Eline Vere
Date: 2021-12-09T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Hague (Netherlands) -- Fiction

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Title: Eline Vere

Author: Louis Couperus

Author of introduction, etc.: Edmund Gosse

Translator: Jack Thomas Grein

Release date: December 9, 2021 [eBook #66911]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net/ for Project Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELINE VERE ***

[Contents]

[Contents]

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

[Contents]

Copyright, 1892,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. [iii]

[Contents]

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 [iv]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, [v]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 [vi]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, [vii]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 [viii]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, [ix]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 [x]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. [1]

[Contents]

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!” [2]

“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. [3]

“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 [4]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 [5]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 [6]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 [7]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 [8]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[9]—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.

[Contents]

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 [10]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 [11]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 [12]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! [13]

“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!”

[Contents]

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 [14]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. [15]

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 [16]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 [17]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 [18]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 [19]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.

[Contents]

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 [20]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 [21]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. [22]

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 [23]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 [24]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. [25]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 [26]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 [27]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. [28]

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 [29]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. [30]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 [31]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 [32]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 [33]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 [34]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 [35]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, [36]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 [37]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? [38]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 [39]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 [40]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 [41]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.” [42]

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.” [43]

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 [44]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 [45]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.” [46]

“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.

[Contents]

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 [47]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 [48]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 [49]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.” [50]

“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. [51]

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. [52]

“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 [53]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, [54]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 [55]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 [56]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 [57]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. [58]

“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, [59]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 [60]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. [61]

“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.… [62]

[Contents]

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 [63]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. [64]

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 [65]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, [66]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. [67]

“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 [68]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. [69]

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 [70]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.

[Contents]

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, [71]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. [72]

“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 tientje1 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 [73]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 [74]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. [75]

1 Dutch gold coin, of the value of ten florins. ↑

[Contents]

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 [76]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!” [77]

“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 [78]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 [79]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. [80]

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. [81]

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 [82]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 [83]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.

[Contents]

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! [84]

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 [85]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 [86]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. [87]

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!

[Contents]

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 [88]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 [89]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 [90]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.” [91]

“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, [92]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 [93]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 [94]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? [95]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. [96]

[Contents]

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. [97]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 [98]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 [99]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. [100]

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. [101]

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——” [102]

“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. [103]

[Contents]

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 [104]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 [105]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 [106]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. [107]

“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 [108]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 [109]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, [110]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. [111]

“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 [112]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, [113]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.” [114]

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?” [115]

“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 [116]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.” [117]

“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. [118]

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.

[Contents]

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 [119]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. [120]

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.” [121]

“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——” [122]

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.” [123]

“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?” [124]

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. [125]“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?” [126]

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 [127]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 [128]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.

[Contents]

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. [129]

“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. [130]

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 [131]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 [132]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 [133]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.

[Contents]

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 [134]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. [135]

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 [136]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 [137]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 [138]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 [139]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. [140]

“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 [141]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. [142]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. [143]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 [144]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.” [145]

“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.” [146]

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. [147]

“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 [148]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 [149]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?” [150]

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. [151]

[Contents]

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 [152]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; [153]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— [154]

“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 [155]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 [156]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?

[Contents]

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. [157]

“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 [158]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. [159]

“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 [160]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 [161]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?” [162]

“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 [163]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 [164]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. [165]

“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, [166]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 [167]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.” [168]

“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 [169]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, [170]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— [171]

“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 [172]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 [173]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 [174]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 [175]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.

[Contents]

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. [176]

“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. [177]

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.” [178]

“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?” [179]

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. [180]

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.” [181]

“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. [182]

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. [183]

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?” [184]

“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.” [185]

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.1 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, [186]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, [187]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 [188]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.

1 A rich cake baked in the shape of a turban. ↑

[Contents]

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.” [189]

“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 [190]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 [191]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 [192]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 [193]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 [194]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. [195]

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 [196]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 [197]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 [198]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. [199]

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 [200]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. [201]

[Contents]

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. [202]

“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 [203]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 [204]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! [205]

[Contents]

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 [206]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 [207]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. [208]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; [209]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.

[Contents]

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 [210]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 [211]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 [212]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 [213]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?” [214]

“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. [215]

“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.” [216]

“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 [217]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 [218]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.” [219]

“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 [220]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: [221]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 [222]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?” [223]

“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. [224]

“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. [225]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 [226]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.

[Contents]

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 [227]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. [228]

“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; [229]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.

