoon I shall go to an hotel.”

Jeanne sat down beside her and took her hands in hers.

“Eline, be sensible now, and don’t talk any more about that. Believe
me, you are ill; you remain quietly here with us. I won’t insist that
you shall return to Betsy’s, but then you must not talk about going to
an hotel.”

“Yes, but if I am ill—I don’t believe I am, but you say so—if I am ill,
it will be some time before I can leave you again. And—and—oh, forgive
me for saying it—I know you cannot afford it, Jany dear; forgive me,
forgive me for saying it.”

Jeanne looked at Eline tenderly, and her eyes filled with tears.

“If it’s that, Eline, pay us then and stay here; pay us, and don’t talk
any more about an hotel. I won’t be ashamed of it; you may pay me for
it if you want to. But stay here—stay.”

Eline started up with her wild staring eyes and her dishevelled hair,
which Jeanne brushed in vain from her temples. And she clung to Jeanne
with a sudden intensity, as if in her burning grief she plunged into
the grateful cooling waters of pity and sympathy.

“Oh, you darling! you angel!” she cried. “Forgive me, I—I did not mean
to grieve you, but—but—oh, yes, indeed, I will gladly stay, you are so
good. May I stay?”



That afternoon old Madame van Raat and Madame Verstraeten came to see
Eline, and endeavoured to persuade her to return to the Nassauplein.
Eline, however, refused to receive them. Even Betsy allowed Jeanne to
persuade her to call on Eline, and ask her pardon. Jeanne thought it
was Betsy’s duty to try and make her peace with her sick sister, and it
might have a favourable effect on her. But Betsy Eline would not see
either. And in the adjoining room Betsy, with her mother-in-law and her
aunt, heard, as Henk had heard that morning in silence and anxiety, how
Eline declared to Jeanne that she would not—would not see any one. Only
Jeanne and no one else would she see about her! Before long Eline’s
quarrel with the Van Raats and her flight to the Ferelyns became the
general topic of conversation. Of the details of the dispute they did
not know much; only, of this they were certain, that in that stormy
night Eline had been seen sitting in a carriage with a night-watchman
and a young man, and to say the least of it they thought it passing
strange! But then Eline had always been rather eccentric. In the winter
she had been in the habit of taking early morning walks alone in the
wood—what respectable young girl would think of doing such a thing as
that? Now—that affair with Erlevoort too, that was a bit mysterious;
and now there was that romance with a young man and a night-watchman!
It was a pity certainly, for she was really such a nice girl, so pretty
and graceful; but had they not always been a strange family, those
Veres?

Betsy was mad with spite at this talk, and she scarcely ventured to
show herself anywhere, seeking her refuge only at the Verstraetens’ and
with Emilie de Woude.



CHAPTER XXV.


A month had elapsed, a month which Eline spent with the Ferelyns, as
Jeanne would not allow her to go until she had quite recovered. Reyer
had told them that Eline had caught a severe cold which, with the least
neglect, might prove fatal. Jeanne in the meantime tended her with
gentle care; Frans’s little office she had had fitted up specially for
her, and when Eline protested and began again to talk about an hotel,
Frans himself declared that he thought he ought not to work so hard, a
little rest was necessary for him. Eline, therefore, embraced Jeanne
with a passionate gratitude and stayed on, while her violent fits of
coughing filled the little house as with a painful echo.

Her cough was a little better now; she felt not quite as much pain on
her chest. But she had grown very thin, her eyes were hollow and dull,
and her face was wan and sallow. She sat in a big chair close to the
little stove, and she gazed out of the window and amused herself a
little watching the tradesmen—the butcher, the greengrocer, the
milkman—as they called from house to house; she amused herself watching
the servants who opened the door—a stout, red-faced one here, a tall
thin one there, then again the mistress herself, in a black apron and a
dirty little lace cap.

Then she rose and looked in the little black-framed glass, simple as
all around her was. She expected some one, and she looked eagerly at
her face; it was such a long time since she had seen him; what sort of
impression would she make on him, with that sallow face and those
sunken eyes?

For Betsy had written a long letter to her uncle, Daniel Vere, who
during Eline’s minority had been her guardian, and who was only lately
married and living in Brussels. When old Aunt Vere died he was still
single, so that it was out of the question for Eline to make her home
with him. He came but seldom to the Hague, and when he received Betsy’s
letter, in which Eline’s flight was described to him, it seemed to him
that he was being drawn into matters that did not concern him. He
replied to it, however, and at the same time wrote to Eline, asking her
for an interview. His letter surprised her, and agreeably so, and she
thought that through him she could see a relief from her present
position, which, when she should have quite recovered, would certainly
be no longer bearable to her. She therefore replied to him in the most
amiable terms, and promised to do as he required her on the one
condition only, that he did not ask her to make her peace with her
sister and again to make her home with the Van Raats; that she should
on any account have to refuse, as the past had already taught her that
Betsy and she could not get on together; with whom the fault was it was
not for her to say.

Vere then telegraphed what day and hour he would be coming to see
Eline. And now she awaited him, and examined her emaciated features,
and feared, as she saw herself so worn and emaciated, that she would
not be able to shed around her that all-powerful charm with which she
attracted every man towards her. She drew down the curtain a little, so
that the light should not fall with such a glare on her sallow
complexion. In the afternoon he came.

He was tall and slender, with the somewhat languid movements peculiar
to all the Veres except Betsy, who was more like her mother. On Eline,
who had not seen him for two years, he made a very favourable
impression. He had the appearance of a thorough man of the world, and
she felt a little ashamed to receive him in this little room and amid
these humble surroundings. She rose slowly and languidly from her seat,
and walked towards him, while Jeanne shut the door and retired.

“How do you do, uncle?” said Eline softly. “I am very glad to see you,
very glad.”

She held out her hand to him, and pointed to a chair. He sat down,
looked at her rather searchingly, smiled a little sad smile, and shook
his head.

“For shame, Eline,” he began slowly. “What sorrow you have caused me.
Do you know I’m very dissatisfied with you, little girl?”

“I suppose Betsy has written all sorts of things about me?” she asked
with assumed indifference, but with real curiosity.

“What Betsy has written me came upon me like a thunderbolt. I had no
idea that you were so out of sympathy with your sister. I thought you
were very happy at the Van Raats’. Last spring you wrote me such an
enthusiastic letter about your engagement, and now Betsy tells me that
you have released Van Erlevoort from his word. But still I had no idea
whatever that such scenes had taken place. Eline, Eline, how can you
allow yourself to be carried away like this by your feelings, without
the slightest attempt at self-control?”

He searched a little for his words, proceeding cautiously, with much
misgiving whether she would allow him to persuade her to another
course. The news of her flight had given him the idea that she was a
very violent, impetuous creature. Now her gentle reticence seemed to
him very suspicious, and he feared every moment that she would jump up
and do something desperate. But she replied very quietly—

“Look here, uncle. I ran away from Henk and Betsy, it is true; but that
is no reason why you should imagine that I do nothing but silly things.
I was beside myself with passion because of Betsy’s aggravating manner.
Now I’m sorry that I did not control myself, that I did not simply turn
my back on her, to leave her house the next day in peace and quietness.
But I think you will agree with me that there are moments in life
when—yes, when one is no longer master of oneself.”

“And you are determined, then, that you will not return?”

“I thought I had told you as much in my letter,” she answered, a little
piqued.

“That is true; but I hoped—perhaps you would alter your mind.”

“Never!” she said calmly and deliberately, and still with a certain
hauteur.

“Very well then; if that is the case we shall not return to it. I am
sorry if that is your decision, but I suppose you have considered
everything?”

“Oh yes,” she said, and gave a little cough.

“Well, then I must propose something else; or rather—what do you think
of doing when you have got rid of that wretched cough?”

Eline looked at him with some anxiety, and all her pride vanished.

“I have been thinking about it myself. I really don’t know. Perhaps I
shall go and live by myself. I have a good many things of my own, and I
can be economical. Then perhaps too I can get some one to stay with
me.”

And in her fancy she already saw herself ensconced in a set of quaint
little rooms something like those she occupied now, and her eyes filled
with tears.

“That is a sensible idea, at all events. Here in the Hague do you
think?”

“Well, yes, I dare say; but I really am not certain. Maybe I shall go
to a smaller place.”

“Well, anyhow that is an after consideration. The fact is, there is
something I wanted to propose to you myself.”

He took her hand, and glanced at her with his lack-lustre eyes. And she
thought that perhaps he was about to ask her to come and stay with them
in Brussels; if so, should she accept?

“I am going abroad with your aunt, Eline, for the winter. I cannot help
laughing when I speak about your ‘aunt,’ for, as you know, she is
scarcely five years your senior. We are first going to Paris, and then
perhaps to Spain. And so now I wanted to suggest that you should
accompany us. You want a little change after what has happened; we may
perhaps stay abroad right through the winter. When you get tired of it
you can leave, and then there will be time enough to go and live by
yourself. With my wife I dare say you will get on very well, she is
very good company, a real Française. What do you think of this plan?”

Eline looked at him confusedly with her tearful eyes. Yes, it was very
true she needed change, and she should travel about right through the
winter! And at that thought it was as if a flood of sunshine had
suddenly lit up the sombre darkness of her soul. No life without change
Vincent had said.

“I really do not know what to say, uncle,” she said with some emotion.
“I am not very cheerful just now, and I fear you won’t find me pleasant
company.”

“That is nothing at all, my girl; when you find yourself in different
surroundings, and see different faces, your ideas will change too.
There is nothing so necessary in this life as change; we cannot live
without it!”

She started, and looked at him with a smile. It was as if Vincent had
spoken! And she felt grateful, very grateful, for his kind offer, for
his kindly voice. Yes, she consented, consented with gratitude.

“You see, you can come and stay with us in Brussels for a few days
first, and then we can go; we do a deal of travelling, and we do it
economically, but without denying ourselves any pleasure. You see, we
understand the art, and as for you—you have money enough, you are a
good catch for anybody, aren’t you, eh?” he concluded smilingly.

“I a good catch? My wealth is not very great, I can tell you, and I am
no longer in the market,” she said with a little sad smile. “You see, I
am getting old gradually; I’ve served my time.”

He spoke to her as cheeringly as he could. Her trip would cure her of
all those gloomy ideas. After Jeanne, whom Eline had called into the
room, had been told of the plan, he left; he had still to pay a visit
to the Nassauplein, to the Van Raats.

Eline remained alone while Jeanne conducted him to the door. A
multitude of thoughts rushed through her brain, like showering
rose-leaves, like sparks of sunshine, like glittering bubbles of soap.
She looked out of the window at the great clouds of dust which the wind
blew up from the paths and roadways. And she turned away shuddering at
the grave tints of autumn that met her gaze, when all at once her eye
fell on Frans’s diary, which was hanging on the wall, with the date
15th November distinctly visible.

Great heavens! that was the very day which only a few months ago Otto
and herself had fixed upon as—their wedding day! Her gaze was as
transfixed on those black figures. A wild, a hopeless grief and remorse
suddenly overwhelmed all her new bright happiness, and savagely she
flung herself into her big chair and sobbed as if she would sob her
very life out.



The news soon spread; the Eekhofs, the Hydrechts, and the Van Larens
repeated it to one another; Eline Vere was going abroad with her uncle,
Daniel Vere, who lived in Brussels and had only been married a year.



CHAPTER XXVI.


Her head languidly resting against the red velvet cushions, Eline was
seated alone in the ladies’ coupé. She listened mechanically to the
rattling of the wheels along the rail, and it seemed to her as if she
heard a nervous tattoo in that monotonous hard melody of steel and
iron. Once or twice she took her handkerchief and wiped the glass to
have a glance outside, where the gray evening shades were falling, and
an opaque mist was rising over the meadows. In a few minutes she would
be in the Hague, in the Hague, where now she had not been for eighteen
months, and after her continuous wanderings the place seemed dear to
her now, a place where yet she might find something of a home.

For eighteen months she had been travelling, and in all that time she
had lived with strangers without the smallest spot that she could call
her own. The changeful life she had led made the time pass rapidly;
change, ceaseless change had been hers. New cities, new scenes, new
people, wherever she went, until she was tired, dead tired of all this
variety. Now she longed for rest and calmness, for a long dull period
of slumbering repose, free from dreams and free from sorrows.

Something of a home! Should she indeed find that, with that sad, aged
woman who loved her, but who did not understand her as she was
now—quiet, sadly quiet, and tired, utterly tired of her young life? For
henceforth she would be sad and quiet and tired of it all, she would
not again excite herself to an artificial glitter of gaiety, as she had
been forced to do among the strangers with whom she had sojourned.

She heard the shrill whistle of the engine, and the lights that
glimmered through the mist grew in number at every moment. She was
approaching the Hague slowly. She rose, arranged her hat and her veil,
placed her book and her scent-bottle in her leather satchel, and sat
waiting, looking somewhat thin and worn, her face sallow and emaciated,
her eyes dull and sunk deep within their sockets. She sat waiting until
the train glided into the station and came to a stop.

Her heart beat and the tears glistened on her lashes. Through the
steam-covered glass, in the dull glow of the gas-lights, she could see
the busy turmoil of the station, and she heard the loud voices of the
guard calling out—

“Hague, Hague!”

The carriage-door was opened; she rose, her portmanteau, her rug and
sunshades in her hand. Amid the rushing to and fro of the travellers
her eyes sought Paul; she knew that he was coming to fetch her, and she
gave a sudden start when she saw a familiar burly form make his way
through the crowd and approach her.

“Henk!” she cried.

He helped her out and she nearly fell into his arms, while Paul, who
followed him, relieved her of her luggage.

“Elly—my child! Elly, dearest!” said Henk in a choking voice, and
gently he kissed her, while she lay her sobbing head on his shoulder.
She scarcely heard Paul’s greeting, and quite mechanically she held out
her hand to him. A wild sob escaped her. But Henk still spoke on, he
took her arm and led her to the front of the station where his carriage
was waiting. She let him lead her, full of undefined thoughts, full of
a vague sadness, and she leant on his hand and stepped into the
carriage.

“We shall wait for Paul a moment,” said Henk, who took his place beside
her.

She did not answer, but lay back in the cushions and covered her head
with her hand.

“I did not expect to see you, Henk; it’s very kind of you, very kind
indeed,” she at last was able to say. He gently pressed her hand, and
leaned his head out of the window. Paul was approaching.

“All the luggage is right,” he said, and sprang into the carriage.
“Well, Elly dear, I am glad to see you again.”

The footman closed the door and the carriage rolled away. Paul said
nothing more, neither did Eline or Henk. By the light of every gas-lamp
they passed, Paul saw Eline lying back in the cushions motionless, her
hands covering her face, her bosom heaving with sobs, and they remained
silent.



It was past ten when the carriage drew up in front of the house in the
Laan van Meerdervoort. The footman rang the bell, the door was opened,
they stepped out. In the hall stood Madame van Raat, trembling with
emotion, and Eline rushed towards her and flung her arms round her
neck.

“Dear, dear little madam! dear little mother!” she sobbed, “you will
have me stay with you, won’t you?”

The old lady wept like a child, and took Eline’s arm and led her into
the dining-room; the table was laid, and supper was waiting.

“Oh, what a dear old darling you are!” cried Eline. “I am so glad, so
glad that I may come and stay with you.” She clasped the weeping old
lady in her arms, and Madame van Raat made her sit down on the sofa,
and sat down beside her with her arm round her waist. What a time it
was since she had seen Eline, and how was she looking now? All right?
“Oh yes, yes, I am quite well,” cried Eline, and kissed her again and
again.

But the old lady undid Eline’s veil, and helped her to remove her hat
and her cloak. And oh, very soon she saw—that emaciated frame, those
hollow cheeks, those dull eyes.

“My child,” she cried, unable to contain herself, “my child, oh, how
changed you are, how bad you look!”

Eline embraced her passionately, and hid her glowing little head in the
old lady’s bosom.