[Contents]

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, [230]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?” [231]

“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 [232]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.” [233]

“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 [234]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!” [235]

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 [236]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 [237]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, [238]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 [239]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 [240]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. [241]

“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 [242]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.” [243]

“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 [244]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 [245]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.

[Contents]

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 [246]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 [247]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.” [248]

“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?” [249]

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 [250]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.

[Contents]

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. [251]

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 [252]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. [253]

“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 [254]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. [255]

“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 [256]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.

[257]

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 [258]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 [259]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 [260]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.

[Contents]

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 [261]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 [262]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 [263]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 [264]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 [265]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. [266]

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. [267]

[Contents]

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 [268]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. [269]

“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 [270]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. [271]

“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. [272]

“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 [273]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?” [274]

“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. [275]

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. [276]

“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 [277]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 [278]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.

[Contents]

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 [279]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.” [280]

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.” [281]

“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.” [282]

“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 [283]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 [284]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 [285]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. [286]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. [287]

“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?” [288]

“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. [289]

“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 [290]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?” [291]

“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 [292]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.” [293]

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 [294]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?” [295]

“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 [296]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 [297]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.

[Contents]

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 [298]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 [299]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 [300]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 [301]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! [302]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.” [303]

“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. [304]

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.” [305]

“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. [306]

“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 [307]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 [308]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 [309]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 [310]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 [311]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 [312]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.

[313]

[Contents]

D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS.

THE FAITH DOCTOR. By Edward Eggleston, author of “The Hoosier Schoolmaster,” “The Circuit Rider,” etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

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A PURITAN PAGAN. By Julien Gordon, author of “A Diplomat’s Diary,” etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.

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“It is obvious that the author is thoroughly at home in illustrating the manner and the sentiment of the best society of both America and Europe.”—Chicago Times. [314]

A New Book by the author of “A Social Departure.”

AN AMERICAN GIRL IN LONDON. By Sara Jeannette Duncan. With 80 Illustrations by F. H. Townsend. 12mo. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.50.

A brilliant book, picturing English sights, society, customs, and amusements, as seen by an unconventional and witty observer. The same qualities which made “A Social Departure” so remarkable a success will make “An American Girl in London” a book which is “talked about everywhere.”

“In the lighter literature of last year there was nothing more amusing than ‘A Social Departure,’ by Sara Jeannette Duncan, of Canada. It was just long enough—it could not well have been longer—but each reader wished that the author might write another book in similar style. Well, she has done it, and she could not have taken a better subject than ‘An American Girl in London.’ ”—New York Herald.

“The raciness and breeziness which made ‘A Social Departure,’ by the same author, last season, the best-read and most-talked-of book of travel for many a year, permeates the new book, and appears between the lines of every page. It is superfluous to say that ‘An American Girl’ is ‘awfully fetching.’ ”—Brooklyn Standard-Union.

A SOCIAL DEPARTURE: How Orthodocia and I Went Round the World by Ourselves. By Sara Jeannette Duncan. Illustrated by F. H. Townsend. 12mo. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.75.

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Recent Issues in Appletons’ Town and Country Library.

THE NUGENTS OF CARRICONNA. An Irish Story. By Tighe Hopkins. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents.

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THE PRIMES AND THEIR NEIGHBORS. Ten Tales of Middle Georgia. By Richard Malcolm Johnston, author of “Widow Guthrie.” 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.25.

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THE IRON GAME. By Henry F. Keenan, author of “Trajan,” “The Aliens,” etc. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.

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THE THREE MISS KINGS. By Ada Cambridge, author of “My Guardian.” 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents.

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A MERCIFUL DIVORCE. By F. W. Maude. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.

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A NEW HUMOROUS TRAVEL-BOOK.

TWO GIRLS ON A BARGE. By V. Cecil Cotes. Illustrated by F. H. Townsend. 12mo. Cloth. $1.00.

A bright, vivacious sketch of odd people and curious experiences, illustrated by the artist who illustrated “A Social Departure” and “An American Girl in London,” both of which will be recalled by the good spirits of this equally unconventional record of a journey down the Thames.

“For something entirely original, piquant, and worthy of rapt attention, we commend this little volume.”—New York Journal of Commerce.

“Describes with great vivacity a vacation trip on an English canal; and the experiences of the two young ladies and a young gentleman are set forth with a thorough appreciation of the novel situations in which the party often found itself. The forty-four illustrations are fully in harmony with the light and entertaining character of the text.”—Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.

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HOME LIFE ON AN OSTRICH FARM. By Annie Martin. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.

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OSTRICH CHICK.

“The author’s style is gossipy, and she has a sense of humor that aids greatly in making her book readable. She seems to write without an effort, as if she enjoyed it; and before we have gone through the first chapter we become warm friends, so that when the final chapter arrives we part with the authoress with sincere regret.”—Philadelphia Item.

“A perfect book of its kind.… Mrs. Martin joins keen observing powers to a great love of nature, both animate and inanimate, and a rare descriptive faculty. Her pictures of the farm life, but, above all, of her dumb companions, are admirable.… The illustrations are excellent.”—New York Evening Post. [319]

TOURMALIN’S TIME CHEQUES. By F. Anstey, author of “Vice Versa,” “The Giant’s Robe,” etc.

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FROM SHADOW TO SUNLIGHT. By the Marquis of Lorne.

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“A charming book.”—Cincinnati Enquirer.

ADOPTING AN ABANDONED FARM. By Kate Sanborn.

“A sunny, pungent, humorous sketch.”—Chicago Times.

“A laughable picture of the grievous experiences of a young woman who sought to demonstrate the idea that a woman can farm.… The drakes refused to lay; the vegetables refused to come up; and the taxes would not go down.”—Minneapolis Tribune.

“The book is dainty in exterior as well as rich within; and to those who seek health, moral and physical, we say, ‘Buy it.’ ”—Montreal Gazette.

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ON THE LAKE OF LUCERNE, and other Stories. By Beatrice Whitby, author of “A Matter of Skill,” “The Awakening of Mary Fenwick,” etc.

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Each, 16mo, half cloth, with specially designed cover, 50 cents. [320]

OUTINGS AT ODD TIMES. By Charles C. Abbott, author of “Days out of Doors” and “A Naturalist’s Rambles about Home.” 16mo. Cloth, gilt top, $1.25.

Dr. Abbott’s delightful studies in Natural History have become familiar to many readers, and his new volume is suggestive, instructive, and always interesting.

A NATURALIST’S RAMBLES ABOUT HOME. By Charles C. Abbott. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

“The home about which Dr. Abbott rambles is clearly the haunt of fowl and fish, of animal and insect life; and it is of the habits and nature of these that he discourses pleasantly in this book. Summer and winter, morning and evening, he has been in the open air all the time on the alert for some new revelation of instinct, or feeling, or character on the part of his neighbor creatures. Most that he sees and hears he reports agreeably to us, as it was no doubt delightful to himself. Books like this, which are free from all the technicalities of science, but yet lack little that has scientific value, are well suited to the reading of the young. Their atmosphere is a healthy one for boys in particular to breathe.”—Boston Transcript.

DAYS OUT OF DOORS. By Charles C. Abbott, author of “A Naturalist’s Rambles about Home.” 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

“ ‘Days out of Doors’ is a series of sketches of animal life by Charles C. Abbott, a naturalist whose graceful writings have entertained and instructed the public before now. The essays and narratives in this book are grouped in twelve chapters, named after the months of the year. Under ‘January’ the author talks of squirrels, muskrats, water-snakes, and the predatory animals that withstand the rigor of winter; under ‘February’ of frogs and herons, crows and blackbirds; under ‘March’ of gulls and fishes and foxy sparrows, and so on appropriately, instructively, and divertingly through the whole twelve.”—The New York Sun.

THE PLAYTIME NATURALIST. By Dr. J. E. Taylor, F. L. S., editor of “Science Gossip.” With 366 Illustrations. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

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THE STORY OF MY HOUSE. By George H. Ellwanger, author of “The Garden’s Story.” With an Original Etching by Sidney L. Smith. Also many Head and Tail Pieces. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

Even a more delightful book than “The Garden’s Story.” Though seemingly devoted to the house proper, the essays are filled with the freshness of country life and the beauty of external nature.

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THE FOLK-LORE OF PLANTS. By T. F. Thiselton Dyer, M. A. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

“A handsome and deeply interesting volume.… In all respects the book is excellent. Its arrangement is simple and intelligible, its style bright and alluring.… To all who seek an introduction to one of the most attractive branches of folk-lore, this delightful volume may be warmly commended.”—Notes and Queries.

FLOWERS AND THEIR PEDIGREES. By Grant Allen, author of “Vignettes of Nature,” etc. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

“No writer treats scientific subjects with so much ease and charm of style as Mr. Grant Allen.