“Oh, you must not take any notice of that, I am a little tired of
travelling—perhaps I look a little pale, eh? Really you shall see, when
I’ve been with you a little time again, I shall look as fresh as a
daisy.” She smiled at the old lady through her tears, and kissed her
repeatedly, now her cheeks, then her old shrivelled hand.

Henk and Paul entered, and they too were touched by Eline’s altered
appearance, but although it alarmed them, they said nothing. The old
lady could not keep her eyes from Eline; she wiped her eyes, and asked
Eline whether she would not like to wash her hands.

“No, never mind,” cried Eline; “I feel a little dusty, but it does not
matter. Oh, Henk, my dear old Henk.”

She motioned Henk towards her, made him sit down by her side, and
clasped his big head in her little hands.

“Aren’t you—aren’t you angry with me any more, Henk?” she murmured
close to his ear.

He bit his lips with emotion. “I never was—angry with you,” he
stammered with a choking voice. She kissed him, then released her hold
of him, gave a sigh of relief, and cast a long glance around her. Yes,
she had found something of a home.

They sat down at table, but Eline had no appetite; she just touched her
soup, but eat she could not at all. But she asked Paul to fill and
refill her glass, for she was thirsty. The wine and her emotion brought
a blush to her sallow cheeks, and when the old lady asked her why Uncle
Daniel had not brought her home, she laughed, a loud and nervous laugh.
Oh, she could very well journey from Brussels to the Hague by herself;
uncle wanted to take her, but she refused his escort, she was so used
to travelling now. Nothing was easier than travelling, she need only
pack her trunks, ask a few questions here and there, and take her seat
in the carriage. Why, it was nothing.

Quickly and nervously she spoke on, her glass, which she repeatedly put
to her lips, clasped in her hands. She spoke about her life in Paris,
in Bordeaux, and in Spain. Ah! Spain, there she lived again. Spain! the
land of romance, the land of ancient Moorish chivalry and elegance. As
for Granada and the Alhambra it was grand, magnificent; to the
bull-fights she would never go, although Elise had laughed at her, but
she could not stand it, such a dirty thing to see those dead, mangled,
bleeding beasts.

Paul laughed, and she laughed too, and pitied the poor bulls, and still
she spoke on; the old lady continually urged her to eat something, but
she refused.

“Really not, little madam, really not, thank you. I can only drink a
little, I’m so thirsty. May I have another glass?”

“Can you take so much wine, child?”

“Oh yes, it makes me sleep beautifully. If I don’t take wine I lie
awake all night, and that is so wretched. Cordova is a beautiful city
too, there is such a grand mosque there.”

And she allowed herself to be driven forward along the nervous stream
of her travelling impressions. Why did not Paul travel more than he
did? if she were a young man and had money, she would always travel,
always. Long journeys would she make, from New York to San Francisco,
and then by sea to Japan, all over the world. How beautiful! It was
splendid, splendid in a railway carriage, she could pass her life in a
train! The old lady shook her head, gently smiling at her enthusiasm.

“But nicer still than all it is to come and live with you here, my dear
little madam, my little dot,” she cried; and with sudden impetuosity
she embraced the gray-haired old lady.

After supper Madame van Raat suggested that Eline should go and take a
little rest in her room. Eline agreed, but little madam was to stay
with her—would she? Paul had an appointment with some friends, and took
his leave, and Henk too rose.

“May Betsy come and see you to-morrow?” he whispered a little
anxiously. She smiled and looked at him questioningly, pressing his
hand.

“Certainly,” she replied; “kiss her for me, will you? And how is Ben,
has he grown much?”

“Oh yes, he is an immense boy. You shall see him to-morrow. Well,
good-bye, Elly, good-night.”

“Good-bye, Henk, till to-morrow.”

Henk left, and Madame took Eline up-stairs to her room.

“For the present I cannot give you a sitting-room, Elly,” she said on
the staircase, “at least so long as Paul is with me.”

“Where does he think of going to then?”

“He wants to live by himself; that is best too for a young man, is it
not? But your bedroom is a very large one, you know that room next to
mine?”

“Oh yes, I remember, ’tis a splendid room.”

In her room the gas was lit, and the French windows were open, so that
the cool evening air blew inside. Eline coughed a little when she
entered.

“’Tis rather cool, I shall close the window,” said the old lady.

Eline looked about her in astonishment, and her eyes grew moist.

“But, little madam, little madam, what have you done?” she exclaimed
with emotion.

For wherever her eye went she saw some souvenir of her rooms on the
Nassauplein. There was her Psyche yonder, her toilet dishes; in this
corner her writing-desk, her letter-rack; there hung her Venetian
mirror; round about her in tasteful profusion her statuettes were
arranged; while almost the only thing that was new in the room was the
big bedstead, on which the dark blue curtains were suspended like a
baldaquin from the wall.

“Does it suit you?” asked Madame van Raat. “I thought you would like
your own things best; but, child, what is the matter now, what are you
crying about?”

She allowed Eline’s arms to encircle her, and Eline wept on her
shoulder and kissed her again and again. The old lady made her sit down
on the couch, and sat down beside her, and Eline still leaned against
her as a weeping child leans against her mother.

“Oh, now, now at last I begin to feel the luxury of rest,” she said
wearily, “for I am so tired, so tired.”

“Shall I leave you alone then, if you want to sleep?”

“No, no, stay, do stay here; it is not the five hours in the train that
has made me tired. I am tired, tired of everything, and that sleep will
not cure; but still now I feel that I am resting, not because I am
sitting down, but because it is on you that I am leaning, and because I
know that you care for me. You see I needed it so much—in all this
travelling, among all those strange people—I needed somebody upon whom
I could lean, somebody who would give me a little, a very little love
and affection, but it was all so cold, so deadly cold around me, with
all the kindliness and courtesy. Uncle Daniel too is just like all the
rest, very friendly, very kind, very polite, but so cold. With Elise I
was always having some joke or another, all about her is light and airy
as foam, but she too is cold, cold and cynical, and with all those
strangers I was always obliged to be on my friendliest behaviour, and
always smiling, for who would have cared to be bothered with a guest
who was not jolly? And where was I to go to, if I did not lodge
somewhere or was on my journey?”

“But, child, you could always have come to me, and I should have
written to you before this if I had thought you were so unhappy, but I
always imagined that you were very happy indeed.”

“Happy!” groaned Eline, “yes, happy as a horse that cannot go further,
and is driven along by blows and kicks;” and she laughed, a laugh of
bitter sadness.

Her laugh cut into Madame van Raat’s soul like a knife. The tears
sparkled in her dulled eyes and she could not speak, she could only
clasp Eline closer to her breast.

“Yes, that’s right, hold me close to you,” murmured Eline softly. “This
is rest, rest indeed—my dear, dear old pet.”

Thus they remained seated for a long time, and neither of them spoke
another word until the old lady insisted that Eline should try and
sleep. She would stay close to her, Eline need but open a door, and she
would be with her.

“If you want anything say so, or you will ring, won’t you, child? Do
exactly as if you were at home. Ask for whatever you want.”

Eline promised she would, and the old lady left her. But Eline’s heart
was still too full for her to retire to bed at once. She glanced around
her, and in every nook, in every corner, she recognized her own vases,
her plates, and her photos. Then her glance fell upon a Japanese box on
the table. Her little bunch of keys was lying beside it, she took it
up, found the right key, and opened the box. In it there were a number
of letters discoloured with age—letters from old schoolmates, letters
from Aunt Vere, written at a time when she was at boarding-school. The
former she would tear up, for she felt no longer an attachment for the
gushing professions of girls whom she never saw, and whom she had
forgotten as they had forgotten her. A letter or two she found also
from her father—her father who had been so dear to her—and she kissed
the paper with veneration as though it had been sacred. But all at
once, while she was arranging her papers, there fell from those
discoloured pages a small piece of cardboard. She stooped, picked it up
from the floor—and she turned white as a sheet, while her eyes stared
wildly in front of her.

“Oh!” she groaned, as if an old wound had suddenly been opened. “Oh, oh
heavens!”

It was a small portrait of Otto’s. How did it come there, among all
those old letters? Ah, yes, she remembered, it was the proof of a
photograph which once he had had taken for her. The portrait itself,
which during her engagement she had constantly carried about her, she
had returned him, together with his other presents, with the Bucchi
fan. This little proof had got lost among her letters, and she had
never given it another thought.

“Oh!” she groaned again. “Oh!”

She wept, she sobbed, she pressed the portrait to her lips. That little
proof was now her greatest treasure, and for ever—yes, for ever—she
would carry it about her, it was the only thing that was left to her
out of her great happiness, that happiness that had slipped from
between her fingers like a precious bird. And this was the only little
feather it had left behind.

“Otto—Otto,” she murmured. And her tears and kisses covered the little
piece of cardboard.



In her own room Madame van Raat still sat meditating. Sadly, her eyes
full of tears, she shook her head. How was it possible, while she had
been so long happy with her husband, that her dear little Elly had
known so little of real pleasure? and in her piety—the piety and
childlike faith of a simple heart, a heart full of gratitude for that
which once had been granted it—she folded her shrivelled hands and
prayed, prayed for her dear little Elly, prayed that she might be
happy.



Next morning, at the breakfast-table, a sudden impulse moved Eline.

“Little madam,” she began in soft, trembling tones, and she laid her
hands on that of the old lady. “Little madam, I wanted to ask you
something. Do you see anything of Erlevoort now?”

The old lady looked at her as though she would fain have guessed
Eline’s thoughts, but she could not gather anything from those feverish
eyes, from those nervously-moving fingers.

“What makes you ask that, Elly?”

It was the first time that she had spoken to Eline about Otto since the
breaking of her engagement.

“Oh, I should so like to know if it affected him much, and if he’s
happy now. Do you never meet him?”

“I have met him once or twice at my brother-in-law’s on the
Princessegracht.”

“How does he look?”

“He is not much changed, he may have aged a little perhaps, but it is
not very noticeable. He is certainly a little quiet and rather gloomy,
but then he was never very boisterous, was he?”

“No,” murmured Eline, brimful of past memories.

“He is not in the Hague now; he is at the Horze, I believe.”

“Have I driven him away, I wonder?” thought Eline, and with an effort
to make it appear as though the interest she took in him was for his
own sake, not for hers, she softly said, “Then I suppose he has got
over it; there is nothing I should like better than to know him to be
happy, he deserves it. He is a very good fellow.”

The old lady said nothing, and Eline could with difficulty keep herself
from crying. Oh, was it not terrible that even before her dear old
little pet she was obliged to do violence to herself and be a
hypocrite? Oh, what a hollow sham it all was! She, she had always
shammed, to her own self as well as to others, and she still shammed
now. So inured had she grown to her shamming and hypocrisy, that now
she could not do otherwise.

“And now there is something that I want to show you, which I hope you
will like,” said the old lady, who guessed something of Eline’s
sadness; “follow me.” She led her down-stairs, and opened the door of
the drawing-room.

“You know I used to have such an old cripple of a piano, because, you
see, it was only for Paul, who jingled a little on it to study his
singing, but now just look here.”

They walked inside, and in the place of the old cripple they found a
brand-new Bechstein; her music-books in their red and gilt bindings lay
on the top.

“It will suit your voice splendidly, the tone is so clear.”

Eline’s lips trembled and twitched nervously.

“But, madam,” she stammered, “why did you do this—oh why, why did you
do it? I—I don’t sing any more.”

“Why, why not?” asked the old lady, quite alarmed.

Eline with a sigh threw herself in a chair.

“I may not sing any more,” she exclaimed almost bitterly, for the new
piano most cruelly awoke the memory of her splendid voice of former
days. “The doctors whom I consulted in Paris have forbidden me; you see
I have been coughing all the winter, and it is only lately that my
cough has been less. During the last two winters I have coughed
continually, and had such a pain here on my chest. In the summer-time I
am quite well.”

“But, child,” said the old lady anxiously, “didn’t you take good care
of yourself then, while you were abroad?”

“Oh yes, the Des Luynes recommended me to some specialists in Paris,
and they sounded and tapped me and knocked me about until I was tired
of it; besides that, I was constantly under treatment of two regular
doctors, but in the end I had enough of it. They did not cure me, while
they told me I should always have to reside in a warm climate. But I
could not remain vegetating all by myself in Algiers, or Heaven knows
where, and Uncle Daniel had to return to Brussels; so you see,” she
concluded with a little nervous laugh, “I am a hopeless wreck in every
way.”

The old lady pressed Eline’s head to her bosom, with the tears
glistening in her eyes.

“’Tis a pity, because of the nice piano,” said Eline, releasing herself
from the old lady’s embrace and seating herself nervously at the piano.
“What a full clear tone, how rich and beautiful!”

Her fingers glided quickly along the notes, the tones seemed to sob
with grief at that voice that was lost. The old lady looked on sadly,
she had nursed herself in the belief and hope that Eline would sing
with Paul; that Paul, attracted and charmed by the music, would stay
much at home in the evening; that a melodious sweet sociability would
once more fill her lonely, silent rooms; but all she heard was the loud
sob-like notes as they came from under Eline’s fingers, the weeping dew
of a chromatic bravura, and the great running tears of painful
staccatos.

“Yes, I shall practise my piano playing. I never was a great pianist,
but I shall do what I can; you shall hear some music, dearie. What a
tone, what a beautiful clear tone!”

And the clear, liquid notes followed one another as in a flowing
torrent of grief.



In honour of Eline, Paul took care to be home for coffee. In the
afternoon Madame Verstraeten came with Marie, and they were followed by
Emilie de Woude. Eline received them cordially, and showed herself
pleased to see them. A strange feeling came over Marie now that she
heard and saw Eline once more; something of a fear it was, a misgiving,
whether Eline would also discover any change in her; but Eline did not
seem to notice anything, and talked on; she talked about her travels,
about the cities she had visited, about the people she had seen, talked
on continuously with nervous rapidity, the thoughts rushing closely one
after another. She could not help it, it was the nervous state in which
she existed just now, a nervousness that overmastered her wherever she
might be, and ever kept her fingers in motion either crumpling up her
handkerchief, plucking at the fringe of the tablecloth, or swaying the
tassels of her fauteuil backwards and forwards. Her elegant languor,
her graceful calm of former days was completely gone.

About four o’clock the drawing-room door was opened, and Betsy entered,
leading Ben by her hand. Eline rose and hurried towards her to hide her
confusion under a show of cordiality. She embraced her sister
impetuously, and fortunately Betsy found some appropriate words to say.
Then Eline overwhelmed Ben with her kisses. He was a big boy for his
five years, but in his eyes there was that undefinable, sleepy
expression common to a backward child. Still a happy memory seemed to
steal over him, for his little lips opened into a glad smile, and round
Eline’s neck he flung his little chubby arms and kissed her. After that
neither of the sisters seemed to desire any very confidential
conversation, and Betsy left, together with the Verstraetens and
Emilie, and Eline did not press her to stay. Both of them felt that no
closer tie than one of mere conventionality bound them together. During
the last eighteen months they had not seen each other, and now that
they did meet it seemed to them as though they were strangers, who made
a show of politeness and cordiality, saying all kinds of nice things,
while a chill indifference filled their hearts.



CHAPTER XXVII.


Some weeks had passed by, and Madame van Raat was beginning to feel
very uneasy about Eline’s health. She wrote to Dr. Reyer, and he had
visited Eline. Madame van Raat, who was present at his visit, did not
form a very great opinion of the ability of the dapper little doctor,
who talked about nothing but Paris and Spain, and seemed only to have
come to have a little chat. When two days later Reyer repeated his
visit, she received him somewhat coldly. She left the doctor and
patient alone together for a moment. Reyer rose somewhat in her favour
when, after he had gone, Eline told her how carefully Reyer had
examined her. Then, after all, he did have an intelligent idea of
Eline’s condition, thought the old lady; and under his graceful
elegance she discovered Reyer’s firmness of will and strength of
character, and with it the belief in his skill too grew fixed in her
mind. At his third visit, after he had left Eline, she took him aside.
He told her frankly that he would not mislead her, that he would tell
her the whole truth. Eline had the germs of pulmonary consumption, the
consequence of a severe cold which had been neglected. He would exert
his skill to the utmost in his endeavours to destroy that germ, but
beyond all that he had discovered something in Eline, something which
he might call the fatal taint of her family. Eline’s father had
suffered from it, so did Vincent. It was a soul-disturbing unrest of
the nerves, which were like the tangled chords of a broken instrument.
He would not presume to more skill than he really possessed; it was not
in his power to renew those chords, or to tune them so that they should
once more produce an harmonious tone. The delicate fibres of a flower,
which a too rough handling had bruised, it was not for him to infuse
with fresh sap and renewed vigour. That was a task which Madame
understood better than he. She could tend and nurture that flower, she
could handle Eline so delicately, with such gentleness, that, chord for
chord, she might yet call back into her prematurely-wasted frame the
whilom vigour of her youth. Calmness, loving care, these were the
remedies of which Eline stood in need; then with the approach of
winter, a milder clime than that of Holland.

The tears came into Madame van Raat’s eyes as she listened to him; when
he left she pressed his hand cordially, full of grateful sympathy, but
the task which he had given her weighed heavily on her shoulders. She
feared that Reyer had overrated the power of her affection for the poor
child; she inwardly suspected that a love other than hers was necessary
to draw forth sweet melody from that soul which was now so sadly out of
tune.

At his next visit Dr. Reyer insisted that Eline should try and find
some occupation that would bring some life into that languid melancholy
to which she had given herself up from morning till night. Eline found
an excuse for her idleness in the warm summer weather; but now that the
leaves were falling, now that the cool winds of early autumn began to
blow refreshingly in her face, it seemed to her that she breathed anew,
and she felt much more cheerful, and declared her determination to seek
some occupation. Madame van Raat continued to look at her with great
anxiety, for with Eline’s renewed vivacity her cough had also
returned—a dull, hacking cough, which sounded as though it would choke
her. In the meantime she now dressed herself with a little more care
and taste than she had done during the past summer, and she practised
industriously on her new Bechstein; but music alone did not satisfy
her, she needed another occupation, and that she now sought elsewhere.
Although she somewhat neglected her former acquaintances, she still met
them occasionally in Betsy’s drawing-room. While there one evening, out
of sheer ennui she arranged with an old lady, a Miss Eekhof, an aunt of
Ange and Léonie, to go with her on the following Sunday to the French
Church. Eline went; a new preacher with great black dreamy eyes and
white aristocratic hands preached that day. She returned home in
ecstasy, and told Madame van Raat excitedly about the eloquent sermon
to which she had listened. She inwardly regretted that a Protestant
Church was so cold, so empty, so bare, that the singing was so bad;
gladly she would have been a Catholic; on an Ave Maria, or on a Gloria
in Excelsis, her soul would have risen on high as on the wings of
melody; at the holy transfiguration, in the mystic glamour of the
altar, she would have trembled with glorious fervour, while the incense
would have imbued her very being with a flavour of theatrical piety.
But she was not a Catholic, and she consoled herself with her French
Church; she now went there frequently with Miss Eekhof, until it became
a regular habit with her, and she occupied a fixed seat. The
acquaintances she met there she greeted with a serious little face,
with soft dreamy eyes and a melancholy droop about her little mouth,
and every one began to wonder at Eline’s new piety. Miss Eekhof was on
the committee of several charities, and it needed but little persuasion
on her part to induce Eline to enrol herself as a member of some of
them, and many a time Miss Eekhof persuaded her to accompany her on her
visits to the poor.

For a month or so she found a pleasure in this new piety, then the
monotony of the preacher’s unctuous words began to pall on her, and she
could tell beforehand how he would lift up his eyes at the singing, or
what movement he would make with his white hand when he pronounced the
benediction. The singing quite unnerved her, hearing it rising as she
did from so many hoarse, uncultivated throats. The plain white walls,
the simply-constructed pulpit, and the wooden pews began more and more
to irritate her; she began to suspect that all these people who had
come there to be edified were really a set of hypocrites. The pious
fervour of the preacher was a sham; the dignified bearing of the elders
was a sham. Miss Eekhof by her side, she too was shamming; and she
herself, with her soft melting eyes and her serious face, what was she
but a sham!

Through Miss Eekhof she heard of many a tiff, many a petty dispute
among the lady directors of the different societies, and of their good
intentions she now too began to doubt. Oh, she hated that philanthropy,
which was a cloak for so much jealousy and envy, and she could no
longer believe in the sincerity of those ladies, not even of those who
had moved her to sympathy; every one of them shammed and had some
motives of her own, every one was an egoist and thought only of
herself, under the cloak of working for others.

And after that first month she felt thoroughly disgusted with the poor
people whom she had visited with the old lady. The stuffy closeness of
their dirty little rooms, their wretchedness and misery, seemed to
choke her very breath. Indeed, she would have been suffocated had she
but been forced for one single day to breathe such an atmosphere, and
as she mistrusted the lady managers, so she mistrusted the poor.
Stories of wealthy beggars rose to her mind; she had read of beggars
living in London who were as rich as bankers, and who spent their
evenings in feasting and pleasure; and although she remained a member
of the different societies, and often enough gave Miss Eekhof some
money for an ailing widow or a blind old organ-grinder, she no longer
went to church, nor to these dirty people.

Winter approached, and on account of her cough Eline remained at home a
good deal with Madame van Raat; in dull listlessness the days dragged
by, one after another without change, without a break in the monotony;
for the hundredth time Eline asked herself to what end she lived, why
indeed should she live if she could not be happy. After this
disappointment in her own philanthropy and piety she would trust no
one; she looked around her, and she did not believe that Georges and
Lili cared for each other now that they were married, or that they were
happy; no doubt they were deceived in each other, and now they shammed
so as to hide it. She did not believe that Betsy was happy although she
was rich, for how could it be possible that she cared for Henk, and did
not long for a more passionate love? And now she did not believe either
that Otto had ever loved her; how could he, seeing that his character
was so entirely different from hers? At one moment even her suspicion
grew so intense and so all-absorbing that she no longer believed in
Madame van Raat’s unselfish affection for her. Madame van Raat had
hoped to find in her an agreeable companion, and now no doubt she was
disappointed. Yes, Madame van Raat shammed as all the others shammed.
At one time such bitter feelings as these would have driven Eline to
despair, but now so much bitterness had already entered her soul, that
even those feelings could no longer irritate her; she remained quite
indifferent under them. What did it matter to her that life was one
great lie? it was so, and could not be helped, she could not alter it.
She must play her part, and lie like all the rest of them.

At least, when she could not do otherwise, when they excited her to
emotion, to “life”; for as long as they did not, she would lie down,
lie down in her blank indifference as in a deadening rest. Thus she
thought, and forced her youth to stoop under the yoke of that apathy.
To it she gave herself up completely, she even lost her charm of
manner. Among her acquaintances she no longer excited any pity, and
gradually she grew quite rude and disdainful; she got into the habit of
staying in bed the greater part of the morning, and although Madame van
Raat disapproved of it, she nevertheless had Eline’s breakfast taken to
her, because otherwise she would not breakfast at all.

Eline felt well enough that she could not go on leading this kind of
life; something she could not have described continually irritated her
in Madame van Raat and in her house. Involuntarily Eline allowed her
peevish fits to overmaster her, so that she addressed the old lady in
words of passionate irritation. Then the old lady would merely look at
her with a sad expression, and Eline felt at once how wrong she was.
Sometimes she was too proud to acknowledge it, and then she had a
sulking fit which perhaps lasted a day or two, and during which she
scarcely spoke a word. At other times, again, she was so brimming over
with remorse that she would sobbingly throw herself upon her knees, lay
her head in the old lady’s lap, and beg for her pardon. No, little
madam should not take notice of her wretched fits of temper. She could
not make them out herself, and she could not control them. Oh, they
were like so many demons, who dragged her away against her will
wherever they would have her. The old lady wept as well, kissed her,
and the next day the same demons dragged Eline along with them. No, it
would not do, thought Eline. She wrote a long letter to her Uncle
Daniel and Elise. She wrote that, loving and affectionate as Madame van
Raat was, she felt very unhappy, and that she would die with melancholy
did she stay there—she longed for other surroundings.

Uncle Daniel came to the Hague, and asked Eline in the presence of the
old lady if she had quite forgotten the family in Brussels, and if she
would not like to pay them a visit.

Eline did not know what to decide, but the old lady herself urged Eline
not to refuse her uncle’s invitation, and go to Brussels. When Daniel
Vere had left, Madame van Raat, as though crushed under a heavy
disappointment, remained seated motionless on her chair; and her gray
head, with its dull, staring eyes, drooped with even more than its
wonted languor upon her chest. In two days Eline would leave her; there
was the end then of all her expectations. She had hoped, old and weak
as she was, to be of some use to this young life, and to infuse a fresh
vigour into this dulled youth, and—and she guessed it—Eline grew more
and more listless; Eline longed for change. How could she, old woman
that she was, have had such presumption?

Eline did not fail to notice this silent grief, and a great despair
overmastered her, a despair at her own egoism. She had not given a
thought to the old lady when she wrote to Uncle Daniel, it was only of
herself that she had thought; and now she caused the old lady pain by
her departure, while she felt convinced that she, after her change of
residence, would remain the same as she, faded in body and soul, had
now been for the last two years, and, amid nervous sobbing, fell back
on the sofa, to rise again immediately in a wild, indefinite terror.
Her eyes glittered wildly, and her fingers were constantly moving,
touching a vase here, tangling the fringe of the curtains, or
scratching fantastic figures on the bevapoured window-panes. It seemed
to her suddenly as if she had just awakened from a dream, and the
memory of what had passed before completely forsook her.

“I suppose you did not understand me?” she asked doubtfully of the old
lady, whose sad glance had constantly followed her.

“I—I think—I did!” stammered she, inwardly shocked at the picture of
lost happiness which Eline presented.

Eline looked at her with a vacant stare; for a moment she felt a great
regret at her confession, of which she scarcely longer remembered the
words. But the sympathy beamed from the old lady’s eyes reassured her.

“You did understand me? You understand why it is that I can no longer
be happy?” she asked in a voice of bitter sadness, as once more she
sank down on her footstool.

The old lady did not answer, but, with her eyes full of tears, she
threw her arms round Eline’s neck and kissed her. Both remained thus
for a moment in silence.

“And can you now forgive me for leaving you?”

“Oh, why do you not stay with me?”

“I’m a trouble and a sorrow to you. I do not give you the slightest
pleasure. I can do nothing for you, and you can do nothing for me.”

Yes, indeed, it was too true. The old lady could do nothing for her—no
one could.



They found nothing more to say to each other. Both understood well
enough that they could render each other no help in bearing the burdens
of life, that neither could be of any comfort to the other. But now the
old lady began to doubt, too, whether even Uncle Daniel or Elise could
be of any comfort to Eline. And though they said not another word,
still the old lady sat there with Eline clasped close to her bosom.

It grew dark, and a cheerless chill began to fill the rooms. Sombre
shadows were descending in every corner behind the draperies and along
the walls. The old lady shivered with the chill atmosphere, but she did
not rise to ring the bell for the servant to look after the dying fire,
for Eline had fallen asleep with her head resting on her shoulder. Were
it not for Eline’s heavy breathing, Madame van Raat would have thought
that death had overtaken her. The waxen pallor of those emaciated
features was like unto the dew of death.

Eline slept on, and it grew chiller and chiller. The old lady glanced
at the stove; not a spark of fire was to be seen. Slowly she removed
the woollen pelerine from her shoulders, and gently spread it over
Eline’s sleeping form.



CHAPTER XXVIII.


A month had passed, during which Eline had been living a life of
semi-lethargy, of languid indifference, at the house of her uncle in
the Avenue Louise at Brussels. Her cough was still very troublesome,
but she felt herself comparatively at ease in her surroundings. Elise,
though she chattered somewhat, seemed rather to like her; and Uncle
Daniel, though he was somewhat cold in his studied politeness, was very
amiable also. Sometimes, indeed, a suspicion rose to her mind that they
shammed as every one in the Hague had shammed, but she would not stop
to analyze this doubt; she was satisfied to allow her brain to be
gradually enveloped by the lethargic indifference which was more and
more becoming a part of her very being.

Quite unexpectedly one day Uncle Daniel received a letter from Vincent
Vere from New York. They were not in the habit of corresponding, and
uncle was somewhat surprised. Eline, whose correspondence with her
cousin had not been of very long duration, now that his name sounded so
unexpectedly in her ears felt her interest in him revive; she was very
anxious to know what the contents of his letter might be. Perhaps he
asked for money.

But in this Eline was mistaken. Vincent asked for no money, nor even
for a recommendation or any help whatever. He simply wrote that he
intended to take a trip to Europe with his friend Lawrence St. Clare,
and they would visit Brussels. This letter roused Eline somewhat from
her mental lethargy. She called to mind how Vincent, languid and weak,
had reclined on her sofa in his Turkish dressing-gown, and how she had
tended him. With this memory the thought of Otto became mingled, and
with nervous agitation her fingers played around the black enamelled
locket of her chain. Had she not fancied that Vincent loved her and
that she loved him? Were any of those feelings now still remaining in
her heart? No, those feelings were gone—vanished like birds that had
flown away. Uncle and Elise talked a little about Vincent, and then
remained silent; but Eline, though she said nothing, thought a great
deal about him and his American friend.



After a week or two Uncle Daniel received a second letter from Vincent,
this time dated from Paris. In a few days the two young men arrived,
and they remained to dinner. Uncle and Elise out of politeness asked
them to make their stay in the house, but St. Clare refused—they had
already taken their rooms at the Hôtel des Flandres.

Vincent was not at all changed in his appearance and his movements, and
Eline all at once remarked, when both of them were standing beside each
other, and she saw her face reflected in the glass, how greatly she had
aged. He in his elegant, gentlemanly attire was the same as he had been
two years ago. His face even, beside her own yellow, emaciated
features, seemed to her healthier than ever she had seen it before. She
in her black lace, a material which she now constantly wore, with her
drooping shoulders and her sombre, lack-lustre eyes, seemed a mere
wreck of her former sparkling youth. Lawrence St. Clare made a very
agreeable impression both on Eline and on Elise. With her ideas of a
Yankee, Eline had rather fancied him somewhat boorish and rough—perhaps
chewing, swearing, and eternally drinking whisky—and she was very
agreeably surprised by his winning, easy manner. Tall, and of a
powerful frame, with his full-grown beard, which fell upon his bosom, a
certain pride gleaming from his eyes, not the pride of vanity, but one
that denoted power and strength of will. Although formerly Eline had
only now and then heard Vincent drop a word about St. Clare, it seemed
to her now as though she had known him ever so long. His frank smile,
his soft but penetrating eyes, charmed her and aroused her from her
lethargy, and it suddenly struck her, when her glance went round the
table, what a peaceful, calm, healthful truth beamed from him, by the
side of which the studied politeness of her uncle, the airy
effervescence of Elise, the misty melancholy of Vincent and of herself,
seemed but vain, hollow hypocrisy and unhealthy sham. After dinner they
took coffee in the large salon, and Eline felt herself contented in St.
Clare’s company, and inwardly hoped that none of her other
acquaintances would come and disturb the harmony. Yet she had not much
conversation with St. Clare. Elise took him in tow altogether, asking
him hundreds of questions about New York, Philadelphia, and other
places. He answered her in French, and spoke slowly with a foreign
accent, which charmed Eline. Vincent took both her hands in his and
looked at her attentively. He was grateful to her for what she had one
day done for him, and something like pity filled him now.

“I am rather disappointed in you, Elly,” said he, as they sat down in
the balcony. “You must try and get a little stouter; do you hear?”

She laughed a little, and the tip of her little shoe moved about
nervously among the soft white rugs.

“It is nothing at all,” said she. “I have not felt at all so unwell
lately. I have been much worse than this, and I am very glad to see you
once more, very glad indeed. You know I always rather liked you.”

She gave him her hand and he pressed it, and drew his fauteuil a little
closer to her.

“And what do you think of Lawrence?” he asked; “do you like him?”

“Yes, I believe he is a very good fellow, is he not?”

“He is the only man whom I have ever known upon whom one can depend.
There is no one in the world in whom I have any confidence—no, no
one—not even in you, nor in myself; but him—him I trust. What funny
French he speaks, eh?”

“He speaks it very nicely,” answered Eline.

“You have no idea what he would do for any one to whom he takes,”
Vincent continued. “If I told you what he has done for me, you would
not believe me. It is not every one whom I should like to tell what he
has forced me to accept, and even when I tell you about it I certainly
feel a bit ashamed. You must know that in New York I was very ill
indeed, in fact, all but dying. At that time I had a situation in a
house of business with which he is financially connected. Well, he took
me into his own house and tended me almost with as much care as you
did. I really do not understand how I have deserved his friendship, and
I do not know how I can repay. Still, I would do anything for him. If
now there is a grain of goodness in me at all, it is his influence that
has produced it. It was he who kept my place open for me while I was
ill, but a little while ago he decided to do a little travelling. He
did not know much about Europe, and he declared that my situation was
really too hard for me. In a word, he invited me to accompany him. I
refused at first, because already I was under such obligations to him,
but he forced me, and at last I yielded. With the coming winter he
intends to go to St. Petersburg and Moscow, and next summer he will
wander about the south of Europe. You know I have always been fond of
change, and have careered about a good deal myself, so no doubt I shall
be of some service to him as a guide, but I have never travelled in
such a style as this before. Wherever we go we have the pick of
everything.”

He paused, somewhat tired of his long whispering.

“Has he so much sympathy for you?” said Eline softly. “How curious! I
do not know him, of course; but I should say that his character is
entirely in contrast with yours.”

“So it is. You are right. Perhaps it is for that very reason that he
likes me; at all events, he is always declaring that I am much better
than others think me, and than I even think myself.”

“Perhaps he finds you interesting as Elise finds me,” said Eline, with
an involuntary sly little laugh. But now that she saw St. Clare
approaching, she felt some self-reproach, as though she had wronged
him. How could she compare the proud, manly truth that beamed from him
with Elise’s airy coldness?

Elise was very busy serving out her liqueurs, and she asked Vincent
whether he drank Kirsch or Curaçao, or whether he perhaps preferred
cognac. Vincent sat down by the fire, beside her and Uncle Daniel,
while St. Clare seated himself by the window next to Eline.

“And you are the nice little cousin, then, of whom Vincent has told me
so much? The little cousin who nursed him so well?” he asked with a
smile, as he placed his hands in his pockets, and with his clear, frank
eyes looked penetratingly into Eline’s.

“Yes, I am the cousin who nursed him,” she answered in French. She
spoke very good English, but his French pleased her, so that she did
not ask him whether he preferred speaking English.

“That was at the Hague, was it not?”

“Yes, at the Hague. He was then staying at my brother-in-law’s.”

“And you were also staying with your brother-in-law, were you not?”

It seemed as if he were trying to pump her a little; but the manner in
which he did it had so little of indiscretion about it and so much of
interest that she did not feel hurt.

“Yes,” she answered. “Did Vincent tell you so?”

“Yes, Vincent often spoke to me about you.”

His words gave her the impression that he knew a great deal about her
life. After her flight from Betsy’s house she had written Vincent, and
no doubt St. Clare knew of it.

“And you have travelled a good deal, have you not?” he continued.

“Yes, with uncle and aunt. You also think of travelling, do you not?”

“Yes, as far as Russia next winter.”

Both were silent for a moment. It seemed to Eline as if they had much
to say to each other, and did not know where to start. To her it seemed
as if she had long known him, and now it appeared too that he knew her.
They were no longer strangers to each other.

“Do you care very much for Vincent?” she asked.

“I like him very much. I feel much sympathy and pity for him. If his
health had been more robust he would have made his mark. In him there
is much energy and elasticity, and his views are very broad, but his
physical weakness prevents him from giving his mind to any one thing
and bringing it to completion. Most people misunderstand Vincent. They
think him indolent, capricious, selfish; and they will not acknowledge
that the explanation of it all is to be found in the fact that he is
weak and ill. I defy the greatest and the best of us to be active and
determined to turn his gifts and talents to good use if he is half
dying with weakness.”

This was a light in which she had never viewed Vincent. The only thing
she could say was that she had felt an unaccountable sympathy for him.

“Yes, I think you are right,” she said, after a short pause. “But do
you not think that such a long journey will fatigue him too much?
Russia, in the winter?”

“Oh, no, not at all; the cold climate is good for his temperament, and
he need not fatigue himself—there is no work for him to do; as for mere
railway travelling, he is used to it. He need only wrap himself up in
his furs and lie back in his carriage. That is all.”

From his words she suspected, as she had suspected from her
conversation with Vincent, that St. Clare was in the habit of
surrounding him with every possible comfort and luxury.

“I must say I think you are rather kind-hearted,” she could not help
remarking.

He looked at her for a moment in some surprise.

“What makes you think of that all at once?” he asked laughing.

“I don’t know,” she answered, and she blushed and laughed a little.
“One cannot help getting certain impressions about people. Maybe I’m
mistaken.”

He raised his hands with a deprecatory motion. She felt that in her
last words there was just a shade of coquettishness, and now that she
had spoken them it irritated her.

“You said just now something about energy and activity,” she resumed,
“and you believe that when one is ill one ought to be excused for
showing no such energy and activity?”

“Of course. What do you mean?”

In his manner there was something penetrating, something that went ever
straight to its object, and it confused her somewhat. Had it been
Vincent, she would very soon have plunged into some more or less misty
philosophical discussion, and lost herself in a maze of sentences thin
and filmy as cloudlets of steam—discussions in which neither of them
knew what they were really aiming at. But St. Clare threw her entirely
off her qui vive with his “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she answered with much indecision, “whether you would not
even be readier to forgive one who had passed through great grief, that
lack of energy and activity, than—you would forgive Vincent, who has
only been ill.”

He looked at her fixedly for a moment.

“Yes, I should, that is, if he had tried to be energetic and had failed
in the attempt; not otherwise, not if he had allowed himself, without
an effort, to be dragged along by the force of circumstances with the
simple reflection that one cannot fight against destiny. Vincent has
some of that fatalism, and there is nothing that is so unnerving as
that. Life would degenerate into a moral lethargy if every one did so,
and simply sat down with folded hands and thought, ‘I cannot help it,
come what may.’”

Her thoughts wandered a little. In fact, she did not know what she
thought. And she, had she had any energy? Had she allowed herself to be
dragged along by the force of circumstances? She did not know. His
strength of will, his determination, oppressed and crushed her, and
arrested the flow of her thoughts.

“But if that person had gone through much suffering, if he had
suffered, especially with remorse, at what he once had done?” she
whispered almost imploringly, with a moist glitter in her eyes, and her
little foot wandered nervously along the rug, her fingers clutched at
her black locket. His glance softened, filling with tenderness and
pity.

“In that case—yes, then I should forgive him all,” he whispered, with a
merciful assurance.

But his last words completely unnerved and abashed her. It suddenly
seemed to her as if she had entirely exposed herself, as if she had
said things which she should not have said, and yet it seemed as if the
strength failed her to withdraw herself now that she had said so much
as that.



After that day St. Clare and Vincent stayed away for about a week, and
Eline began to long for their return. When they came again it was the
day before New Year’s Eve, and Elise invited both for the following
day, when she was giving a big soirée.

The following evening, about half-past nine, the guests arrived. Uncle
Daniel and Elise courteously welcomed their somewhat loosely-picked-up
acquaintances. The young men of the club, the count, the actor, the
dueller and his blonde wife, were the first to make their appearance;
and after that Eline saw them pass in review before their host and
hostess, and a strange review it was. The gentlemen with something
artificial or Bohemian about them, the ladies with much too big
diamonds, and in faded silken trains. She did not feel herself at home
at all in this circle, and yet she felt amused by these strange folk,
who wandered about the crowded salons, the light from the candles in
the Venetian chandelier glinting strangely over all that antique
bronze, that antique china, that antique furniture. And there was a
variety about the guests that charmed her. Eline withdrew herself a
little when she saw St. Clare and Vincent approach. They were in
evening dress, and it struck her that there was something distingué
about them both. But after they had greeted uncle and Elise, they did
not seem to observe her among the noisy groups by which they were
surrounded, and Eline felt herself quite forsaken, although a little
old lady, wrinkled and brown as a nut, with little red plumes in her
hair, eagerly conversed with her about painters and sculptors. The old
lady affected to be a great patron of struggling artists.

“I suppose it is an artistic soirée this evening?” she asked with
blinking eyes.

“I believe it is,” answered Eline, with growing irritation.

“You sing, do you not?”

“Oh, no! I do not sing any more. The doctor has forbidden me to sing.”

“I suppose you intended to go on the stage?”

“Oh, no. Not at all.”

Some gentlemen came forward and bowed to the old lady, and she
introduced them to Eline. They were very talented artists. Musicians,
actors, painters, misunderstood geniuses all of them. The little old
lady overwhelmed Eline with operas, poems, panoramas which they had
written, created, and painted; their fame would ere long resound
throughout the world, for she would protect them.

Eline felt as if all those misunderstood geniuses were hemming her in.
Things began to shimmer and dance before her eyes, and it was a relief
when she saw St. Clare coming towards her once more.

“You are so surrounded,” he laughed softly, “one can scarcely
penetrate.”

Eline puckered up her little mouth contemptuously.

“Let us move aside a little. There is more room there,” she lisped.

She made her escape deftly from the circle of the geniuses, and with a
sigh sank down on a settee. Nervously her fingers played about the dull
gold beads that covered her low-necked corsage of black satin as with a
glistening ray.

“Oh, those people do bore me,” she said with light disdain. “What sort
of time did you spend in Ghent and in Bruges? Come, tell me something
about it.”

He remained standing beside her, and told her a little of his trip.
Here and there little groups formed themselves. The footman served wine
and refreshments.

“But what is to happen this evening, I wonder?” asked St. Clare with
curiosity, as he suddenly broke off his conversation.

Elise was standing, all amiability, writhing herself into all sorts of
bows and curtseys before the count, and people looked round at them and
whispered. The count seemed bashful, and made some excuses.

“No, don’t disappoint me, pray,” Elise was heard to say in a beseeching
tone.

“I suppose she is asking him to recite something, and he is shy,”
laughed Eline.

Eline was right. Elise cast a glance of triumph in the direction of
some of the ladies, and the count, with a movement as if he could not
help it, assumed an attitude and coughed. He would recite an epic poem,
Pizarro’s account of the conquest of Mexico, of Montezuma, and the
Aztecs.

A silence ensued, tempered with a low whispering. The stanzas rolled in
thundering tones over the heads of the guests with a harsh rumbling of
r’s.

Vincent, from another corner of the room, nodded at Eline archly. The
count began to shout louder and louder.

“Magnificent! don’t you think so?” asked the little old lady with the
red plumes, who had once more come back to Eline.

Eline nodded approvingly, but here and there a cough was heard, and
despairing faces were to be seen all over the room. The whispering,
too, grew a little louder.

“Patience and resignation,” Eline said to St. Clare with a smile.

He smiled in return, and she no longer found the immense poem so
unbearably boring now that he stood by her side. When the count’s last
stanza had died away a sort of electric movement began to be manifest
among the erstwhile motionless groups. They laughed and they talked and
they pushed one another. Some ladies were expressing their thanks to
the count with a great show of rapture.

“Could we not devise some protection against his next attack?” asked
St. Clare laughing.

“We shall be freer in the conservatory,” said Eline.

With some trouble they threaded their way to the little conservatory.
There were only two little groups—two old gentlemen seated at the table
covered with empty wine-glasses, and a little woman in active
conversation with a young man. There prevailed a soft balsamic odour
which permeated as with a breath from the tropics the palms and the
Vanilla plants and the orchids that were crowded together in rich
profusion. Outside a snowstorm was showering around its flakes of downy
white. They had scarcely sat down before they heard some chords struck
on the piano in the adjoining room. The actor, a bass, was about to
sing a duet with the fair-haired jeweller’s wife. St. Clare and Eline
could see them standing by the piano, their figures reflected in the
mirrors of the conservatory, while one of the misunderstood composers
was to accompany them.

“I had no idea that she sang,” Eline exclaimed in surprise. “La bonne
surprise! it’s really getting amusing, but don’t stop talking.”

A blush rose to her cheek, and something of her former sparkling
fascination came back to her. Now and then she lifted her champagne
glass to her lips. In close attention she listened to his stories. He
spoke so well. Yonder the high shrieks of the soprano and the low
growling of the bass intermingled with overpowering if somewhat
ludicrous effect. The conservatory gradually filled with little groups
who were making their escape from the drawing-room. Vincent came to
join St. Clare and Eline.

“Je ne dérange pas?” asked he.

“Par exemple!” cried Eline.

It seemed as if the three of them had found themselves at some public
fête. They scarcely knew one among all those curious people, and they
amused themselves by laughing a little at them. The two old gentlemen’s
collection of empty wine-glasses seemed to have grown larger and
larger, and under the shady leaves of a banana the young man could be
seen with his arm furtively encircling the waist of the little woman.
In the other corner, where some glasses had just been broken, Vincent
recognized some one, who posed as a Russian prince, engaged in
boisterous chat with two circus-riders, and he could not understand how
they could have been admitted even to Uncle Daniel’s drawing-room.

“Oh, they must have entered through a back door. I’m sure Elise cannot
know that they are here,” laughed Eline.



In the salon the programme was proceeding. They sang, they recited,
both serious and comic pieces, but the stillness of admiration grew
less and less. In the conservatory the Russian prince ran after the
circus-riders, and tried to embrace them; and the two old gentlemen all
at once broke out in a terribly angry dispute. The young couple had
disappeared.

“I should advise you to return a little closer to your uncle and aunt.
The company is certainly getting rather mixed here,” said St. Clare to
Eline.

Vincent had left them. Eline rose a little anxiously, and St. Clare
followed her. But in the salon Elise was surrounded by a very noisy
group, of which the ladies smoked cigarettes and spilt more champagne
on their dresses than they drank. St. Clare led Eline to the terrace.
His eyes sparkled and his lips twitched nervously as his glance fell on
the group by which Elise was surrounded.

“How did you really get here?” he suddenly asked Eline in a tone of
dissatisfaction which he could not hide. “How is it possible that I
could have met you here?”

She looked at him in astonishment.

“I ask you how it is possible that I could have found you here? You are
certainly not in proper company.”

She began to see his meaning, and started at the boldness of his
question.

“Not in proper company,” she slowly repeated. “May I remind you that I
am at the house of my uncle and aunt?”

“I know that. But your uncle and aunt, it seems to me, are in the habit
of receiving people who are not fit company for you. You are here with
the consent of your relations, I suppose?”

She began to tremble all over, and her eyes were fixed upon him with
all the haughtiness that she could at that moment muster up.

“May I ask you, Mr. St. Clare, by what right you place me under
cross-examination? I thought I was free to do as I pleased, and am old
enough to choose my friends without anybody’s consent, either that of
my relations or of yourself.”

Her tone was sharp and cutting. She was about to turn away. He took her
hand, she quickly withdrew it.

“Do stay a moment, pray. Forgive me if I have hurt you. But I take an
interest in you, I have heard so much about you from Vincent. I knew
you, in fact, before I had seen you. I looked upon you
somewhat—somewhat, if I may say it, as a little sister, just as I
thought of Vincent as my brother; and now I find you here, mixed with
people——”

“Thank you very much for your good intentions,” she resumed with icy
coldness, “but in future please to give expression to your brotherly
interest in a more proper fashion. You knew me before you had seen me,
it is possible. I have known you now for a week, and I cannot
understand how you dare to speak to me as if you were called upon to be
my guardian. I am much obliged to you for your solicitude, but I do not
need it.”

He made a movement of impatience, and once more prevented her from
going. She was still trembling with rage, but she stayed.

“Now do not be angry, pray,” he resumed appeasingly. “Perhaps I did
speak rather boldly; but don’t you think yourself that the company here
is not suited to you?”

“The acquaintances of my uncle and aunt may be mine as well, I should
imagine. In any case, it is a matter which does not concern you in the
least.”

“Why do you forbid me to take an interest in you?”

“Because you take advantage.”

“And is there no pardon for that when it is merely caused by a feeling
of sincere friendship?” he asked, and held out his hand.

“Oh, certainly,” she answered coldly, apparently without noticing his
hand. “But, in future, pray spare me your feelings of friendship. Too
much interest in one is sometimes annoying.”

Much hurt she turned away.

He remained alone on the terrace, and he saw her disappear among the
circus-riders and the Russian prince, the fair-haired lady, the two
drunken gentlemen, and the poetical count.



CHAPTER XXIX.


Now that the fête was over, she began to think over it all in the
solitude of her room. It was five o’clock, and she felt almost too
tired to undress herself. She did not feel so much hurt because of his
presumption. But—that evening, for the first time after so long a
period of lethargy, she had forgotten her sorrows a little. She had
found a little amusement, and been somewhat of her former self again,
and he had embittered that innocent pleasure by reminding her that she
was in a circle to which she was not suited. Did she not know that as
well as he? and it was just because she knew it—because she felt that
he was right—because he felt as she felt herself, that she was hurt.
Why had he not allowed her to pass a brief moment of happiness in
peace? Why had he spoken to her about her relations? What did Henk and
Betsy care if she did throw herself away among the curious
acquaintances of uncle and Elise? But she did not do so, she had
scarcely spoken a word to any one except Vincent and himself. She had
only amused herself at the expense of a circle which surrounded her.
She threw herself in her black satin dress on a chair, and, as she
thought about that which had given her offence, she felt it gradually
evaporating like a cloud of mist. But still she wanted to feel hurt;
yes, she did feel hurt, very much hurt indeed. Yet after all it was not
so very bad. It was for her sake that he had felt so annoyed at the
strange coterie in which she found herself. He had shown her his
annoyance so frankly, and she could still hear him say in that
discontented voice—

“How did you get here? Are you here with the consent of your
relations?”

He took an interest in her, genuine interest, with all the haughty
pride of his sunny, truthful temperament, and a great desire suddenly
overmastered her to go to him and ask his pardon, his counsel. It would
be delicious to conform herself entirely to his will; it would mean
peace, much-longed-for peace and calm. About twelve o’clock, after a
short sleep, she entered the room with a pale face and dark blue
circles under her eyes, and found Elise, with a couple of the servants,
busy rearranging the disorder which the orgies of the previous evening
had brought about. Elise was very satisfied with her soirée, and wished
Eline a happy new year. Uncle Daniel was out.

“What a number of glasses they broke! If you want to breakfast, Eline,
you must go to the dining-room. Here you are only in my way. Pardon me
for saying so. But it was very jolly yesterday, was it not?”

Eline went to the dining-room. She ate something and remained a little
while idling. She waited for some one—for St. Clare—but neither Vincent
nor he came, nor did they come the following day, nor the next. If
Eline had dared she would have written him.

While she dreamily awaited his arrival she received a letter from
Madame van Raat, who wrote her, that although he was living at
Bodegraven just now, she saw Paul occasionally, and that he seemed to
have some secret grief which she could not guess. She was very sorry
that a kind of estrangement had come between her and her son, and she
doubted whether she had always shown him sufficient tenderness.

“She not enough tenderness!” thought Eline, “why she was all
tenderness, at least to me.”

When she came to the end of the letter she started violently. Jeanne
Ferelyn had died in Bangil. Eline’s eyes filled with tears.

“Great heavens! Great heavens!” she repeated slowly, and a nervous sob
shook her frame. Her poor friend was dead! Oh! how tenderly Jeanne had
nursed her when she was prostrate with bronchitis in that little home
of theirs! How gentle and loving Jeanne had always been! How
affectionate she was to herself and her children. And now she was dead!
What happiness had her life brought her? None—none at all! And Madame
van Raat, she had her sorrows. Paul had his. What was life but one
great sorrow?

She sobbed violently over the letter, and could not reconcile herself
to the thought that Jeanne was dead. Jeanne is dead! Jeanne is dead! It
was hissing in her ears and in her brain. She had so much to thank
Jeanne for, and she would never see her again, for Jeanne was dead! Oh,
great heavens, she was dead!

She threw herself back in her chair and covered her face with her
hands. But suddenly she heard steps in the adjoining room. She looked
up, and ere she could recover herself saw St. Clare appearing in the
door. Half demented with grief, with her weeping eyes she glanced at
him.

“I hope you will pardon me if I disturb you.”

He spoke softly, for he saw that she was crying. “The servant said that
you were at home. Perhaps I had better come back to-morrow.”

She rose, wiped her eyes, and gave him a friendly smile.

“Do you wish to go so soon?” she said sadly. “You do not disturb me in
the least. On the contrary, I think it very nice of you that you have
come. Take a seat. Is Vincent all right?”

“Very well, thank you,” he answered, in a tone from which she could
gather all the friendship he felt for Vincent. “We have been to Liège
and Verviers.”

“Is that the only reason then why I have not seen you before now after
the soirée?”

He looked at her for a moment.

“Yes,” he answered, “the only reason.”

“You were not angry?”

“No, not at all. I was in the wrong. I should not have spoken like
that. You were quite right.”

“I am not sure,” she said. “I know I must have offended you with my
unmannerliness. Will you forgive me, or do you refuse me your hand as I
have refused you mine?”

She gave him her hand. He pressed it closely.

“I will forgive you gladly,” he answered, “and I think it very nice of
you that you confess that you have been a little in the wrong.”

“And in future, will you please take that interest in me which you said
you did when last I saw you. Will you believe me if I tell you that
your interest in me and your friendship will not annoy me as I told you
it did then? May I depend upon that?”

“Certainly you may.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much. I was not deceived when I told you
that you had a kind heart. You are more than kind, you are noble.”

He laughed a little.

“What big words you do use,” he said jestingly. “You’re becoming so
dignified.”

“No,” she said determinedly. “I’m not dignified, and I use no big
words. I mean what I say. You do not know what pleasure it gives me to
see you and to hear from you that you are not angry with me, especially
at this moment. I was feeling so terribly unhappy.”

“You were crying, I believe.”

The tears dropped from her lashes.

“I have just now heard of the death of a very dear friend, a poor, weak
little thing she was, but she was so useful. She will be so terribly
missed by her husband and children. It is always thus in the world, is
it not? People who are of use, they die, and those who, like myself,
are a trouble to every one and a misery to themselves, live on.”

“Why do you speak so sadly? Are you then of use to no one? Do you care
for no one, and is there no one who cares for you?”

She laughed bitterly.

“But surely there are people who take an interest in you?” he
continued.

“What shall I answer you? I have no parents. About my sister I dare say
you have heard something from Vincent. Do you know that I—ran away
from—my brother-in-law’s house?”

“Yes.”

“Ever since that time I have done nothing but wander about. I have
always been with strange people. Uncle and aunt have taken me under
their roof, but still they are strange. At the Hague I lived with an
old lady, the mother of my brother-in-law; she was very kind to me and
I liked her very much, but I was not kind to her.”

“I pity you very much,” said he. “I wish I could do something for you.
But suppose you sought some occupation? Is it not because you have
nothing to do that you feel yourself unhappy?”

“I sought an occupation at the Hague. I travelled a good deal, and yet
I felt myself unhappy. It is all my own fault, you see; I have thrown
away my own happiness.”

She began to cry, her head resting in her hands.

“Tell me, cannot I do something for you?” he insisted.

“Nothing at all, thank you. No one can do anything for me.”

“But it is really not right to bury oneself in one’s grief, and to
think of nothing else. You may not do so. You must rouse yourself from
your sorrows. Every one has his troubles. Come, promise me that in
future you will think otherwise.”

“I cannot,” she sobbed, “I am so weak. I am broken down, broken down
utterly.”

In her words there sounded such a hopelessness that he did not know
what to say, but he brimmed over with pity—a pity that was mingled with
despair at the thought that he could do nothing for her—and he would
solace and comfort her, whatever it might cost.

“No,” said he with determination, “you are not broken down—that is a
mere idea! You are young, and have a life before you. Break with your
past, forget it completely.”

“Oh! how can I do that?” she sobbed. “How is it possible?”

He knew he was wrong himself. He knew that the sorrowful memories of
the past were all but indelible.

“I feel such a pity for you,” he repeated, “a pity such as I have never
yet felt for any one before.”

“That is the only thing left you that you can do for me, pity me,” she
exclaimed passionately; “pity me, that does me good. For have you not
told me that you knew me already before you saw me, that I was to you
like an unknown little sister?”

He had risen from his seat, he laid his hands on her shoulders, and
looked at her.

“Certainly,” he replied cordially. And she could have died for him, so
intensely grateful did she feel. “And now you are no longer unknown to
me, and anything I can do for you I will do. You must tell me all about
yourself, and if you will leave it to me, I will make you forget your
miseries.”

He just tapped her on the shoulder like an old friend. In her heart
there arose a great regret that they had not known each other sooner.
What a happiness it had been to her but a little while ago when she
humbled herself before him, when she begged him for his pardon.



A week elapsed, during which the Veres saw neither Vincent nor St.
Clare, as they were away a few days in Holland. There was a talk of a
masquerade ball to be given by the count. Uncle Daniel would not go in
fancy costume, but Elise would go in Eastern dress; and Eline, whose
fancy did not soar very high just now, would accompany her, also in
Eastern dress.

A day before the ball the two young men came back. Eline thought she
could see a frown pass over St. Clare’s features when he heard that
they were going to that ball. He said nothing, however; but the
following evening, about half-past eight, he came in with Vincent. They
had also been invited. Vincent had accepted the invitation. St. Clare
had not. He asked to see Eline for a moment, but she had just commenced
her toilette; but St. Clare was importunate, and Eline sent her maid
down to ask him to wait.

In the big salon there was no one. Vincent, in evening dress, was lying
on the couch, and had taken up L’Indépendance. St. Clare stood on the
balcony thinking, and he stared at the snow which glistened in the
evening light. A servant came and asked whether they would have tea.

“I must say I admire your pluck, Lawrence,” said Vincent in English, as
he slowly stirred his cup of tea. “But are you certain that all would
go well?”

“Well, I can’t help myself. I will have it so,” answered St. Clare
determinedly.

The servant left and both were silent, when Eline entered. A pink glow
of veloutine hid the sallow tint of her complexion. Her hair was
already arranged, and rows and rows of glittering sequins hung over her
brow. But further than that she had not yet proceeded with her costume,
and was simply wrapped in a white flannel peignoir. Vincent rose, and
she apologized for her toilette. But she was very charming.

“You wanted so urgently to speak to me,” she said softly to St. Clare,
as she held out her hand to him. “You won’t mind that I’ve come to you
like this; and keep your seat, please.”

They sat down, while Vincent withdrew with his newspaper into the
conservatory. St. Clare looked at Eline searchingly.

“What is it you want to ask me?” she said.

“In the first place, I must ask your pardon for my boldness in having
called you away from your toilette.”

“Oh, that is nothing. I have plenty of time.”

“I feel very much flattered that you have come at once. You can well
imagine that I should not have intruded if it had not been for a very
good reason. I had a request to make you.”

“Which admitted of no delay?”

“Yes, that admitted of no delay, and I run the risk that you will be
very angry when I make that request, that you will feel hurt, and that
you will tell me that I am interfering in matters that do not concern
me.”

She had a vague suspicion of the question that he was about to utter.

“Never mind. Speak up frankly,” she simply answered.

“You’ve asked me to show as much interest in you as a brother would
show for a sister. Is that right, or am I mistaken?”

“No, that is quite right.”

“Well, if you were my sister, I would ask you to do me a great favour,
and beg of you not to go to that ball this evening.” She did not
answer, but looked him straight in the face. “If you were my sister I
should tell you that Vincent and I have made inquiries about the people
who are coming to the ball this evening; I should tell you that I know
for certain that a great number of the invited guests are even less
suited to your circle than some of your uncle’s and aunt’s
acquaintances. If you were my sister, I could scarcely express myself
in plainer terms than I have done, and I have not a word to add to what
I have said; but I hope that you will not misunderstand me, and that
you will now have some idea what kind of guests they will be whom you
would see there this evening.”

She cast down her eyes and remained silent.

“And, therefore, at the risk of interfering in a matter that does not
concern me, at the risk that your uncle and aunt will take offence at
my interference in your affairs, at the risk that you yourself, after
having forgiven me one indiscretion already, will be very angry with
me, I ask you once more, do not go to this ball. You are out of place
there.”

Still she remained silent, and her fingers clutched nervously at the
girdle of her peignoir.

“Are you very angry,” he asked.

“No,” she answered after a pause, very softly. “No, I am not angry, and
I shall do as you ask me. I shall not go.”

“Do you really mean it?” he cried delighted.

“I really mean it. I shall not go. I am very thankful to you that you
have inquired about the people who are coming. I was already afraid
that you would not approve of my going, but I could not bear the
thought of staying alone at home a whole evening; that always makes me
so melancholy.”

“You feared my disapproval?” he asked smilingly.

“Yes,” she answered. “You are such a good friend to me, that I should
not like to do anything of which you disapprove. And for this evening—I
shall do exactly as you require.”

“Thank you,” he said with emotion, and pressed her hand.

“Yes, you may well appreciate it,” she cried with forced airiness,
feeling somewhat depressed by her humility. “Do you know that, for the
last three-quarters of an hour, I have been busy arranging the sequins
in my hair, and all for nothing?”

“Certainly, I appreciate what you have done. I assure you I appreciate
it,” he declared with much earnestness.

Uncle Daniel entered the room.

“Bon soir, St. Clare. You are not coming, are you? But, Eline! Are not
you going to dress?”

Eline stammered something and could not find her words, when she heard
the voice of Elise, who was grumbling to the maid. Elise entered,
glittering with sequins and Moorish draperies, her feet encased in two
little slippers.

“Bon soir, St. Clare. What a pity you are not going. It will be very
nice—Ciel! Eline!”

Vincent came in from the conservatory.

“It is nearly half-past nine, and you have only as yet done your hair,”
continued Elise in blank astonishment. “What have you been thinking
about?”

“I don’t think that your cousin is going, madam,” said St. Clare, as
Eline was too confused to speak. “We heard, Vincent and I, that the
company would be rather mixed at the ball—and I advised Miss Vere not
to go rather than risk unpleasant encounters. I hope you will pardon me
for giving that advice. Of course, I know she would have been under
your protection and that of her uncle, but I thought that such circles
were even more to be avoided by a young girl than by a married lady,
even though she be as charming as yourself. Was I very wrong?”

Elise hesitated whether she should be angry or not, but in his voice
there was so much determination and at the same time so much that was
winning, that she felt herself completely disarmed. Daniel Vere just
shrugged his shoulders.

“Whether you were wrong?” Elise repeated, still hesitating. “Well,
perhaps not. Of course Eline can do as she likes. If she would rather
not go, eh bien, soit! then we shall pretend that she had a headache.
That is easy enough. But you will have a terrible ennui, Eline.”

“No, really, I would much rather stay at home,” said Eline; “at least,
that is, if you are not offended.”

“Not at all. Liberté chérie, child.”

The servant came in to say that the carriage was at the door, and
brought uncle’s and Vincent’s furs. The maid assisted Elise to her fur
cape.

“If your uncle and aunt have no objection, I should like to keep you
company for a little while?” asked St. Clare.

Uncle and aunt thought it excellent. Eline was still rather confused.

“Adieu! Much pleasure,” she said with a little furtive smile to Elise,
her uncle, and Vincent.



“Ridiculous,” muttered Uncle Daniel, when they were in the carriage.
“Ridiculous! He won’t allow her to go to the ball, but he does not mind
keeping her company. That is American fashion, I suppose. I, at least,
would like to know which is more improper? To go with us to the ball,
or to spend an evening alone with a young man? Ridiculous!”

Vincent said nothing. He thought it beneath him to defend his friend,
but Elise quickly urged her husband to be silent. She would not permit
him to speak ill of a cousin who was under his roof, and of a friend
whom they saw so frequently.

“Speak ill of him—oh dear, no!” resumed Uncle Daniel, still feeling
hurt. “’Tis only American fashion, I suppose.”



Eline still felt her confusion.

“I don’t think uncle thought it right that I followed your advice,” she
said, when they were alone. “Perhaps, too, he thought that—you should
have gone with them.”

St. Clare looked at her in quiet surprise.

“Then why did he not say so? I asked him, did I not? But would you
sooner have me go?”

“No, I should think it very kind of you if you stayed a little longer.”

“With pleasure! for there is something else that I would like to ask
you, but it is not of such importance this time.”

“What is it, then?”

“I should like one of those sequins which you have arranged in your
hair.”

Eline smiled, and carefully she took from her hair the row of sequins
and removed one of the coins, which she offered to him.

“Thank you,” he said, and attached the coin to his watch-chain.

A strange feeling came over Eline. She felt very contented, very happy,
and yet somewhat abashed, and she asked herself which Betsy would have
considered less proper: to go with her uncle and aunt to that ball, or
to spend the evening alone, and en négligé, even with St. Clare? The
latter certainly, she thought. But he seemed to think it so simple and
natural that she did not even venture to ask him whether she might go
and change her dress.

“And now let us have a little quiet chat,” he said, as he sat down in a
fauteuil, and she remained sitting on the sofa, still a little shy, and
playing with her row of sequins. “Tell me something, do—of your
childhood, or of your travels.”

She said she did not know what to tell him, but again he asked her. She
answered him, and slowly her confidence in herself came back, and she
told him of Aunt Vere, of her Ouida literature, and especially of her
father and his great canvases which he never completed. She told him
also of her singing, of Betsy and Henk, and added that formerly she
thought very differently from what she thought now, and that she
appeared different too.

“What is it you call formerly?”

“I mean before my illness, and before I went travelling with uncle and
aunt—before—my engagement.”

“And how did you look then?”

“Much healthier and—and fresher.”

“Prettier, you would say?”

She could not help laughing that he read her thoughts, and did not give
himself the least trouble to be gallant. Then she asked him whether he
would like to see her portraits of those days, and while she took an
album from the table, she thought she might just as well permit him to
call her by her name. But she could not get so far as that.

He turned the pages of the album, which contained many of her
portraits; delicate little heads, with a ribbon or a string of pearls
round the neck. In a few of them she was décolletée.

“Well—what do you think?” she asked, as he remained silent.

“Very charming little faces, all of them, but everywhere an intolerable
coquettish little smile. A prettiness much too artificial. Were you
always in the habit of posing thus, or did you only do so before a
photographer?”

She felt a little piqued.

“For shame! How rude you are!” she said reproachfully.

“Was I rude?” he asked. “I beg your pardon. Yes, ’tis true these are
your portraits. I was a little confused at the moment, for you see it
is rather difficult to recognize you in them. But, believe me—I should
have thought you unbearable had I ever seen you thus. Pretty, yes—but
unbearable. Now you are a little thinner, it’s true, you have the
traces of suffering, but there is something winning in your face; while
in these little faces here there is nothing but coquettishness. I would
rather see you as you are now.”

He closed the album, and laid it down.

“And yourself,” he resumed, “would you rather be as you were then? Do
you regret those days?”

“Oh, no,” she sighed, “then I was not happy either.”

“But now you will do your best to be happy, will you not?”

She gave a little laugh and shrugged her shoulders.

“One cannot force one’s happiness,” she murmured dreamily, and,
involuntarily, she said it in English.

He looked at her in astonishment.

“Do you speak English?” he asked.

“I?” she cried in French, aroused from her dream.

“Yes, you!”

“Am I speaking English?”

“Not now. But just now you were.”

“Was I speaking English? I did not know—”

“Why have you never spoken English to me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh yes, you do know.”

“No, really not.”

“I assure you that you do know. Now tell me why, come!”

She laughed a little amused laugh.

“Because you speak such jolly French. You have such a pretty accent.”

“Then you have always laughed at me in secret?”

“No, I assure you, really I have not.”

“Which will you speak in future, English or French?”

“French, or you will still think that I was laughing at you.”

“There is no logic at all in what you say.”

“Possibly, but still I will speak French.”

“Very well. Do you know, you are no longer so weak as you were. You are
getting better, stronger.”

“Why?”

“For the first time since I have known you, I have heard you say I
will. Now mark my words. You commence by getting a little will of your
own, and in the end you will be quite firm, and when your will is firm
and strong you will get strong yourself. Now promise me that you will
cultivate a little will, like a frail hothouse plant that requires much
care and attention.”

Again she laughed, in her gentle, winning way.

“You shall see. I shall grow astonishingly obstinate under your
influence.”

“No. I hope not. But I should be very happy indeed if you would get a
little stronger under my influence.”

“I shall do my best.”

“And I shall keep you to your word. It is nearly eleven.”

She was silent. The word “already” was on her lips, but she restrained
herself in time.

“And tell me frankly, don’t you think now that you will act much more
sensibly by going to bed early this evening, and trying to get a little
sleep, than you would have done if you had gone and danced till six
o’clock in the morning with very queer partners, and in the company of
still queerer ladies?”

“You are perfectly right. I am sincerely grateful to you.”

“And I, too, am grateful for the coin which you have given me.”

She felt that it was not only for the coin that he was grateful.

“And now good-night. Good-night, Eline.”

She looked at him, and her eyes softened when she thus heard him
pronounce her name, without her permission.

“Good-night, Lawrence,” she whispered. She held out her hand. For a
moment he held it in his, his eyes looking into hers. Then he released
the little thin fingers.

“Adieu,” said he with a last cordial nod, and left.



For a while she stood still and mused. Then she told the servant to
extinguish the gas in the salon, and retired to her bed-room. The
sequins she took from her hair and placed on the toilet-table. On a
chair lay the glistening draperies of her ball toilet, and her little
Moorish slippers were on the floor beside it. While she undressed, she
still heard his voice with its light accent. Slowly she arranged her
ornaments. Her eye fell on her watch, to the chain of which a black
locket was attached. She opened it and gazed into it for a long while,
and her eyes grew moist. Then she pressed a soft kiss on the likeness
which it contained. For a moment she thought of detaching it from its
chain and placing it in one of the little drawers of her jewel-case;
but she did not do so. She lay down in her bed; she did not sleep,
neither did she take her sleeping draught. At half-past five she heard
Elise, sighing with fatigue, returning with Uncle Daniel. But her
sleeplessness had not been disturbed by grim nightmares, and it seemed
to her as though a calm pink glow of light was diffused around her.
Later on she slept a little, and when she awoke she did not feel
herself quite so languid as she usually did on awaking.



Eline did not see Elise the following day before lunch. Uncle Daniel
had gone out already; he was always very busy, but nobody knew exactly
what his occupations were. Eline asked Elise whether she had enjoyed
herself.

“Oh yes,” said Elise in a kindly tone. “It was rather boisterous, and
perhaps it’s quite as well that you did not go. It might have upset
you. Did St. Clare stay long?”

“Till eleven.”

“Look here, it does not matter to me that he persuaded you to stay at
home, but Daniel found it rather foolish of you that you were so
obedient. Still he does not care either, you know. You are free to do
exactly as you like with us, you know that.”

Eline was silent.

“But you must admit,” Elise proceeded laughingly, “it’s a strange case.
Yes, certainly, Eline, it’s a strange case, and sets one thinking.”

Eline looked at her searchingly.

“What do you think, then?”

“My dear girl, that I keep to myself, that I won’t tell you. But I,
who, as you know, never think, I certainly do begin to think a little
now. But I do not want to intimidate you, you know. I think it’s a very
good thing, if what I think is true.”

Eline knew that she was referring to something which in her own mind
was only just rising in very vague shape. She remained silent, and
while Elise, who was still rather tired from the ball, threw herself on
the couch with a book and was soon asleep, she sat down by the window
and collected her thoughts. In the last few days she had thought
little, she had merely allowed herself to be dragged along by a sweet
tenderness which had overwhelmed her; but now Elise’s veiled words
brought her to herself again. Yes, the case gave food for thought. St.
Clare had dared to ask her to stay at home, and she had yielded to his
wishes, and the thought that it awakened in her mind she did not dare
to shape. Gladly as she would have yielded herself to that thought, she
knew that it could never be, never. Oh, why had she not met him sooner?
Fate was cruel indeed. She began to fear that she should have treated
him differently, perhaps she ought to have repelled him with haughty
coldness, with indignation at his interference in her affairs, neither
should she have asked his pardon after she had once been cold to him.
But it had been so sweet to bend to his will; he was so strong, and she
found so much support in his strength. She had never imagined that he
could have felt any love for her—ailing, weak, broken-down creature
that she was; it was not right, he ought not to have begun to care for
her, but now perhaps it was too late.



When, a few days later, she saw him again, he found her alone in the
large salon. Eline was seated in an arm-chair by the fire, whilst a
furious wind was driving the snowflakes against the window-pane.

“I knew I should find you at home. That is why I have come,” said he,
as he took his seat. “Have your uncle and aunt gone out?”

“Yes; I don’t know where they have gone. I believe to a sale.”

She had made up her mind to be a little distant in her manner, but his
company was so welcome to her that she did not succeed. She said, “I am
very glad to see you again.”

He smiled a little, and made a few remarks about the antique china
which was scattered about the room. Then he continued—

“Soon I shall be leaving you for long; we are going northward viâ
Cologne and Berlin.”

It was as if the breath were choked within her.

“When do you go?” she asked mechanically.

“In a few days.”

“You are going as far as St. Petersburg, as far as Moscow, are you
not?”

“Yes.”

“Does Russia attract you?”

He answered a little absently, in short, halting sentences. While she
listened, she felt she could have cried, and his words sounded to her
as if they were spoken through a mist, and she heard him say, as if he
were interrupting himself—

“But I wanted to ask you something. I wanted to ask you if, during the
time that I am away, you will now and then think of me.”

“Certainly I will think of you,” she said with trembling lips; “you
have been so good and so kind to me, and—I shall always hold you in
pleasant memory.”

“Thank you,” he softly said. “Don’t you think it sad when people have
learned to know each other, and feel sympathy for one another, that
they have to part?”

“Yes. But there is so much that is sad in the world.”

“You will say, perhaps,” he continued, following his own train of
thought, “that I can stay in Brussels as long as I like because I
travel for my pleasure. Perhaps, even, I should prefer to remain in
Brussels.”

She began to tremble all over, but she made an effort and restrained
herself.

“Why should you not go further?” she murmured. “Why should you not see
what you can of the world?”

“Because I’m fond of you,” he answered calmly. And his penetrating eyes
looked at her fixedly. “And because I cannot bear to leave you. I
should gladly stay with you, stay with you always to protect you—I
shudder at having to leave you. I have a feeling when I think of my
departure as if some misfortune would happen to you.”

She wanted to reply something, but she could not, for she nearly choked
in repressing the tears that came to her eyes.

“But that is impossible,” she said painfully, almost despairingly.

“And why is it impossible?” he asked. “Why is it impossible that I
should always stay with you, or rather that you should always stay with
me? Tell me, Eline.”

“Because it cannot be,” she answered briefly.

“Oh yes, it can; if you cared for me you would not say so. I should
take you with me. I should care for you. You should be my wife.”

“And I—I should make you unhappy.”

“No, no; I should do my very best to make you happy, and I’m certain
that I should succeed. Listen to me. Even before I had seen you,
Vincent’s words made me feel an interest in you. The first time that I
met you I pitied you, for I saw in your whole being that you had had a
great grief, that you were still in grief, and that you were unhappy. I
began to think what I could do to make you happy, but I found nothing,
only while I was speaking to you, and while my mind was full of
thoughts, it seemed to me that there was a little more animation coming
into your face, and more contentment into your words. Perhaps it was
only my fancy, but it seemed so to me. I imagined, too—perhaps it was
my vanity—that I myself somewhat influenced that change. I took notice
of you, though you spoke to other people, but at such times you were
quiet, cool, and reserved. But with me you were very different; you
even grew confidential. Then it was that a great desire came over me to
be all in all to you, for I thought perhaps then you would be happy,
and would no longer take such a sombre view of life. Elly, dear, you
are still so young, and you imagine that all is over with you. Do not
think so any longer, but trust yourself to me, and let us find out
together whether life is really such a melancholy affair as you
imagined. Tell me, Elly, will you do so? Will you see with me whether
an entirely new life may not be yours?”

She sobbed softly, lifted up her weeping eyes, and folded her hands
almost in supplication.

“Oh, why do you ask me that?” she cried. “Why must you ask me that? Why
must I cause you grief? Have I not given pain to enough people already?
And now must I be a misery to you as well? But it cannot be—it cannot
be, never!”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” she repeated meditatively. “Because although I am still
young, I am thoroughly broken. Can you not see that? Because everything
in me is shattered—because I am an utter wreck.”

“Eline, use no such big words; speak calmly.”

“I use no big words. I do speak calmly. I speak with deliberation, with
the deliberation of despair,” she cried rising, and she remained
standing before him as he took her hand. “I speak with so much
deliberation that it makes me shudder. Listen, Lawrence, you know that
I have been engaged.”

“Yes. And that you have given him back his word.”

“Yes. I have given him back his word, and yet I liked him. Even while I
wrote to him releasing him from his engagement, I liked him. Is that
not terrible?”

He did not answer, and looked at her as if he did not understand.

“That you cannot understand, can you?” she asked, and her hands
trembled in his. “You cannot understand that such terrible doubts can
fill a woman’s heart? You cannot understand that at times I don’t know
what I feel, nor what I think, nor what I would do. Do you see, there
is something in me, something that is incomplete. I am always in doubt.
I am always searching for something, and never feel certain of
anything. I liked him. Forgive me for telling you now. I liked him so
very much, he was so good, and he would have sacrificed his life for
me. And there came a moment when I knew no longer whether I liked him
or not, when I even thought I cared for some one else, whilst all the
time I cared for none but him. And now I know it—now that it is too
late, and now that I have perhaps made him unhappy.”

“Do you know that you have made him unhappy, Eline?”

“No. I do not know, but I suspect it. At the Hague I did hear something
about his having got the better of his grief, but I could never believe
it. Now that it is too late I know all, and it is only now that I know
how fond he was of me. Even if I were to hear that he were married, I
could not believe that he had quite forgotten me. It cannot be! He must
think of me as I often think of him.”

“Do you still care for him?” he asked in a dull voice.

“Not as I have cared for him, not now, Lawrence. I believe just now it
is only pity I feel for him, but I often think of him. Here is his
portrait.”

She opened the locket, and showed him Otto’s likeness. Without saying a
word he gazed at it.

“Do you always carry this about with you?” he softly asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, almost inaudibly, “always. To me this is sacred,
and therefore, Lawrence, therefore it can never be. The thought of him
would always rise up between us. With you I could be happy if that
memory did not always haunt me. But for me to be happy whilst I
continually remembered that his life was so wretched—oh! it would be
impossible.”

He did not answer, and she began to sob violently. She sank down on the
ground, and laid her head on his knee.

“Oh, forgive me, Lawrence, forgive me. I never thought that you could
care for me. I was so ill, I was always coughing, I felt myself so
weak. I thought that I had grown out of it, that I should even have
repelled a man. Had I not thought thus I should never have allowed you
to see that I cared for you. At first you spoke as if we were brother
and sister. Why did you not continue to speak thus? As it is, now I
have been compelled to cause you pain; I could not help it. I should
have been wicked if I could have become your wife without a feeling of
remorse.”

He lifted her up gently, and drew her towards him a little.

“Eline,” said he, “one day you told me that you had thrown away your
happiness. Then I did not ask you what you meant by it, but now I ask
you, do you mean by that the letter which you sent to Otto?”

“Yes,” she sobbed.

“With that letter you threw your happiness away, you say? Are you
certain now that you are not throwing away your happiness for the
second time, or can I never make you happy? It is Otto alone who can do
that?”

She looked at him with a melting expression in her eyes.

“Oh, Lawrence,” she murmured passionately, her head nearly on his
bosom, “if I had but met you before—before all that had happened, I
could not have cared for any one but you. But it could not be. It was
my fate.”

“Oh, do not speak about fate. Fate is but a phrase. Every one makes his
own fate. You—you are too weak to make one for yourself. Let me make
your fate for you.”

“It cannot be,” she sobbed, and shook her head, which was nestled
against him, hither and thither. “It can never be.”

“Yes, Eline, it can be,” he answered. “You say you could not have cared
for any one but me had you seen me sooner. Perhaps in that case I might
not have cared for you; however, these are suppositions which do not
concern you in the least. All I know now is, that I like you as you
are. You say that you are ill, but I know that you will be well again,
I feel it.”

“That is no certainty,” she wept.

“That is true, but no more is it a certainty that you have made Otto
unhappy. You feel that too, do you not? You are not certain of it.”

“No, no, I believe I am certain.”

“No, you are not,” he continued; “and you tell me, now that I ask you
to be my wife, that it cannot be, that it can never be. Is that not
cruel of you?”

“Oh, why do you reproach me with that?” she sobbed.

“Just now you said yourself that you were always in doubt—that you were
always searching for something, but that you never knew anything for
certain. How is it then that now you say you know without doubt that it
never could be? Are you so certain of that? Will you feel no regret
when I am gone—when it is too late?”

“Oh,” she groaned, “how can you make me suffer thus? You torture me.”

He was silent for a moment, and gently raised her head from his bosom.

“I shall torture you no longer, Eline. Only this I want to say to you.
Don’t refuse now what I have asked you. A day may come when you may
wish that you had spoken differently. Let me hope as much as that, at
least. The day after to-morrow I am leaving here with Vincent. In five
months’ time I shall see you once again. I shall ask Vincent to write
you now and then. You shall always know where we are, and you need but
say one word, and I shall return at once. I don’t ask you now to
promise me anything, but pray refuse me nothing either. Allow me to
hope, and endeavour to hope yourself. Will you do this, or is it too
much that I am asking you?”

“No,” she whispered. “Oh, no, it is not too much. I will give you my
answer in five months’ time.”

“Very well,” said he. “I shall ask you nothing more, and now I shall
wait until your uncle and aunt are home to take leave of them. Vincent
will come to-morrow. But now that we are alone, may I take my leave of
you?”

She did not answer, but looked at him. He pressed her in his arms and
kissed her.

“In five months’ time then?” he whispered with a smile.

She raised herself up, looked at him fixedly, and then flung her arms
round his neck. And she kissed his forehead with a long passionate
kiss.

“In—in five months,” she murmured in reply.



CHAPTER XXX.


Uncle Daniel and Aunt Elise were not a bit surprised when Eline, a few
days after St. Clare’s and Vincent’s departure, told them that she
intended to return to the Hague. They knew how capricious Eline was,
how she longed, now for this and now for that, and never was contented.
But this time it was not out of caprice that Eline longed for another
dwelling-place. After the soirée, at which St. Clare had asked her
somewhat brusquely how she got there, it seemed to her as if a veil had
risen before her eyes, as if suddenly it was made plain to her that she
was not in her place with her uncle and aunt, and especially in their
coterie, and it was out of respect, out of friendship, perhaps out of
love for St. Clare, that she determined to leave her Brussels
acquaintances.

She wrote to Henk and asked him to take two rooms for her in a ladies’
boarding-house or in one of the new stately hotels. In reply she
received letters from Henk, from Betsy, from old Madame van Raat, all
of whom begged her not to go into apartments, but to make her home with
them. Betsy wrote her that she forgave and forgot everything that had
happened, if Eline on her part would also forgive and forget, and
implored Eline not to be so eccentric as to go and live by herself when
there was room for her in her sister’s house. Old Madame van Raat, too,
wrote very urgently and very affectionately, but Eline refused with
repeated professions of gratitude; she was determined that no one
should make her change her mind.

Henk, therefore, with a dejected face, shrugged his shoulders, and with
Betsy he chose two handsome apartments in a large pension on the
Bezuidenhout. Thereupon Eline came to the Hague.

She recollected how the previous summer, worn-out with her wandering,
she had come to the Hague to make her stay with Madame van Raat. She
compared her languor of those days with the exhaustion which now, as it
were, was surely undermining her, and she did not even feel strength to
weep about it. For the sake of her regard for St. Clare, she had
concentrated the last lingering remnants of strength to be once more as
she had been—winning, amiable, if not brilliant; and now that St. Clare
was gone, she discovered how, frank and natural as she had been towards
him, she had for all that involuntarily, as it were, excited herself so
that she should not appear to him altogether the utterly worn-out
being, the living corpse that she was. Now that that excitement was no
longer necessary, she collapsed, broken down utterly. The emotion
caused by her latest confession, too, had greatly unnerved her, and it
became to her a certainty that she would never more be able to arouse
herself from her physical exhaustion and her moral inanition.

Her cough was very violent, and Reyer attended her again, but she never
told him about her Brussels doctor, who had prescribed her the
morphine-drops, as she remembered that Reyer would never allow her to
take an opiate. It was February, the cold was intense, and she did not
leave the house. When in the morning she rose, she felt as formerly she
had felt at Madame van Raat’s, too fatigued and languid to dress
herself. She wrapped herself in her peignoir and sank down on a couch.
Then a delicious feeling would come over her that she need not trouble
herself about any one, that there was no need for her to dress herself,
and that she could remain as she was in her slippers as long as she
liked. Often Madame van Raat or Betsy, Madame Verstraeten or Marie and
Lili, found her thus undressed, dishevelled, vacantly staring out of
the window. She did not read, she did not do anything, and hour after
hour passed by during which she did not even think. At times she would
suddenly throw herself on the floor, her face pressed down on the
carpet, and then it grew dark, oh, so dark around her, until a knock at
the door—the servant who brought her dinner—made her start up with a
sudden fright. Then she would sit down and eat a very little, and then
a wan little smile would hover around her lips, in which at once
something satirical and something idiotic were intermingled.

The nights that followed on those days were for Eline veritable hours
of terror. Everything within her began to live, and she felt as if
electrified by the horror, so that she could not sleep. Her brain was
in a mad whirl. Shrill, mysterious sounds rushed through her ears. A
very maelstrom of memories whirled round and round in her mind. Visions
of all shapes and forms rose up around her. She started in terror at
everything—at a shadow falling along the wall, at a pin glistening on
the floor; then she took her drops, and a dull sleep at last fell upon
her like a leaden mantle.

For minutes at a time she would stand staring in the glass at her faded
features. The tears would then start to her eyes, whose brightness was
for ever extinguished, and she thought of former days, she longed for
that past again without really asking herself what that past had been.
For latterly she was no longer capable of continuous thought. It was as
if before her thoughts a barrier had been placed, which she could not
cross. But it was that very dullness which now overtook her that in
some measure lessened her melancholy, which, had her brain been of its
normal clearness, would certainly have risen to an unbearable crisis.
But instead of that melancholy she now struggled through hours of
doubt, in which she was at a loss what to do with her useless self, her
useless existence, which dragged itself along within these four walls,
with only her violent fits of coughing to break the weary monotony.
Then she fell to weeping bitterly about her unfulfilled desires, and
she writhed on the ground, stretching forth her arms towards an image
which vaguely shaped itself to her eyes; for in her dreams, as well as
in her waking thoughts, the forms of Otto and St. Clare began to be
confused in her mind. The observations and sayings, the ideas of the
one she ascribed to the other, and she could no longer say which of
them she had ever loved in truth, or which of them she still loved.
When, in such doubts, she attempted to continue her train of thought,
that impassable barrier stopped her, and her impotency enraged her;
with her clenched fist she beat herself on the forehead, as if therein
there was something broken that she would repair.

“What can it be?” she would then ask herself in despair. “Why is it
that I forget so many things that have happened, and of which I can
only remember that they have happened? All that dullness here in my
head! Rather the most horrible pain than that dullness! It is as if I
am going mad!”

A shudder crept over her back like a cold snake at that thought.
Suppose she were to go mad, what then would they do with her? But she
would not follow up such terrible suppositions, although it seemed to
her that if she could only think through that spectre of rising
insanity, she would suddenly pass over the barrier that had been placed
before her thoughts! But when once she should have passed into it,
then—then, indeed, she would be insane.

At such moments she covered her face with her hands and pressed her
fingers in her ears, as though she would not hear, would not see; as if
the first impression she would now receive would drive her mad. And at
that idea she was so terrified that she said not a word about that
dullness to Reyer.

Her uninterrupted, listless idleness made her yield herself up entirely
like a slave to the strange fantasies and ideas which frequently rose
to the most senseless ecstasies, from which she suddenly awoke in dread
terror; reclining on her couch, her fingers nervously plucking at the
tassels of the cushions, playing with the loose hair that hung
dishevelled about her head, her thoughts went back to her theatrical
illusions in the days when she had sung duets with Paul, and when she
thought she loved Fabrice. Then she became an actress; she saw the
stage, the public, she smiled and bowed, flowers rained down upon her.
Quite unconscious of herself, she would rise from her couch, and with
her broken voice softly hum a recitative, a phrase from some Italian
aria; and she moved about her room as if she were playing a part—she
acted, she stretched forth her arms in movements of despair, or lifted
them up with longing towards the fleeing lover; she sank down on her
knees, and imagined that she was dragged forward, although she prayed
and implored for mercy. Various rôles rose confused in her brain:
Marguerite, Juliette, Lucia, Isabelle, Mireille—of all these in the
space of a few minutes she would go through the most tragic scenes, and
suddenly, roughly awakened from that madness, she would see herself
once more alone in her room, and making the strangest motions. Then she
drew back in terror for herself, and tremblingly she thought—

“Heavens above! is it coming over me?”

After such moments she would remain lying down staring about her with
frightened eyes, as if she expected that some crushing catastrophe
would occur, as if the features of the statuettes, the figures in the
pictures and plates around her, would suddenly come to life and laugh
at her—a hard, grinning laugh, cruel as that of demons.

After such a day she did her best in her silent terror to become
herself once more. In the morning, after awakening from her leaden,
artificial sleep, she would quickly get up, dress herself with much
care, and go out shopping; then go and take coffee with Henk and Betsy,
with the Verstraetens, or with Madame van Raat. She complained about
her loneliness, and as, in such moments, she showed herself rather
amiable, they asked her here and there out of pity to stay to dinner.
Then the evening would pass cheerily enough, and she returned home,
glad that another day was gone, but fainting almost with fatigue at her
unusual emotions by her artificially excited gaiety, unnatural and full
of shrill laughter, mingled with coughs. And such a day she had to pay
for dearly at night; the drops gave her no relief, she remained all
through hopelessly wide awake, struggling with horrible nightmares,
haunted by spectres of her diseased brain.

Her acquaintances spoke a good deal about Eline, and Betsy frequently
remarked with a serious face that she feared it was far from right with
her; Eline was so strange just now, and Reyer was not satisfied either,
and her acquaintances pitied her. Poor Eline! formerly she was so
pretty, so elegant, so cheerful—and now she was like a shadow of her
former self. Yes, indeed, she was very ill. That one could easily see.



It was raining—a cold, searching March rain—and Betsy was at home,
sitting in the little violet boudoir which opened on the conservatory.
It was somewhat dark, but Betsy had moved her fauteuil in the light,
and was reading Les Pêcheurs d’Islande by Pierre Loti. But the book
bored her; how could fishermen be so very sentimental? Now and then her
glance fell along the palms of the conservatory and on the barren
garden, where the bare branches were dripping with wet. Ben sat on the
floor by her fauteuil. All at once he gave a sigh.

“What is it, Ben? Is anything the matter?” asked Betsy.

“No, ma,” he answered, looking up in surprise with his laboured little
voice.

“Why do you sigh then, child?”

“I don’t know, ma.”

She looked at him searchingly for a moment, then she laid down her
book.

“Just come here, Ben.”

“Where, ma dear?”

“Here, on my lap.”

He clambered slowly on to her lap and smiled. Lately her brusque voice
often had something soft in it when she addressed her only child.

“Are you fond of your ma?” she asked caressingly.

“Yes.”

“Kiss me, then.”

He flung his little arms round her neck.

“Come, give me a kiss!”

Still with the same listless little smile he kissed her.

“Ma is never naughty to you, is she?” asked Betsy.

“No.”

“Will you stop with ma like that?”

“Yes.”

He nestled himself, the big boy of seven, against her bosom.

“Tell me, Ben, is there nothing you would like? Would you not like
something nice of ma?”

“No.”

“For instance, a little horse and carriage—a real horse, a pony? Then
Herman can teach you to drive.”

“Oh, no, thank you,” he said, in a tone as if she bored him a little.

She grew almost impatient, and was on the point of giving him a
scolding, and telling him that he was a wretch of a boy, but that
impatience lasted only for a second. She clasped him closer to her and
kissed him.

“But if there is anything you would like, you must tell me,” she said,
almost weeping. “Will you tell me, Ben? Say, child, will you really
tell ma?”

“Yes,” he answered, in a tone of great satisfaction.

And she closed her eyes, shuddering at the thought that her child was
an idiot. It was like a curse that had come to her. But why, how had
she then deserved it? What had she done?

She did not read further, and she kept him on her lap, where he lay
quietly, with his head resting on her shoulder, when she heard some one
approaching through the salon. It was Eline.

“Good morning, Eline.”

“Good morning, Betsy. Good morning, Ben.”

“Fancy you going out in this rain!”

“I had a cab. I could not stay at home any longer. The weather made me
so melancholy, and I thought I was going mad with ennui. Oh, great
heavens!”

She let herself go, as with a cry of despair she fell down on a seat,
and removed her little veil.

“Just imagine always being pent up within the four walls of your room,
no one to see you, nothing in which you take any interest. Is that not
enough to drive you mad? At all events, I cannot bear it any longer, I
shall certainly go crazy.”

“Eline, prends garde, l’enfant t’écoute.”

“He—he does not understand that, and probably will never understand
it,” she continued in a hoarse voice. “Ben, come here; come here for a
moment. Do you know what you must do when you are big? Never think of
anything, little man, whatever you do. Don’t think at all. Eat, drink,
and enjoy yourself as long as you can, and then—then—you must marry!
But you must not think, do you hear?”

“Eline, vraiment tu es folle,” cried Betsy hastily, fearing more for
her child than for her sister.

Eline laughed loudly, and her laugh and the shrill words of her excited
voice frightened Ben. With his big eyes and his mouth wide open he
stared at her. But still she laughed.

“Oh, he does not understand anything of it, the little man. Eh, you
don’t know what it is that aunt is raving about, do you? But it is
delicious to rave like that. I wish I could do something very
desperate, some awfully mad trick, something utterly ridiculous, but I
cannot think of anything. My mind is so dulled just now that I cannot
think. If only Elise were here she would know something. Do you know
what we did one day, Elise and I, the first time I stayed in Brussels?
I never had the courage to tell any one of it before, but now I dare
say anything. Nothing troubles me now. Just fancy, one evening we went
out together for a walk, all alone, you know, just for a little
adventure. Don’t you say a word of it to any one, do you hear? Then we
met two gentlemen, two very nice gentlemen, whom we did not know at
all. With them we went for a drive—in an open landau, and then—then we
went with them into a café.”

Her story was continually interrupted by little nervous shrill laughs,
and with the last words she burst out into an uncontrollable fit of
hysterical laughter. Not a word was true of the whole story, but at
that moment she believed in it herself.

“Just fancy, in a café—in a café! And then——”

“Eline, do pray stop that mad talk,” said Betsy softly.

“Ah! I suppose you think it awfully shocking, eh? But rest assured, it
was not quite so bad as all that.”

She still laughed, half weeping, and at last she burst out in
hysterical sobs.

“Oh, that wretched Reyer! I have always such a terrible pain here in my
head, and he does not care. He is always boring me about my cough. I
know I cough—that is no news; and oh, great heavens! it is so horribly
dull in that Pension.”

“Why don’t you come and stay with us then?”

“Oh, that would never do. In three days’ time we should be pulling
ourselves by the hair,” laughed Eline boisterously. “Now that we see
each other but rarely it is much better.”

“Really, I should do my very best to make you comfortable,” implored
Betsy, who felt terribly alarmed at Eline’s excited state. “We should
have the greatest care for you, and I should study you in everything.”

“But I should not study you. No, thank you very much. I value my
liberty before everything. How can you be so provoking? We should begin
haggling at once. Why, we are haggling now already.”

“Why do you say that? I am not haggling at all. There is nothing I
should like better than for you to come here this evening, if you
like.”

“Betsy, now just leave off about it, or you will never see me again. I
won’t live with you any more. I won’t, so there! I’ve had enough of
it.”

And she hummed a tune.

“Will you stay to dinner then this afternoon?” asked Betsy.

“Rather! But I’m tired. You won’t find me very lively. What are you
going to do this evening?”

“We are going to the Oudendykens’. Are you not invited?”

“No. I never visit them.”

“Why not?”

“For my part they can frizzle themselves, the Oudendykens. Oh, my
head—may I lie down on a couch?”

“Certainly.”

“Then I shall go to Henk’s room. There is such a cosy sofa there.”

“There is no fire there.”

“Oh, that does not matter.”



She went up-stairs to Henk’s sitting-room. She lay down on the sofa,
and ere long, exhausted as she was with her excitement, sleep overtook
her. She was aroused from her slumbers by a heavy step on the landing.
Before she was well awake, Henk entered.

“Hullo, sissy, what have you been doing here in the dark? and how cold
it is in here!”

“Cold!” she repeated, with a look as that of a somnambulist. “Yes, now
I feel it too. I’m shivering—but I have been asleep.”

“Come along down-stairs. Dinner will soon be ready. Betsy said you were
going to stay; aren’t you?”

“Yes. Oh, Henk, how terrible that I have been asleep here!”

“Terrible! Why?”

“Now I won’t sleep to-night,” she screamed in despair, and she threw
her head on his shoulder and sobbed.

“Why don’t you rather come and stay with us again?” he asked softly.
“You would be so comfortable with us.”

“No, not that.”

“Why not?”

“It would never do. I am certain of it. It is very kind of you, Henk,
to ask me, but it would not do. Sometimes I feel as if I could strike
Betsy, and I feel that just at the moment when she speaks nicely to me,
as she did this afternoon, for instance. I had to restrain myself with
all my might from striking her.”

He sighed, with a despairing face. To him she remained a puzzle.

“Then let us go down-stairs,” said he.

And as they were going down she leant heavily on his arm, trembling
with the cold, which only now she began to feel.



The winter went by, and Eline remained in the same condition.

“Would it not do you good to go into the country in the summer?” asked
Reyer. “I don’t mean that you should travel from one place to the
other, that would fatigue you too much. But you might make a little
stay in some quiet, cool spot amidst some cheerful surroundings.”

Her thoughts went back to the Horze. Oh, if she had been Otto’s wife,
then grateful coolness, shade, affection would have been hers.

“I don’t know of such a place,” she answered languidly.

“Perhaps I might know of something for you. I know some very nice kind
people in Gelderland. They have a little country seat surrounded by
magnificent pine forests.”

“In Heaven’s name,” screamed Eline passionately, “no pine forests!”

“But country life would strengthen you.”

“It is impossible to strengthen me. Pray, Mr. Reyer, let me lie where I
am.”

“Do you sleep better now?”

“Oh yes, fairly well.”

It was not true. She never slept at night, and by day she slumbered
just a little, she dozed just a little. The drops had no more effect,
and only brought her into a continual whirling ecstasy, a condition
full of listlessness and terror, in which she either raved like an
actress, or dragged herself groaning along the floor. Reyer looked at
her penetratingly.

“Miss Vere, pray tell me the truth. Are you in the habit of taking
other medicines than those which I prescribe?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Answer me the truth, Miss Vere.”

“Of course not. How can you think such a thing? I should not have the
courage to do so. No, no, you may rest quite assured about that.”

Reyer left, and in his carriage he forgot his note-book for a moment,
and was deep in thought about Miss Vere. Then he heaved a hopeless
sigh. Scarcely had he left the room when Eline rose. She was dressed
only in a loose gray peignoir, which hung about her emaciated figure.
In front of the glass, she plunged her hands in her loose hair. It had
grown very thin, and she laughed about it while the stray locks fell
about her fingers. Then she flung herself on the floor.

“I won’t,” she stammered, “I will not see him any more, that Reyer. He
makes me worse than I am. I cannot bear him any longer. I shall write
him to stay away.”

But she did not feel sufficient energy to do so, and she remained lying
on the floor, and her fingers traced the figures of the carpet. Softly
she began to hum to herself. Through the door the sun cast a square
golden glimmer on the floor, and thousands of little dust particles
danced about in the golden light. The glitter irritated Eline, and she
drew herself back.

“Oh, that sun!” she whispered, with strange, big, dull eyes. “I hate
that sun. ’Tis rain and wind that I want—cold rain and cold wind—the
rain that oozes through on my chest, through my black tulle dress.”

Suddenly she rose, and wrung her hands on her chest as though she would
prevent the wind from blowing open the cloak from her shoulders.

“Jeanne! Jeanne!” she commenced in her delirium; “pray, pray take me
in. I have run away from Betsy, for she is unbearable. This evening, at
the dinner at Hovel’s, she said all kinds of nasty things about
Vincent, and you know that I love Vincent; for his sake I have broken
my engagement, my engagement with Otto. Oh, how he bored me with his
eternal calmness, always calm—always calm! I—I shall go mad under all
that calmness; but really, Henk, I shall go to Lawrence and ask his
pardon. But don’t strike me, Henk! Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence, I love you
so! Do not be angry with me, Lawrence; see if I do not love you! Here
is your portrait which I always wear on my bosom.”

She had knelt down by the sofa, and lifted up her face as if she saw
somebody. All at once she started in terror, and hastily, and with a
shudder, she raised herself.

“Great heavens! there it is coming again,” she thought, becoming once
more conscious of herself.

There seemed to be a struggle going on in her brain, a struggle between
her impotent senses and her ever-increasing madness. With an uncertain
movement she took up a book which was lying on the table, and opened
it, to force herself to be sensible and to read. It was the score of Le
Tribut de Zamora, which she had once procured during her passion for
Fabrice. She dared not look up, fearing lest she might see her insanity
take some hideous shape before her eyes. She dared not move, out of
terror for herself, and she would gladly have saved her fleeing senses
had she been able, as it were, to pass away out of her own self. And
the ray of sunshine once more filled the room, glowing over the satin
of the curtains and reflecting itself back in the china of the Japanese
vases and the polished glittering brass of the ornaments. Softly she
began to sing something to herself, quite unconsciously, in a voice
hoarse and raw with endless coughing. Then there was a knock at the
door.

“Who is there?” she asked, alarmed.

“’Tis I, miss,” cried a voice; “I’ve brought you your lunch.”

“No, thank you, Sophie, I have no appetite.”

“Will you not take anything, miss?”

“No, thank you.”

“Then you will ring, miss, when you want something, will you not?”

“Yes, yes.”

She heard the servant go down-stairs, she heard the tinkling of plates
and glasses on the tray. Eline gave another glance at the rôle of
Xaïma, and she lifted her head proudly and made an heroic motion with
her hand, as she began to sing in a weak voice, interrupted by
coughing.



At half-past five Sophie brought the dinner and laid the little round
table with much care. But Eline scarcely touched any of the food, and
she was glad when Sophie took it back again. She took up a few cards
which Sophie had brought with her, cards from Madame Verstraeten and
from Lili.

“Old Madame van Raat has also been here, and she went away.”

Eline remained alone. The evening was falling, the sun was slowly
sinking in the west, but the light long remained. From her cupboard
Eline took a little bottle and carefully counted out some drops, which
she let fall in a glass of water. Slowly she drank it. Ah, if they
would only bring her some relief! It had so often been in vain lately.

She was tired after her long day of idleness and half-insane ravings,
and she wanted to retire to her rest at an early hour. No, she would
not light the gas, she would stay a little longer in the twilight, and
then—then she would try to sleep. But it all began to boil, to seethe,
to throb in her head. She gasped for breath, and regardless of the
evening air which began to blow into the room, she let the gray
peignoir glide down from her shoulders. Her arms were thin, her chest
was hollow, and she looked at herself with a sad smile as her fingers
passed through her thin hair. And because it was growing dark, because
in spite of her drops she would not sleep, because she was very pale
and white in the lace and the embroidery of her dress, because she grew
terrified at the increasing gloom, the madness once more returned—


           “Ah, perfido! Spergiuro!”


she began as in a rage to hum to herself, as she lifted up her arm. It
was the scene of Beethoven in which Vincent used to smell the odour of
vervain. In her song she reproached a faithless lover with his broken
troth, and her face expressed the most tragic grief, a wounded love
which would avenge itself. She told the lover to go, but the gods above
would crush him under their chastisement. Suddenly she snatched from
her bed a sheet, and she wrapped herself in the long white material,
which in the faint evening light fell about her like a cloak of marble.


            “Oh no! Fermate, vindici Dei!”


she sang hoarsely, and her voice broke into coughs, with melting eyes
this time, for in another mood she now invoked the mercy of the gods
for the faithless one; however he may have changed she remained the
same, she wanted no revenge, she had lived and now she would die for
him. And slowly she murmured the Adagio slowly, very slowly, while the
white folds of her drapery, with the imploring motions which she made
with her arms, rose and fell continually. Thus she sang on, on, until a
plaint forced itself from her throat, and in that plaint all at once
she began to act, as with the noble art of a prima donna. It seemed to
her as though the lover had already fled, and as though she turned to
the chorus which surrounded her pityingly—


           “Se in tanto affa—a—a—anno!”


she murmured, almost weeping, in grief-stricken cadences, and her agony
rose, the plaint rose, and she shrieked higher and higher—


           “Non son degna di pieta!”


She started violently, terrified at the penetrating, shrill notes of
her broken voice, and she flung her sheet from her shoulders and sat
down shivering. Would they have heard her? she wondered. She just
glanced through the open French window on to the street. No, there were
only a few people walking about in the growing darkness. But in the
house? Well, any way, she could not help it now. She would be sensible
once more. She sobbed, and yet she laughed. She laughed at herself. If
she excited herself like that she would never sleep. Suddenly she threw
herself on her disarranged bed, and closed her eyes, but sleep would
not come.

“Oh, heavens! Oh, great heavens!” she groaned. “Oh, great heavens, I
pray you let me sleep.”

And she wept bitterly, continuously. Then a thought shot through her
brain. If she should drink a few drops more than the Brussels doctor
had prescribed? Would it hurt her? She thought not, because the dose
she was in the habit of taking now gave her no relief whatever. How
many drops, she wondered, could she add to it without risk? As many as
she had taken already? No, that would be too many, of course. Who knows
what might happen? But, for instance, half as many again! Therefore,
three drops more? No, no, she dared not. The doctor had so urgently
warned her to be careful. Still it was very tempting, the few drops,
and she rose. She took her little phial to count the three drops.
One—two—three—four—five—the last two fell into the glass before she had
time to take away the bottle. Five—that would be too many? She
hesitated for a moment. With these five drops she would be certain to
sleep. Still she hesitated, but all at once she came to a resolution,
lured as she was to it by the prospect of rest. And she drank.



She laid herself down on the floor, close to the open French window.
The cold perspiration broke out all over her, and she felt a dullness
stealing over her, but such a strange dullness it was, quite different
from what she usually felt.

“Oh, great God!” thought she. “Have—have I taken too many?”

No, no, that would be too terrible. Death was so black, so empty, so
mysterious, but still, if it were so? And suddenly her fears melted
away into a restfulness immeasurable. Well, if it were so she would not
care. And she began to laugh with inaudible, nervous little laughs,
while the dullness descended upon her with a crushing weight as of the
heavy fist of a giant. With her hand she wanted to defend herself from
those giant fists, and her fingers became entangled in a cord about her
neck. Oh, that was—that was his portrait, Otto’s portrait. Could she
indeed have taken too much? When to-morrow came should she——? She
shuddered. To-morrow morning would they knock at her door in vain, and
in the end would they find her lying there? A terrible thought indeed.
She was wet through with perspiration, and her fingers again wandered
to the locket. No, that portrait they should not find on her bosom. She
raised herself up, and wrenched the portrait out of the locket. She
could no longer distinguish it, for it had grown dark in her room, and
in her eyes the light was already failing; only the yellow glare of the
street-lamp fell with a dull reflection into the room. But she saw the
likeness with her mind’s eye, with her fingers she touched the little
piece of pasteboard, and she kissed it, kissed it repeatedly.

“Oh, Otto,” she faltered, in a heavy labouring voice; “you it was, you
alone, my Otto, not Vincent, not St. Clare, no one but you. You—oh, my
Otto—oh, Otto—oh, great God!”

And she struggled despairingly between the agony of death and a calm
resignation. Then, after covering the portrait with passionate kisses,
she placed it in her mouth despairingly without the strength left her
to tear it up, or to destroy it in any other way than by swallowing it.
Thus, whilst a trembling gasp of breath shook through her whole frame,
she chewed, chewed the discarded proof of the portrait—of the portrait
of Otto.



She was weeping still, not with intermittent sobs, no longer with any
bitterness, but as a child, with soft, child-like little sounds, gently
groaning, her bosom heaving with faint, undulating motions. It was a
weeping in which something like a little laugh resounded, a little
laugh of insanity. Then she grew quiet, and she nestled herself with
her head in her arms, still on the floor by the open window. She never
moved, desperate with terror at her surroundings, desperate with terror
at what was to come. It seemed to her as if throughout her frame there
foamed and seethed a dark and stormy sea, which engulfed every thought
in her brain, and into which she gradually sunk away. And with all her
last remaining energy she tried to struggle against that sea, but its
pressure was too heavy, and she fell, fell back utterly exhausted,
utterly unnerved, hopelessly dulled by a stormy hissing in her ears and
in her brain.

“Great God! great God!” she groaned in a voice that was growing weaker
and hoarser with every moment, a voice full of a wild despair that had
no longer the power of utterance. Then, drop by drop, slowly and
gently, her consciousness flowed away, and she slept—the sleep of
Eternity!



The street-lamp was extinguished, and the big room was now dark as a
grave. A mausoleum of impenetrable blackness in the midst of which,
white and shadowy, lay a corpse. Then the chillness of the night
entered into the apartment, and slowly the pearl gray mist of daybreak
arose to dispel the heavy gloom.


                            THE END.



NOTES


[1] Dutch gold coin, of the value of ten florins.

[2] A rich cake baked in the shape of a turban.





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