“The study is a delightful one, and the book is fascinating to any one who has either love for flowers or curiosity about them.”—Hartford Courant. [322]

NEW EDITION OF ENGLISH ODES. Selected by Edmund W. Gosse. With Frontispiece on India paper from a design by Hamo Thornycroft, A. R. A. Forty-two Head and Tail Pieces from Original Drawings by Louis Rhead. 16mo. Cloth, special design in gold, $1.50. Same, in parchment, $1.75.

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THE MUSIC SERIES. Consisting of Biographical and Anecdotical Sketches of the Great German Composers; The Great Italian and French Composers; Great Singers; Great Violinists and Pianists. Five volumes, 18mo. Bound in half white and red sides, $3.50 per set; half calf, $8.00.

THE HOUSEHOLD BOOK OF POETRY. By Charles A. Dana. Entirely new edition, from new stereo-type plates, enlarged and brought down to the present time. With nearly Two Hundred additional poems. Illustrated with Steel Engravings. Royal 8vo. Cloth, gilt extra, $5.00; half calf, $8.00; morocco, antique, $10.00; tree calf, $12.00. [323]

AROUND AND ABOUT SOUTH AMERICA: Twenty Months of Quest and Query. By Frank Vincent, author of “The Land of the White Elephant,” etc. With Maps, Plans, and 54 full-page Illustrations. 8vo, xxiv + 473 pages. Ornamental cloth, $5.00.

No former traveler has made so comprehensive and thorough a tour of Spanish and Portuguese America as did Mr. Vincent. He visited every capital, chief city, and important seaport, made several expeditions into the interior of Brazil and the Argentine Republic, and ascended the Paraná, Paraguay, Amazon, Orinoco, and Magdalena Rivers; he visited the crater of Pichinchas, 16,000 feet above the sea-level; he explored falls in the center of the continent, which, though meriting the title of “Niagara of South America,” are all but unknown to the outside world; he spent months in the picturesque capital of Rio Janeiro; he visited the coffee districts, studied the slaves, descended the gold-mines, viewed the greatest rapids of the globe, entered the isolated Guianas, and so on.

IN AND OUT OF CENTRAL AMERICA; and other Sketches and Studies of Travel. By Frank Vincent. With Maps and Illustrations. 12mo. Cloth, $2.00.

BRAZIL: Its Condition and Prospects. By C. C. Andrews, ex-Consul-General to Brazil. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

“I hope I may be able to present some facts in respect to the present situation of Brazil which will be both instructive and entertaining to general readers. My means of acquaintance with that empire are principally derived from a residence of three years at Rio de Janeiro, its capital, while employed in the service of the United States Government, during which period I made a few journeys into the interior.”—From the Preface.

CHINA: Travels and Investigations in the “Middle Kingdom.” A Study of its Civilization and Possibilities. With a Glance at Japan. By James Harrison Wilson, late Major-General United States Volunteers and Brevet Major-General United States Army. 12mo. Cloth, $1.75.

“The book presents China and Japan in all these aspects; the manners and customs of the people; the institutions, tendencies, and social ideas; the government and leading men.”—Boston Traveller. [324]

FROM FLAG TO FLAG. A Woman’s Adventures and Experiences in the South during the War, in Mexico, and in Cuba. By Eliza McHatton-Ripley. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.

The author of this book was the wife of a planter in Louisiana, and underwent some remarkable experiences in the first part of the war; later in Mexico, many vicissitudes befell her; and of her life in Cuba, still later, she has a striking and unusual story to tell.

“In a word, the book is an account of personal adventures which would be called extraordinary did not one remember that the civil war must have brought similar ones to many. Her hardships are endured with the rarest pluck and good humor, and her shifty way of meeting difficulties seems almost to point to a Yankee strain in her blood.”—The Nation.

THE HISTORY OF A SLAVE. By H. H. Johnston, author of “The Kilimanjaro Expedition,” etc. With 47 full-page Illustrations, engraved fac-simile from the author’s Drawings. Large 12mo. Paper cover, 50 cents.

“ ‘The History of a Slave’ is a work of fiction based upon every-day occurrences in the Dark Continent, and well calculated to bring home to the reader the social condition of heathen and Mohammedan Africa, and the horrors of a domestic slave-trade.”—The Athenæum.

THE MEMOIRS OF AN ARABIAN PRINCESS. By Emily Ruete, née Princess of Oman and Zanzibar. Translated from the German. 12mo. Cloth, 75 cents.

The author of this amusing autobiography is half-sister to the late Sultan of Zanzibar, who some years ago married a German merchant and settled at Hamburg.

“A remarkably interesting little volume.… As a picture of Oriental court life, and manners and customs in the Orient, by one who is to the manor born, the book is prolific in entertainment and edification.”—Boston Gazette.

SKETCHES FROM MY LIFE. By the late Admiral Hobart Pasha. With a Portrait. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.

“The sailor is nearly always an adventurous and enterprising variety of the human species, and Hobart Pasha was about as fine an example as one could wish to see.… The sketches of South American life are full of interest. The sport, the inevitable entanglements of susceptible middies with beautiful Spanish girls and the sometimes disastrous consequences, the duels, attempts at assassination, and other adventures and amusements, are described with much spirit.… The sketches abound in interesting details of the American war.”—London Athenæum. [325]

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE COURT OF THE TUILERIES. By Madame Carette, Lady-of-Honor to the Empress Eugénie. Translated from the French by Elizabeth Phipps Train. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper cover, 50 cents.

The inside view which these Recollections give of the Court of Louis Napoleon is fresh and of great interest.

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MEMOIRS OF MADAME DE RÉMUSAT. 1802–1808. Edited by her Grandson, Paul de Rémusat, Senator. 3 volumes, crown 8vo. Half bound, $2.25.

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Table of Contents

| THE DUTCH SENSITIVISTS. | iii
I. | CHAPTER I. | 1
II. | CHAPTER II. | 9
III. | CHAPTER III. | 13
IV. | CHAPTER IV. | 19
V. | CHAPTER V. | 46
VI. | CHAPTER VI. | 62
VII. | CHAPTER VII. | 70
VIII. | CHAPTER VIII. | 75
IX. | CHAPTER IX. | 83
X. | CHAPTER X. | 87
XI. | CHAPTER XI. | 96
XII. | CHAPTER XII. | 103
XIII. | CHAPTER XIII. | 118
XIV. | CHAPTER XIV. | 128
XV. | CHAPTER XV. | 133
XVI. | CHAPTER XVI. | 151
XVII. | CHAPTER XVII. | 156
XVIII. | CHAPTER XVIII. | 175
XIX. | CHAPTER XIX. | 188
XX. | CHAPTER XX. | 201
XXI. | CHAPTER XXI. | 205
XXII. | CHAPTER XXII. | 209
XXIII. | CHAPTER XXIII. | 226
XXIV. | CHAPTER XXIV. | 229
XXV. | CHAPTER XXV. | 245
XXVI. | CHAPTER XXVI. | 250
XXVII. | CHAPTER XXVII. | 260
XXVIII. | CHAPTER XXVIII. | 267
XXIX. | CHAPTER XXIX. | 278
XXX. | CHAPTER XXX. | 297

Colophon

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Metadata

Title: | Eline Vere |
Author: | Louis Marie Anne Couperus (1863–1923) | Info
Contributor: | Edmund William Gosse (1849–1928) | Info
Translator: | Jack Thomas Grein (1862–1935) | Info
Language: | English |
Original publication date: | 1892 |

Revision History

- 2021-12-05 Started.

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Corrections

The following corrections have been applied to the text:

Page | Source | Correction | Edit distance
x | Orchideïen | Orchideeën | 2 / 1
43 | Manöel | Manoël | 2 / 0
61 | two | three | 4
76 | [Not in source] | to | 3
85 | Ben-Säid | Ben-Saïd | 2 / 0
92, 285, 297, 316, 321 | [Not in source] | . | 1
127 | greal | great | 1
166 | . | , | 1
216 | [Not in source] | , | 1
267 | of | or | 1
270 | Curaçoa | Curaçao | 2
276 | derange | dérange | 1 / 0
291 | she | the | 1
307 | pegnoir | peignoir | 1
309 | Vestraeten | Verstraeten | 1
324 | [Not in source] | ” | 1

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Table of Contents

- INTRODUCTION. THE DUTCH SENSITIVISTS.

- ELINE VERE. CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

- CHAPTER XV.

- CHAPTER XVI.

- CHAPTER XVII.

- CHAPTER XVIII.

- CHAPTER XIX.

- CHAPTER XX.

- CHAPTER XXI.

- CHAPTER XXII.

- CHAPTER XXIII.

- CHAPTER XXIV.

- CHAPTER XXV.

- CHAPTER XXVI.

- CHAPTER XXVII.

- CHAPTER XXVIII.

- CHAPTER XXIX.

- CHAPTER XXX.

- D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS.

- Table of Contents

- Colophon

- Availability
- Metadata
- Revision History
- External References
- Corrections

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE