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If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Eline Vere - -Author: Louis Marie Anne Couperus - -Translator: Jack Thomas Grein - -Commentator: Edmund William Gosse - -Release Date: December 9, 2021 [eBook #66911] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: 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 *** - - - - Holland Fiction Series - - ELINE VERE - - - TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH OF - LOUIS COUPERUS - - BY - J. T. GREIN - - WITH AN INTRODUCTION - BY EDMUND GOSSE - - - NEW·YORK - D. APPLETON AND CO. - 1892 - - - - - - - - -INTRODUCTION. - -THE DUTCH SENSITIVISTS. - - -In the intellectual history of all countries we find the same -phenomenon incessantly recurring. New writers, new artists, new -composers arise in revolt against what has delighted their grandfathers -and satisfied their fathers. These young men, pressed together at -first, by external opposition, into a serried phalanx, gradually win -their way, become themselves the delight and then the satisfaction of -their contemporaries, and, falling apart as success is secured to them, -come to seem lax, effete, and obsolete to a new race of youths, who -effect a fresh æsthetic revolution. In small communities, these -movements are often to be observed more precisely than in larger ones. -But they are very tardily perceived by foreigners, the established -authorities in art and literature retaining their exclusive place in -dictionaries and handbooks long after the claim of their juniors to be -observed with attention has been practically conceded at home. - -For this reason, partly, and partly also because the mental life of -Holland receives little attention in this country, no account has yet -been taken of the revolution in Dutch taste which has occupied the last -six or seven years. I believe that the present occasion is the first on -which it has been brought to the notice of any English-speaking public. -There exists, however, in Holland, at this moment, a group of young -writers, most of them between thirty-five and twenty-five years of age, -who exhibit a violent zeal for literature, passing often into -extravagance, who repudiate, sometimes with ferocity, the rather sleepy -Dutch authorship of the last forty years, and who are held together, or -crushed together, by the weight of antiquated taste and indifference to -executive merit which they experience around them. Certain facts seem -to be undeniable: first, that every young man of letters in Holland, -whose work is really promising, has joined the camp; and secondly, -that, with all the ferment and crudity inseparable from prose and verse -composed in direct opposition to existing canons of taste, the poems -and the stories of these young Dutchmen are often full of beauty and -delicacy. They have read much in their boyhood; they have imitated -Rossetti and Keats; they have been fascinated by certain Frenchmen, by -Flaubert, by Goncourt, particularly by Huysmans, who is a far-away -kinsman of their own; they have studied the disquieting stories of -Edgar Poe. But these influences are passing away, and those who know -something of current Dutch belles-lettres can realize best how -imperatively a ploughing up of the phlegmatic tradition of Dutch -thought was required before a new crop of imagination could spring up. - -Rejecting the conventional aspects of contemporary Dutch literature, I -will now attempt to give some sketch of the present situation as it -appears to a foreign critic observing the field without prejudice. The -latest novelist of great importance was Madame Gertrude -Bosboom-Toussaint, who was born in 1821. After having written a long -series of historical romances for nearly forty years, this intelligent -woman and careful writer broke with her own assured public, and took up -the discussion of psychological questions. She treated the problem of -Socialism in Raymond de Schrijnwerker and the status of woman in Majoor -Frans. Madame Bosboom-Toussaint died in 1886, just too early to welcome -the new school of writers, with whom she would probably have had more -sympathy than any of her contemporaries. Her place in popular esteem -was taken for a short time by Miss Opzomer (A. S. C. Wallis), whose -long novels have been translated into English, In dagen van strijd (“In -Troubled Times”) and Vorstengunst (“Royal Favor”). She had genuine -talent, but her style was heavy and tedious. After the new wind began -to blow, although she was still young, she married, went to Hungary, -and gave up writing novels. - -Three authors of importance, each, by a curious coincidence, born in -the year 1826, fill up the interval between the old and new generation. -These are Dekker, Busken-Huët, and Vosmaer. Edward Douwes Dekker, whose -novel of Max Havelaar dates from 1858, was a man of exceptional genius. -Bred in the interior of Java, he observed the social conditions of life -in the Dutch Indies as no one else had done, but his one great book -remained a solitary one. He died in 1887 without having justified the -very high hopes awakened by that extraordinary and revolutionary work. -The career of Konrad Busken-Huët was very different. The principal -literary critic of Holland in his generation, he aimed at being the -Sainte-Beuve of the Dutch, and in his early days, as the dreaded -“Thrasybulus” of journalism, he did much to awaken thought. His volumes -of criticism are extremely numerous, and exercised a wholesome -influence during his own time. He died in Paris in April, 1886. These -two writers have had a strong effect on the prose style of the younger -school of essayists and novelists. They lived long enough to observe -the dawn of the new literature, and their relations with the latest -writers were cordial if somewhat reserved. - -What Douwes Dekker and Busken-Huët did in prose, was effected in poetry -by Carel Vosmaer. This estimable man, who died in 1888, was well known -throughout Europe as an art-critic and an authority on Rembrandt. In -Holland he was pre-eminent as the soul of a literary newspaper, the -Nederlandsche Spectator, which took an independent line in literary -criticism, and affected to lead public taste in directions less -provincial and old-fashioned than the rest of the Dutch press. Vosmaer -wrote also several volumes of more or less fantastic poetry, a -translation of Homer into alexandrines, and an antiquarian novel, -Amazone, 1881. But Vosmaer’s position was, above all, that of a -precursor. He, and he alone, saw that a new thing must be made in Dutch -poetical literature. He, and he alone, was not satisfied with the -stereotyped Batavian tradition. At the same time Vosmaer was not, it -may be admitted, strong enough himself to found a new school; perhaps -even, in his later days, the Olympian calm which he affected, and a -certain elegant indolence which overcame him, may have made him -unsympathetic to the ardent and the juvenile. At all events, this -singular phenomenon has occurred. He who of all living Dutchmen was, -ten or fifteen years ago, fretting under the poverty of thought and -imagination in his fatherland and longing for the new era to arrive, is -at this moment the one man of the last generation who is most exposed -to that unseemly ferocité des jeunes which is the ugliest feature of -these æsthetic revolutions. I have just been reading, with real pain, -the violent attack on Vosmaer and his influence which has been -published by that very clever young poet, Mr. Willem Kloos (De Nieuwe -Gids, December, 1890). All that cheers me is to know that the whirligig -of time will not forget its revenges, and that, if Mr. Kloos only lives -long enough, he will find somebody, now unborn, to call him a -“bloodless puppet.” - -Of one other representative of the transitional period, Marcellus -Emants, I need say little. He wrote a poem, Lilith, and several short -stories. Much was expected of him, but I know not what has been the -result. - -The inaugurator of the new school was Jacques Perk, a young poet of -indubitable genius, who was influenced to some degree by Shelley, and -by the Florence of the Dutch Browning, Potgieter. He wrote in 1880 a -Mathilde, for which he could find no publisher, presently died, and -began to be famous on the posthumous issue of his poems, edited by -Vosmaer and Kloos, in 1883. - -The sonnets of Perk, like those of Bowles with us a hundred years ago, -were the heralds of a whole new poetic literature. The resistance made -to the young writers who now began to express themselves, and their -experience that all the doors of periodical publication in Holland were -closed to them, led to the foundation in 1885 of De Nieuwe Gids, a -rival to the old Dutch quarterly, De Gids. In this new review, which -has steadily maintained and improved its position, most of the -principal productions of the new school have appeared. The first three -numbers contained De Kleine Johannes (“Little Johnny”), of Dr. Frederik -van Eeden, the first considerable prose-work of the younger generation. -This is a charming romance, fantastic and refined, half symbolical, -half realistic, which deserves to be known to English readers. It has -been highly appreciated in Holland. To this followed two powerful books -by L. van Deyssel, Een Liefde (“A Love”) and De Kleine Republiek (“The -Little Republic”). Van Deyssel has written with great force, but he has -hitherto been the enfant terrible of the school, the one who has -claimed with most insolence to say precisely what has occurred to him -to say. He has been influenced, more than the rest, by the latest -French literature. - -While speaking of the new school, it is difficult to restrain from -mentioning others of those whose work in De Nieuwe Gids and elsewhere -has raised hopes of high performance in the future. Jacques van Looy, a -painter by profession, has published, among other things, an -exquisitely finished volume of Proza (“Prose Essays”). Frans Netscher, -who deliberately marches in step with the French realists, is the -George Moore of Holland; he has published a variety of small sketches -and one or two novels. Ary Prins, under the pseudonym of Coopland, has -written some very good studies of life. Among the poets are Willem -Kloos, Albert Verwey, and Herman Gorter, each of whom deserves a far -more careful critical consideration than can here be given to him. - -Willem Kloos, indeed, may be considered as the leader of the school -since the death of Perk. It was to Kloos that, in the period from 1880 -to 1885, each of the new writers went in secret for encouragement, -criticism, and sympathy. He appears to be a man of very remarkable -character. Violent and passionate in his public utterances, he is -adored by his own colleagues and disciples, and one of the most gifted -of them has told me that “Kloos has never made a serious mistake in his -estimate of the force of a man or of a book.” His writings, however, -are very few, and his tone in controversy is acrid and uncompromising, -as I have already indicated. He remains the least known and the least -liked, though the most powerful, of the band. The member of the new -generation whose verse and prose alike have won most acceptance is, -certainly, Frederik van Eeden. His cycle of lyrical verse, Ellen, 1891, -is doubtless the most exquisite product of recent Dutch literature. - -For the peculiar quality which unites in one movement the varied -elements of the school which I have attempted thus briefly to describe, -the name Sensitivism has been invented by one of themselves, by Van -Deyssel. It is a development of impressionism, grafted upon naturalism, -as a frail and exotic bud may be set in the rough basis of a thorn. It -preserves the delicacy of sensation of the one and strengthens it by -the exactitude and conscientiousness of the other, yet without giving -way to the vagaries of impressionism or to the brutality of mere -realism. It selects and refines, it re-embraces Fancy, that maiden so -rudely turned out of house and home by the naturalists; it aims, in -fact, at retaining the best, and nothing but the best, of the -experiments of the French during the last quarter of a century. - -Van Deyssel greets L’Argent with elaborate courtesy, with the respect -due to a fallen divinity. He calls his friends in Holland to attend the -gorgeous funeral of naturalism, which is dead; but urges them not to -sacrifice their own living Sensitivism to the imitation of what is -absolutely a matter of past history. It will be seen that Dutch -Sensitivism is not by any means unlike French Symbolism, and we might -expect prose like Mallarmé’s and verse like Moréas’s! As a matter of -fact, however, the Dutch seem, in their general attitude of reserve, to -leave their mother-tongue unassailed, and to be as intelligible as -their inspiration allows them to be. - -To one of these writers, however, and to one of the youngest, it is -time that I should turn. The first member of the new Dutch school to be -presented, in the following pages, to English readers, is Louis Marie -Anne Couperus. Of him, as the author of this book, I must give a fuller -biography, although he is still too young to occupy much space by the -record of his achievements. Louis Couperus was born on the 10th of -June, 1863, at the Hague, where he spent the first ten years of his -life. He was then taken in company with his family to Java, and resided -five years in Batavia. Returning to the Hague, where he completed his -education, he began to make teaching his profession, but gradually -drifted into devoting himself entirely to literature. He published a -little volume of verses in 1884, and another, of more importance, -called Orchideeën (“Orchids”), in 1887, Oriental and luscious. But he -has succeeded, as every one allows, much better in prose. His long -novel of modern life in the Hague, called Eline Vere, is an admirable -performance. Of Noodlot (literally to be translated “Fate” or -“Destiny”) our readers will judge for themselves at a later date. Such -is the brief chronicle of a writer from whom much is expected by the -best critics of his own country. - - - Edmund Gosse. - - - - - - - - -ELINE VERE. - - -CHAPTER I. - - -They were close to each other in the dining-room, which had been turned -into a dressing-room. In front of a mirror stood Frédérique van -Erlevoort, with her hair hanging loose, looking very pale under a thin -layer of powder, her eyebrows blackened with a single stroke of the -pencil. - -“Do hurry up, Paul! We shall never get ready,” she said, a little -impatiently, glancing at the clock. - -Paul van Raat was kneeling at her feet, and his fingers draped a long -thin veil of crimson and gold in folds from her waist. The gauze hung -like a cloud over the pinkness of her skirt; her neck and arms, white -as snow with the powder, were left free, and sparkled with the glitter -of the chains and necklaces strung across one another. - -“Whew, what a draught! Do keep the door shut, Dien!” Paul shouted to an -old servant who was leaving the room with her arms full of dresses. -Through the open door one could see the guests—men in evening dress, -ladies in light costumes: they passed along the azaleas and palms in -the corridor into the large drawing-room; they smiled at the sight of -the old servant, and threw surreptitious glances into the dining-room. - -They all laughed at this look behind the scenes. Frédérique alone -remained serious, realizing that she had the dignity of a princess of -antiquity to keep up. - -“Do make haste, Paul!” she pleaded. “It’s past half-past eight -already!” - -“Yes, yes, Freddie, don’t get nervous; you’re finished,” he answered, -and adroitly pinned a few jewels among the gauze folds of her -draperies. - -“Ready?” asked Marie and Lili Verstraeten, coming out of the room where -the stage had been fixed up, a mysterious elevation almost effaced in -semi-darkness. - -“Ready,” answered Paul. “And now calmly, please,” he continued, raising -his voice and looking round with an air of command. - -The warning was well needed. The three boys and the five girls who did -duty as ladies’-maids, were rushing about the room laughing, shouting, -creating the greatest disorder. In vain Lili tried to save a gilt -cardboard lyre from the hands of the son of the house, a boy twelve -years old, while their two rascally cousins were just on the point of -climbing up a great white cross, which stood in a corner, and was -already yielding under their onslaughts. - -“Get away from that cross, Jan and Karel! Give up that lyre, you -other!” roared Paul. “Do look after them, Marie. And now, Bet and Dien, -come here; Bet with the lamp, Dien at the door; all the rest out of the -road! There’s no more room; look on from the garden through the window -of the big drawing-room; you’ll see everything beautifully, at a -distance. Come along, Freddie, carefully, here’s your train.” - -“You’ve forgotten my crown.” - -“I’ll put it on when you’re posed. Come on.” - -The three girls hurried to get away, the boys squatted in a corner of -the room, where they could not be seen, and Paul helped Freddie to -climb on to the stage. - - - -Marie, who, like Lili, was not yet draped, talked through the closed -window with the fireman, who was waiting, muffled up, in the snowy -garden, to let off the Bengal light. A great reflector stared through -the window like a pale, lustreless sun. - -“First white, then green, then red,” Marie called out, and the fireman -nodded. - -The now deserted dressing-room was dark, barely lit by the lamp which -Bet held in her hand, while Dien stood at the door. - -“Carefully, Freddie, carefully,” said Paul. - -Frédérique sank down gently into the cushions of the couch; Paul -arranged her draperies, her chains, her hair, her diadem, and placed a -flower here and there. - -“Will that do?” she asked with tremulous voice, taking up the pose she -had studied beforehand. - -“You’re delicious; beautiful! Now then, Marie, Lili, come here.” - -Lili threw herself on the floor, Marie leaned against the couch with -her head at Frédérique’s feet. Paul draped both girls quickly in -coloured shawls and veils, and twisted strings of gems round their arms -and in their hair. - -“Marie and Lili, look as if you were in despair. Wring your hands more -than that, Lili! More despair, much more despair! Freddie, more -languishing, turn your eyes up, set your mouth in a sadder expression.” - -“Like that?” - -Marie screamed. - -“Yes, that will do! That’s better; now be quiet, Marie. Is everything -ready?” - -“Ready!” said Marie. - -Paul arranged one or two more things, a crease, a flower, doubtful -whether everything was right. - -“Come, let’s start,” said Lili, who was in a very uncomfortable -position. - -“Bet, take away the lamps; Dien, shut that door, and then come here, -both of you, one on each side of the folding doors of the big room.” - -They were all in the dark, with beating hearts, while Paul tapped at -the window, and joined the boys in the corner. - -Slowly and doubtfully the Bengal light flamed up against the reflector, -the folding doors opened solemnly, a clear white glow lit up the -tableau. - - - -Smiling and bowing, while the conversation suddenly changed into a -muffled murmur, the guests pressed forward into the large drawing-room -and the conservatory, blinded by a burst of light and colour. Men got -out of the way of a couple of laughing girls. In the background boys -climbed on the chairs. - -“The death of Cleopatra!” Betsy van Raat read out to Mrs. Van -Erlevoort, who had handed her the programme. - -“Splendid! magnificent!” one heard on every side. - -Ancient Egypt seemed to have come alive again in the white glow of the -light. Between luxurious draperies something like an oasis could be -perceived, a blue sky, two pyramids, some palms. On her couch, -supported by sphinxes, lay Cleopatra, at the point of death, an adder -curling round her arm. Two slaves were prostrate in despair at her -feet. The parti-coloured vision of oriental magnificence lasted a few -seconds; the poetry of antiquity revived under the eyes of a modern -audience. - -“That’s Freddie,” said Betsy. “How lovely!” and she pointed out the -dying queen to Mrs. Van Erlevoort, who was dazzled by all this luxury. -Now, however, the mother recognized her daughter in the beautiful -motionless statue lying before her. - -“And that’s Marie, and the other—oh, that’s Lili—irrecognizable! What -beautiful costumes! how elaborate! You see that dress of Lili’s, violet -and silver? I lent her that.” - -“How well they do it,” murmured the old lady. - -The white glow of the light began to flicker, the doors were closed. - -“Splendid, auntie, splendid!” Betsy cried, as Mrs. Verstraeten, the -hostess, passed her. - -Twice the tableau was recalled, first in a flood of sea-green, then in -fiery red. Freddie, with her adder, lay immovable, and only Lili -quivered in her forced attitude. Paul looked out from his corner with a -beaming face; everything was going well. - -“How quiet Freddie lies! And everything is so rich, and yet not -overdone. Something like a picture of Makart’s,” said Betsy, opening -her feather fan. - -“Your daughter is tired of life very early, madam,” lisped young de -Woude van Bergh, bowing towards Mrs. van Erlevoort, Freddie’s mother. - - - -After the third repetition of the tableau Mrs. Verstraeten went to the -dressing-room. She found Frédérique and Lili laughing while they got -out of their Egyptian attire, looking for endless pins in every fold. -Paul and Marie stood on the steps, and, lighted by two of the servants, -pulled Cleopatra’s dress to pieces. Dien fussed about, picking up the -dropped draperies and the fallen chains. The three boys rolled over one -another on a mattress. - -“Was it pretty, mamma?” cried Lili. - -“Was it pretty, madam?” cried Frédérique, at the same time. - -“Beautiful! They would have liked to see it again.” - -“What again! I’m nearly dead already,” cried Lili; and she tumbled into -an arm-chair, throwing a great bundle off it upon the floor. Dien gave -way to despair; at that rate she would never get done. - -“Lili, rest yourself,” cried Paul, from the top of his steps in the -other room; “you’ll get tired in that attitude. Aunt Verstraeten, tell -Lili to rest herself,” and he threw some coloured carpets off the cords -on which they had been hanging. Dien went on folding up. - -“Dien, white sheets and white tulle this way, quick,” cried Marie. Dien -misunderstood her, and came back with the wrong article. - -Then all began to talk at once, and every one asked for something else, -and there arose a very Babel of confusion. At the top of the staircase -Paul made a gesture of despair, but no one took any notice. - -“I am utterly worn out!” said he, crouching down in impotent rage. “No -one does anything. It all falls to my lot!” - -Madame Verstraeten, having in her turn begged Lili to rest herself, had -gone to tell the servants not to forget the youthful artistes. As a -result, the men soon came in, carrying big trays laden with glasses of -wine and lemonade, pastry and sandwiches. The confusion only increased. -The three boys were served with various good things on their mattress, -over which one of the servants spilt a stream of lemonade. Up flew -Marie, in a torrent of rage, and with Dien’s assistance quickly pulled -the mattress away from under the boys, into the next room. - -“Frédérique, do give a hand there,” cried Paul, in a voice shrill with -irritation. As for keeping any further sort of control over the three -lads, that he had given up as hopeless. Ere long, however, the noisy -young customers were driven, loudly shrieking and stumbling one over -another, out of the room by Dien. - -Then there was a little more quietness, but everybody was doing -something, except Lili. - -“There’s a muddle!” she muttered to herself. Then she sat down and -brushed her hair, wavy and blond cendré, and that done, she took up her -powder-puff, and sprinkled a snowy layer over her arms. - -Dien returned, very much out of breath, shaking her head, and with a -kindly smile on her face. - -“Dien, white sheets and tulle quickly,” Freddie, Marie, and Paul all -cried together. Paul came down from his place on the stairs, placed the -big cross, the weight of which nearly crushed him, on the platform, and -at the foot he laid the mattress and a snug arrangement of pillows. - -“Dien, white sheets and tulle; all the tulle and muslin you can find.” - -And Dien and the other servants brought it, one soft mass of white. - - - -Madame Verstraeten sat down beside her niece, Betsy van Raat. She was -married to Paul’s elder brother. - -“What a pity Eline is not here! I had so depended on her to fill up the -long intervals with a little music. She sings so nicely.” - -“She was really not feeling well, aunt. She is very sorry, you may be -sure, that she can’t be here, in honour of uncle’s birthday.” - -“What is the matter with her?” - -“I don’t quite know. Nerves, I think.” - -“She really ought not to give herself up to these fits. With a little -energy she could easily get over that nervousness.” - -“Well, you see, aunt, this nervousness is the modern bane of young -women, it is the fin de siècle epidemic,” said Betsy, with a faint -smile. - -Madame Verstraeten sighed and nodded. - -“By the bye,” said she, “I suppose the girls will be too tired -to-morrow evening to go to the opera. Would you care to have our box?” - -Betsy reflected for a moment. - -“I have a little dinner to-morrow, aunt; but still I should like the -box. It is only the Ferelyns and Emilie and Georges who are coming, but -the Ferelyns are going early because little Dora is not well, so I -could easily go with Emilie and Georges, and be in time to see an act.” - -“Well, that is settled then. I shall send you the tickets,” said Madame -Verstraeten rising. - -Betsy rose too. George de Woude van Bergh was just about to speak to -her, but she took no notice. She thought him a terrible bore that -evening; he had spoken to her twice, and each time said the same thing, -something about the tableaux. No; there was no conversation in him at -all. And to-morrow night too she would have to meet him again; what an -enjoyable prospect! Aunt’s box was quite a godsend. There stood her -husband, in the conservatory, together with some gentlemen, Mr. -Verstraeten, Mr. Hovel, Otto and Etienne van Erlevoort, they talking -and he listening, his heavy body crushing the leaves of a palm, a -somewhat stupid smile playing about his expressionless, good-humoured -face. Oh, how he bored her! She thought him insufferable. And what a -figure he cut in a dress coat! In his great-coat at all events he had a -manly appearance. - -Walking towards him she said, “Do say something to somebody, Henk. You -look like a fixture in that corner there. Can’t you move? you do appear -to enjoy yourself. Your necktie is all on one side.” - -He muttered something and fumbled about his neck. She turned away and -was soon at her ease in the midst of a noisy little group. Even -melancholy Madame van Ryssel, Freddie’s sister, formed one of them. -Emilie de Woude was unmarried and bore her thirty-eight years with an -enviable grace: her pleasant, animate features charmed all who met her. -She was much like her younger brother George, but about her there was -something genial—a great contrast to his studied ceremoniousness. - -Attracted by her amusing anecdotes, Emilie sat, the central figure in a -joyous little group. She was just telling them of her recent fall on a -patch of frozen snow, at the feet of a gentleman who had remained -motionless, staring at her, instead of helping her to her feet. - -“Just fancy my muff on the left, my hat on the right, myself in the -centre, and right in front of me a man staring at me with open-mouthed -amazement.” - - - -There was the tinkling of a bell; Emilie broke off her story and ran -away from her audience. The folding doors were opened, and there was a -general rush to the front. - -“I can’t see at all,” said Emilie, rising on tiptoe. - -“Come here on my chair, miss,” cried a young girl behind her. - -“You are a little dear, Toos, really. Will you allow me to pass by, -Madame van der Stoor? your daughter has come to my aid.” - -Madame van der Stoor, who, under a pseudonym, dabbled much in poetry, -moved a step back, with an acrid smile about her lips. She felt a -little disgusted at Emilie’s sans-gêne; she herself never made an -attempt to get a better view, it was not the thing to show an -unfashionable interest in the entertainment. - -Emilie and Cateau van der Stoor were soon standing on one chair, -holding each other’s waists. - -“Oh, how pretty!” cried Emilie, and then remained silent in rapt -attention. From out of the billows of a foaming sea arose a rough-hewn -cross of marble whiteness, round the base of which a fragile fair woman -clung in mortal agony, whilst a heaving wave of tulle covered her feet; -and with the fierceness of despair her slender fingers grasped the Rock -of Ages. - -“It is Lili,” was heard here and there. - -“How graceful she is, that Lili!” whispered Emilie to Cateau. “But how -can she hang there like that? How can she bear it so long?” - -“She is surrounded with pillows; but still it must be very tiring,” -said Toos. “Of course you can’t see anything of the pillows, miss.” - -“Of course not. But it is very nice; I have never seen anything so -poetic before.... Say, Toos, I thought you were going to take part?” - -“So I am, but only in the last tableau, with Etienne van Erlevoort. I -shall have to be going soon to dress.” - -Quickly she got down from her chair. The light grew dim, the folding -doors were closed. Applause rang throughout the room. But ere long the -white vision of surging foam was repeated, and an angel hovered over -the cross, and held out her hand to the swooning woman. - -Stronger and stronger grew the applause. - -“Of course Marie cannot keep a serious face again,” said Emilie, -shaking her head. “She will burst out laughing in a moment.” - -And really something like a smile seemed to be trembling about the -little mouth of the angel, the nervous twitching of the eyebrows -contrasting very oddly with the pathetic expression of her features. - - - -Although it was evident enough that the artistes were tired, not one of -them being able to remain perfectly motionless, the last tableau was -received with enthusiastic cheers. It was encored again and again. The -tableau consisted of an allegorical representation of the Five Senses, -the parts being taken by the four young girls, attired in rich -dresses—cloth of gold, brocade ermine—and by Etienne, Frédérique’s -youngest brother, who, in the garb of a minstrel, represented the sense -of Hearing. - -The tableaux were concluded. - -It was now two o’clock, and Mr. and Madame Verstraeten received the -thanks of their guests as they left them. - -“Do you remain to supper with Cateau?” said Madame Verstraeten to -Madame van der Stoor; “quite sans cérémonie, you know.” - -Madame van der Stoor, however, feared it was too late; she would just -wait for her daughter. - -The artistes who had doffed their costumes entered the room and were -overwhelmed with the thanks of those guests still remaining, while -Emilie played a march on the piano. As an intimate friend she stayed to -supper with van Raat and Betsy. - -“You are coming to-morrow, are you not, Toos? the photographer is -coming at two,” said Marie. - -“Yes,” said Cateau, “I shall be here.” - -Utterly worn out, the artistes flung themselves down in the comfortable -chairs in the conservatory, where a dainty little supper was served. - -“What was prettiest? What was prettiest?” all cried together - -Then there was a general expression of opinion, to the accompaniment of -clattering plates and forks, and the jingling of glasses. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -It was half-past two when the van Raats returned from the supper to the -Nassauplein. At their house all was in darkness. While Henk drew the -bolt across the door Betsy thought she would take a look at her -sleeping boy, snugly ensconced in his little white cot up-stairs. She -took up her candle and went up-stairs, whilst he, laden with papers, -walked into the breakfast-room, where the gas was still burning. - -Arrived in her dressing-room, she removed her cloak from her shoulders. -In the small grate the flame curled upward like the fiery tongue of a -dragon. There was something indefinably soothing in the atmosphere of -the room, something like a warm vapour, mingled with the sweet faint -odour of violets. After giving a glance at her child, she sat down with -a sigh of fatigue, in an arm-chair. Then the door opened, and Eline, in -a dressing-gown of white flannel, her hair falling in thick waves down -her back, entered. - -“What, Elly, not in bed yet?” - -“No, I—have been reading. Did you enjoy yourself?” - -“Oh yes, it was very nice. I only wish that Henk had not been such an -awful bore. He never said a word, and with his stupid face he sat there -fumbling at his watch-chain until he could go and take his hand at -whist.” - -Then with a somewhat angry movement Betsy kicked her dainty little -shoes from her feet. - -Eline sighed languidly. - -“Did you tell Madame Verstraeten that I was not well?” - -“Yes; but you know when I come home at night I like to go to bed. We -can talk to-morrow, eh?” - -Eline knew that her sister when she returned home at night was always -more or less irritable. Still she was tempted to give her a sharp -answer, but she felt too unnerved for it. With her lips she lightly -touched Betsy’s cheek, and quite unconsciously laid her head on her -sister’s shoulder, in a sudden and irresistible longing for tenderness. - -“Are you really ill, eh, or——?” - -“No. Only a little—lazy. Good-night.” - -“Pleasant dreams!” - -Eline retired with languid steps. Betsy proceeded to undress. - - - -Arrived in the hall, Eline experienced the uncomfortable feeling of -having been an unwelcome visitor to her sister. All the evening, giving -herself up entirely to a fit of indolence, she had been in solitude, -and now she longed for company. For a moment she stood undecided in the -dark corridor, and then carefully feeling her way she descended the -stairs and entered the breakfast-room. - -Henk, divested of his coat, stood by the mantelpiece in his -shirt-sleeves, preparing his grog, by way of night-cap, and the hot -fumes of the liquor filled the room. - -“Hallo, girl, is that you?” he said, in a jovial tone, whilst in his -sleepy blue-gray eyes and about his heavily fair-bearded mouth there -played a good-humoured smile. “Did you not feel terribly bored, left to -yourself all the evening?” - -“Yes; just a little. Perhaps you did even more?” she asked with a -pleasant smile. - -“I? Not at all. The tableaux were very pretty.” - -Then with his back leaning against the mantelpiece he began sipping his -grog. - -“Has the youngster been good?” - -“Yes; he has been asleep. Are you not going to bed?” - -“I just want to look at the papers. But why are you still up?” - -“Oh—just because——” With a languid, graceful movement she stretched her -arms, and then twisted her heavy locks into a glossy brown coil. She -felt the need to speak to him without constraint, but the words would -not come, and not the faintest thought could she conjure up to take -shape within her dreamy mind. Gladly would she have burst into tears, -not because of any poignant sorrow, but for the mere longing of hearing -his deep solacing tones in comforting her. But she could find no words -to give expression to her feelings, and again she stretched forth her -arms in languid grace. - -“Is anything wrong, eh, old girl? Come, tell me what it is.” - -With a vacant stare she shook her head. No, there was nothing to tell. - -“Come, you can tell me all about it, you know that.” - -“Oh—I feel a little miserable.” - -“What about?” - -Then with a pretty little pout, “Oh—I don’t know. I have been a little -nervous all day.” - -He laughed—his usual soft, sonorous laugh. - -“You and your nerves! Come, sis, cheer up. You are such good company -when you are not so melancholy; you must not give yourself over to -these fits.” He felt conscious that his eloquence would not hold out to -argue the matter further, so with a laugh he concluded, “Will you have -a drop of grog, sis?” - -“Thank you—yes, just a sip out of your glass.” - -She turned to him, and laughing in his fair beard, he raised the -steaming glass to her lips. Through the half-closed eyelids he saw a -tear glistening, but she kept it back. All at once, with sudden -determination, he set down his glass and grasped her hands. - -“Come, girl, tell me; there is something—something has occurred with -Betsy, or—come now, you generally trust me.” And he gave her a -reproachful glance with his sleepy, kindly, stupid eyes, like those of -a faithful sheep-dog. - - - -Then in a voice broken with sobs, she burst forth in a stream of -lamentations, though without apparent cause. It was her heart’s inmost -cry for a little tenderness and sympathy. What was her life to her? to -whom could she be of the slightest use? Wringing her hands, she walked -up and down the room sobbing and lamenting. What would she care did she -die within the hour? it was all the same to her—only that aimless, -useless existence, without anything to which she could devote her whole -soul; that alone was no longer bearable. - -Henk contradicted her, feeling certainly somewhat abashed at the scene, -which for the rest was but a repetition of so many previous ones. To -give a new turn to her thoughts he began to talk about Betsy, and Ben -their boy, about himself—he was even about to allude to a future home -of her own, but he could not bring it so far. She on her part shook her -head like a sulking child, which, not getting what it wants, refuses to -take anything else, and with a passionate movement she all at once -threw her head on his shoulder, and with an arm round his bull-dog -neck, she burst into a fresh torrent of sobs. Thus she went on -lamenting in wild and incoherent words, her nerves overstrained by the -evening’s solitude and the hours of brooding in her over-heated room. -Over and over again she reverted to her aimless life, which she dragged -along like a wretched burden, and in her voice there was something like -a reproach to him, her brother-in-law. He, confused and deeply touched -by the warmth of her embrace, which he certainly could scarcely return -with such tenderness, could find nothing to stem that wild torrent of -incoherent sentences but a few common-places. - -Slowly, softly, like rose-leaves falling gently on the limpid bosom of -a summer stream, she let her melancholy broodings glide away on the -full low tones of his deep voice. - -At length she stopped and heaved a sigh, but her head still rested on -his shoulder. Now that she was somewhat calmer, he thought it right to -show a little anger at her behaviour. What a folly it was, to be sure! -What stupidity! What a fuss to get into about nothing! - -“No, Henk, really——” she began, and lifted her tear-stained face to -his. - -“My dear girl, what rubbish you talk about your aimless life, and all -that sort of thing. What puts those things into your head? We are all -fond of you——” and remembering his unspoken thought of before, he -proceeded, “A young girl like you—talking about an aimless——Sis, you -are mad!” - -Then, as though tickled at the thought, and besides, thinking that the -philosophic condition had lasted long enough, he suddenly gave her arm -a sharp twist, and pinched her about the pouting lips. Laughingly she -resisted; his movement had somewhat restored to her her broken -equilibrium. - -When a few moments later both went up-stairs together, she could -scarcely restrain herself from bursting out in laughter, as he suddenly -lifted her up in his arms to carry her, while she, fearing he would -stumble, in a voice half beseeching, half commanding, said— - -“Come, Henk, let me go; do you hear? Don’t be so foolish! Henk, let -go!” - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -Eline Vere was the younger of the two sisters, darker of hair and eyes, -slenderer, with a figure less maturely developed. Her deeply-shaded -dark brown eyes, and the ivory pallor of her complexion, together with -the languor of some of her movements, gave her somewhat of the dreamy -nature of an odalisk of the harem. The beauty with which she had been -endowed, she prized like a precious jewel, and indeed she was at times -half intoxicated with the glamour of her own fascinations. For several -moments at a time she could stand looking at her own image in the -glass, her rosy-tipped fingers gently stroking the delicate arch of the -eyebrow or the long silken lashes, or arranging the wealth of brown -hair about her head, in the wild luxuriance of a gay gitana. Her toilet -afforded her endless employment, continuous and earnest meditation, in -testing the effects, harmonious or otherwise, of the softened tints of -satins, and the warmer colourings of plush, and the halo of tulle and -gauze, muslin and lace, that surrounded it all. In short, everything -about her, from the faint clinging odour of violets, to the shimmer of -soft draperies, was full of refined, charming suggestion. - - - -Somewhat dreamy and romantic by nature, there were times when, in a fit -of languor, she thought with a certain lingering regret of her -childhood, recalling to mind all sorts of memories of those days, and -treasuring them up like so many precious relics. It was then that -consciously or unconsciously she imparted a fresh colour of sentiment -to those faded recollections of days gone by. In this way, the most -trivial episode of her childhood became idealized and suffused with a -charm of poetry. Betsy, with her practical turn of mind, never missed -an opportunity rightly or wrongly to discount anything that bore but -the faintest resemblance to idealism; and Eline, in her transient state -of half happiness, half melancholy, usually succeeded, after her -sister’s practical demonstrations, in distinguishing the actual state -of things from the luxuriant fantasies conjured up by her own -imagination. - -At times her memory went back to her father, a painter, of refined and -artistic temperament, elegant, but without the strength of a creative -faculty, married whilst but a youth to a woman many years his senior, -and by far his superior in strength of will and individuality. To her -master hand, his pliant nature readily yielded, for his was a -fine-strung temperament which, like the chords of a precious -instrument, would have trembled under her rude touch, just as that of -Eline sometimes trembled under the touch of her sister. She recalled to -mind that father, with his complexion of yellow ivory, and his -bloodless transparent fingers, lying down in listless languor, his -active brain thinking out some great creation, only to be cast aside -after the first few touches of the brush. Her he had often made his -confidante, and the trust he placed in her caused her childish nature -to regard him with a mixture of affectionate devotion and worshipful -reverence, so that in her eyes he assumed the appearance of a poetical, -dreamy-eyed, long-haired Rafael. Her mother, on the other hand, had -always inspired her with a certain amount of fear, and the remembrance -of the disillusionizing trivialities of daily life, with which the -figure of her mother became inseparably interwoven, rendered it -impossible for Eline to idealize her in her thoughts. - -She remembered, after the death of her father, at a still early age, -but still after many years of half-hearted effort and dismal failures, -and after the demise of her mother, felled by a sudden attack of heart -disease, spending the days of her early girlhood under the guardianship -of a widowed aunt. Old-fashioned, reserved and prim, with saddened -regular features, the ruins of a once beautiful woman, she well -remembered those two bony hands in perpetual motion over four bright -glistening knitting-needles. There she lived, in that big room, in -nerveless ease and placid luxury, in a paradise of cosy comfort, amid a -wealth of soft draperies and carpets, and all that was pleasing and -soothing to the senses. - -The two sisters growing up side by side under the same training, under -the same surroundings, developed within themselves a somewhat similar -mental and moral condition, which, however, as years went by followed -the bent of their different temperaments. In Eline, who, of a languid -and lymphatic nature, felt the need of tender support, and gentle -warmth of affection, and whose nerves, delicate as the petals of a -flower, even in their soft, velvet-clad surroundings, were often too -rudely handled by the slightest opposition, there developed a kind of -timid reserve, which filled her mind with thousands of small tokens of -a secret grief. Then when her measure of half-imaginary sorrows was -full, it would relieve itself in one overwhelming, foaming wave of -tearful passion. In Betsy’s more sanguine nature there grew, nurtured -by Eline’s need of support, a desire for domineering, by means of which -she could force her whole psychological being into that of her pliant -sister, to whom, after the first shock, it always brought a feeling of -rest and contentment. But neither Eline’s fear of wounding her -fine-strung temperament, nor Betsy’s over-ruling egoism, could ever -have led to a tragic crisis, as the sharp contrasts of each character -became, in the soft enervating atmosphere of their surroundings, -blended and dissolved in one dull tint of neutral gray. - - - -After one or two dances, where Eline’s little white-satined feet had -glided along in rhythmical accompaniment to a dazzling harmony of -brilliant light and colour, soft strains of melody and dulcet tones of -admiration, she received two offers of marriage, each of which she -declined. Those two proposals remained still in her memory as two -easily-gained triumphs, but at times the recollection of the first -would call forth a faint sigh from her bosom. It was then that she met -Henri van Raat, and ever since she asked herself how it could possibly -be that such a mass of stolidity as she called him, with so little -resemblance to the hero of her dreams, appealed so strongly to her -sympathies, ay, to such an extent that frequently she was overtaken -with a sudden, irresistible impulse to be near him. The heroes of her -dreams bore some resemblance to the idealized image of her father, to -the conceptions of Ouida’s fanciful brain. But they had nothing in -common with van Raat, with his sanguine, equable, complacent -temperament, his soft sleepy gray-blue eyes, his laboured speech and -heavy laugh. And yet in his voice, in his glance, there was something -that attracted her, as in his unstudied bonhomie. In all this she found -support, so that at times she felt conscious of the vague desire to -rest her weary head on his shoulder. And he too felt conscious, with a -certain pride, that he was something to her. - -But this pride vanished, however, the moment that Betsy came between -them. Towards Eline’s sister he felt conscious of such a moral -inferiority, that often he was at a loss to reply to her light and airy -banter. At such times, she thought it an exquisite pleasure, cruel as -it was, to draw him out, and tempt him to say things for which she -overwhelmed him with false admiration, only to ridicule them afterwards -to his face, which usually had the effect of reducing his sluggish mind -to abject confusion. Then she would burst out laughing, and the sound -of that full hearty laugh, full of mockery and self-confidence, fired -his imagination even more than did the tender feminine charm of Eline’s -presence. Hers was the charm of a weeping soft-eyed siren, raising her -arms in tempting languor from out of the blue of ocean, only to be -again drawn to the depths below with irresistible force; that of -Betsy’s, however, was the impetuous witchery of a gay Bacchante, -enchaining his senses with tangled vines, or dashing her brimming, -foaming cup in his face, and intoxicating him with the wild impetuosity -of her joyous nature. - - - -And so it came about—how he could not really say—but one evening in the -dim light of late autumn, he as with a sudden impulse asked her to be -his wife. It had indeed been a strange evening to him. The one thing he -had felt conscious of was that he was as though driven to it, as though -hypnotized by an indefinable something in Betsy’s eyes; he could not -but ask her what he eventually did. She, calm and collected, accepted -his offer, taking care to conceal her inward joy at the prospect of -having a home—and more especially a dominion of her own—under an -outward appearance of calm indifference. She longed for a different -atmosphere than that of the staid stuffiness of the big room, with the -stately old furniture and dignified surroundings. But when Eline came -and offered him her innocent congratulations, he became suddenly aware -of such an inward surprise and dissatisfaction with himself that he -could find no speech in answer to her sisterly good wishes. And Eline, -rudely shaken as she was by this rapid succession of events, shrunk -back in sudden terror of Betsy into her melancholy reserve, at the same -time making every effort—only resulting in the loss of her own peace of -mind—to resist the domineering influence which she had so long allowed -her sister to exercise over her mind. - - - -Betsy and Henk had been married a twelvemonth when aunt died. It was -then that, urged by her, he had looked out for some occupation, for -with his eternally calm good-natured indolence he often bored her much -in the same way as a faithful dog, which, ever to be found at his -master’s feet, receives many a kick which a less devoted creature would -have escaped. He too felt in a vague way that a young fellow, be his -income ever so comfortable, ought to do something. However, although he -sought, he found nothing, and in the meantime his ardour had -considerably cooled down, now that Betsy herself did not longer worry -him about it. - -And certainly he did not trouble her very much. In the morning he was -generally away, taking what exercise he could on horseback, followed by -his two gray boarhounds; in the afternoon, yielding to his wife’s -requests, he accompanied her on sundry calls, or when relieved of that -duty, he visited his club; the evenings being generally spent by him in -accompanying his butterfly wife to concerts and theatres, where he did -duty much after the fashion of Becky Sharp’s faithful sheep-dog, a -burdensome but indispensable adjunct. He adapted himself as well as he -could to this much too excited a life; he knew his will was not strong -enough to resist that of Betsy, and he found it suited his temperament -much better quietly to dress and accompany his wife, than to disturb -the domestic peace by an intrusion of his own ideas. Then again the few -evenings she spent at home afforded him, with his instinctive love of -sociability, a certain sensuous dreamy happiness, which in the end did -more to win his love than when he beheld his wife beyond his own reach, -the most brilliant figure in the grandest ballroom. That only made him -peevish and morose. To her, however, the few evenings she spent at home -were a terrible bore. The singing of the gas-flame made her drowsy, and -from her corner on the sofa she would cast many an angry glance at her -husband, as he sat turning the pages of the illustrated paper or lazily -sipping his tea. At such a moment she would feel an irresistible -impulse to urge him on in heaven’s name to look for some occupation, to -which he, astonished at being aroused in such a way from his dolce far -niente, would reply in incoherent heavy sentences. - -She, however, was at heart very happy. For was it not glorious to be -able to spend as much as she chose on her dress? And at the end of the -week she would ofttimes remember, with a smile of happiness, that she -had not spent a single evening at home. - -Eline meanwhile had passed the year in melancholy solitude at Aunt -Vere’s. She read much, feeling especially charmed with Ouida’s -luxuriant phantasmagory of an idealized life, sparkling with a wealth -of colour, and bathed in the golden sunshine of Italian skies, vivid -and glowing as a glittering kaleidoscope. She would read and literally -devour those pages until, dog-eared and crumpled, they would flutter -out of her grasp. Even at her aunt’s sick-bed, where with a certain -feeling of romantic satisfaction she sat watching night after night, -she would read them, again and again. - -In the atmosphere of that sick room, permeated as it was with an -ætherealized odour of drugs, the virtues and prowess of the noble -heroes, the spotless beauties of the arch-wicked or divinely righteous -heroines, became endowed with an irresistible charm of tempting -unreality; and Eline often felt a passionate longing to be in one of -those old English mansions, where earls and duchesses were engaged in -such exquisite love-making, and had such romantic meetings under the -moon-lit trees of a grand old park. Aunt died, and Henk and Betsy -invited Eline to make their house her home. - -At first she refused, overcome by a strange sadness at the thought of -the relationship of her brother-in-law to her sister. But with an -immense exercise of will power she at length conquered those feelings. -Had she not always wondered at the mysterious attraction she felt for -Henk? And now that he was her sister’s husband, there suddenly arose to -her mind such an insurmountable obstacle between them, an obstacle -raised by the laws of decency and custom, that she could, without any -risk, give herself over to sisterly sympathy, and therefore she thought -it very childish to allow the memory of the past, and feelings that she -never really had understood, to stand between her and the prospects of -a comfortable home. - -In addition to this, there was the fact that her guardian uncle, Daniel -Vere, who lived in Brussels, and was a bachelor, was too young a man to -offer a girl in her teens a home with him. - -In the end, Eline waived her objections, and with the stipulation that -she should be allowed to contribute a trifle towards her board, took up -her abode at her brother-in-law’s. Henk had at first refused to agree -to such a condition, but Betsy remarked that she could quite understand -it; had she been in Eline’s place she too would have done the same for -her own independence’ sake. From the sum settled on her by her parents -Eline derived a yearly income of about £160, and by putting into -practice the lessons of economy she had been taught by her aunt, she -managed to dress as elegantly on that, as did Betsy who always had a -well-filled purse at her disposal. - -And thus three years of monotonous existence passed by. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -When, the morning after her passionate outburst, Eline came down to -breakfast, Henk had already gone out, bound for the stables, to look -after his horses and hounds. In the breakfast-room there was no one but -little Ben, eating, or rather playing with a slice of bread-and-butter. -Betsy she could hear running to and fro with much animation, and giving -her hurried instructions to the cook. - -Frans and Jeanne Ferelyn, and Miss de Woude van Bergh and her brother, -were coming to dinner that day. - -Eline was looking very neat and dressy in a gown of dark gray woollen -material, a gray ribbon round her waist, and a small golden arrow -glittering at her throat. She wore neither rings nor bracelets. About -her forehead curled a few fine locks, in frizzy garlands, soft and -glossy as frayed silk. - -With a friendly nod she walked round to where the child was seated, and -lifting up his face with both hands pressed a loving kiss on his -forehead. Then she sat down, feeling well at ease with herself, her -senses agreeably soothed by the soft warmth thrown out from the glowing -hearth, while outside the snow-flakes were silently wrapping a -down-like mantle around them. With an involuntary smile of satisfaction -she rubbed her slim white hands, and glanced at her rosy, white-tipped -finger-nails; then casting a glance outside, where an old woman, almost -bent double, was pushing a barrow of snow-covered oranges in front of -her, she cut open a little breakfast-roll, the while listening, with -amused indifference, to the angry dispute going on between Betsy and -the cook. - -Betsy entered, an ill-humoured expression in her heavily-shaded, -twinkling eyes, her short thick lips compressed with annoyance. She -carried a set of cut-glass dessert trays, which she was about to wash, -as the cook had broken one of them. Carefully, notwithstanding her -anger, she placed the trays on the table, and filled a basin with warm -water. - -“That fool of a girl! Fancy washing one of my fine glass dishes in -boiling water! But it serves me right for trusting those idiots to do -anything.” - -Her voice sounded harsh and rasping, as she roughly pushed Ben out of -the way. Eline, in unusually good humour, offered her assistance, which -was readily accepted by Betsy. She had a great many things to do yet, -she said; but all the same she sat down, watching Eline carefully -washing and drying the dishes one by one, with light graceful -movements, without moistening her fingers or spilling one drop; and she -was conscious of the contrast between her own rough-and-ready way of -doing things—the outcome of robust health—and Eline’s languid grace, -mingled as it was with somewhat of fear of tiring or bespattering -herself. - -“By the bye, when I was at the Verstraetens’ yesterday, I heard they -were not going to the opera this evening, as they were tired from last -night; aunt asked me if I would like the box. Do you care to go to the -opera?” - -“And what about your visitors?” - -“Jeanne Ferelyn is going early, because her child is unwell, and I -wanted to ask Emilie and her brother to come too. Henk can stay at -home. It is a box for four, you know.” - -“Very well; I don’t mind.” - -Well satisfied with herself, Eline was just putting down the last tray, -when all at once a violent altercation broke out in the kitchen, -accompanied by the silvery clattering of forks and spoons. It was Grete -and Mina engaged in rather forcible argument. Betsy hurried out of the -room, and very soon, curt commands and impudent answers followed each -other in rapid succession. - -Ben in the meantime remained standing open-mouthed, and somewhat -drowsily, on the spot where his mother had pushed him, full of silent -alarm at all the hubbub. - -“Come, Ben, to auntie’s room,” said Eline, and smilingly she held out -her hand towards him. He came, and both proceeded up-stairs. - -Eline occupied two rooms on the ground floor, a bedroom and a boudoir. -With the economy and good taste which were common to her nature, she -had succeeded in imparting to these rooms a semblance of luxury, with -somewhat of an artistic polish. Her piano occupied an angle in the -wall; the heavy foliage of a giant azalea cast a softening shade over -the low, damask-covered couch. In a corner stood a small table laden -with innumerable precious trifles. Statuettes, pictures, feathers, palm -branches, filled every nook. The pink marble mantelpiece was crowned -with a miniature Venetian mirror, suspended by red cords and tassels. -In front stood an Amor and Psyche, after Canova, the group depicting a -maiden in the act of removing her veil, and a love-sick, light-winged -god. - -When Eline entered with Ben, the ruddy glow from the hearth shone on -her cheeks. She threw the child a few tattered volumes of engravings, -and he settled himself on the sofa, soon absorbed in the pictures. -Eline entered her bedroom, the windows of which were still covered with -daintily-formed leaves and flowers, the effect of the night’s frost. -Yonder stood a toilette duchesse—a vision of tulle and lace—touched up -here and there with the satin bows of old ball bouquets, and laden with -scent phials of Sèvres and fine cut-glass. In the midst of all this -wealth of pink and white the mirror glittered like a sheet of burnished -silver. The bedstead was hidden among red draperies, and in the corner -against the door a tall cheval glass reflected a flood of liquid -sunshine. - -For a moment Eline glanced round, to see if her maid had arranged -everything to her satisfaction; then shivering in the chilly atmosphere -she returned to her sitting-room and closed the door. With its -semi-Eastern luxury the room was a most pleasant one, its comfort -seemingly enhanced by the cold white glare reflected from the snow -outside. - - - -Eline felt as though brimming over with melody—a feeling which could -only find adequate expression in song. She chose the waltz from -Mireille. And she sang it with variations of her own, with modulations -now swelling into a full, rich volume of melody, now melting away into -the faintest diminuendo, with brilliant shakes and roulades clear as -those of a lark. She no longer thought of the cold and snow outside. -Then suddenly remembering that she had not practised for three days, -she commenced singing scales, brightening her high notes, and trying a -difficult portamento. Her voice resounded with a metallic ring, -somewhat cold, but clear and bright as crystal. - -Ben, though well used to these jubilant tones, which reverberated -through the whole house, sat listening in open-mouthed wonder, without -bestowing a further glance on his pictures, now and again giving a -sudden start when some exceptionally shrill high si or do would -penetrate his ears. - -Eline was herself at a loss to account for her sadness of yesterday. -How and whence came that fit of melancholy, without any definite cause? -what was the overwhelming joy too that could have so suddenly chased -those clouds away? - -To-day she felt animated, happy, joyous; she was sorry that she had not -seen the tableaux yesterday, and she feared that Mr. and Madame -Verstraeten did not take her indisposition au sérieux. What a nice, -pleasant man he was, Mr. Verstraeten, always full of fun! and Madame -Verstraeten, what a dear good soul! She knew no one like her, so -charming and kind. And then, seated at her piano, now practising a -shake, then a chromatic scale, she allowed her thoughts to wander to -other nice people amongst her acquaintances. Yes; all had their good -qualities: the Ferelyns, Emilie de Woude, old Madame van Raat, Madame -van Erlevoort, even Madame van der Stoor. As for Cateau she was a doll. - -And the idea struck her that she would rather like to join that company -of players. Yes; they had an admirable conception of the amenities of -life. Frédérique, Marie, Lili, Paul and Etienne, ever gay, ever -together, full of droll plans for their amusement. Indeed, it must be -very nice, prettily arrayed in romantic costumes, to be the objects of -general admiration. Paul had a very pretty voice, it would be splendid -to sing duets with him. It quite slipped her memory that only a few -days ago she had assured her singing-master that his voice was -absolutely void of tone. But to-day she was in a pleasant humour, and -sang a second waltz, that of “Juliette” in Gounod’s opera. She adored -Gounod. - -It had just struck half-past ten when there was a knock at the door. - -“Come in,” she cried, and looking round she let her slender fingers -rest on the keyboard. Paul van Raat entered. - -“Bon jour, Eline. Hallo, young rascal!” - -“What, Paul, you?” She rose, somewhat surprised to see him. Ben ran -towards his uncle and hoisted himself up on his knees. - -“How early you are! I thought you were coming to sing this afternoon. -But you are welcome all the same; do you hear? Sit down and tell me -about the tableaux,” Eline exclaimed with much animation; then, -remembering her illness of the previous day, she continued in a languid -voice— - -“I was awfully sorry I was so ill yesterday. Had a terrible headache.” - -“You don’t look much the worse for it.” - -“It’s true, Paul, really. If I had been well, don’t you think I should -have come and admired your talent? Come, tell me—tell me all about it,” -and she drew him with her to the sofa and threw the pictures on the -floor. - -Paul had some difficulty in freeing himself from Ben, who clung to his -legs. - -“Come, let go, Ben. And is the headache better now?” - -“Oh yes; quite gone. This afternoon I’ll go round to Mr. Verstraeten to -give my congratulations. But, Paul, do tell me——” - -“I was just about to tell you that I was not coming to sing this -afternoon; do you hear, Elly? I couldn’t bring out a note; I am quite -hoarse with the howling and screaming of yesterday. But we managed -splendidly,” and he commenced describing the tableaux. - -It was all his idea, and much of it the work of his own hands; but the -girls too had been hard at it for the last month—getting up the -dresses, attending to a thousand trifles. That afternoon Losch was -coming to take a photograph of the last group; so that, even had he -been in good voice, he could not have come to sing. And how stiff in -his joints he felt! for he had slaved away like a navvy, and the girls -must be quite exhausted also. No; he had formed no part in the -grouping, he was too busy making all the arrangements. He fell back a -little on the rich damask cushions of the sofa, under the shading -branches of the azalea, and stroked his hair. - -Eline thought how much he resembled Henk, although he was ten years -younger, more slender in figure, livelier, with more delicate features, -and an expression of much greater intelligence. But a simple gesture or -movement, a raising of the eyebrows, would now and again very -distinctly illustrate that resemblance, and although his lips were -thinner under his light moustache than Henk’s heavily-bearded upper -lip, his laugh was deep and full as that of his brother. - - - -“Why don’t you take painting lessons of a good master, Paul?” asked -Eline. “Surely if you have talent——” - -“But I have not,” he laughed. “It would not be worth the trouble. I -just dabble a bit in it, just as I do with my singing. It amounts to -nothing at all, any of it.” And he sighed at his Lick of energy to make -the most of the little talent he might possess. - -“You remind me of papa,” she said, and her words assumed a tone of -sadness, as the idealized image of her father rose to her memory. “Yes; -he had great talents, but latterly his health failed him, and he could -not produce the great creation of which his soul was capable. I well -remember that he was engaged on an immense canvas, a scene from Dante’s -Paradiso I believe, when—when he died. Poor papa! But you are young and -strong, and I can’t understand why you don’t do something great, -something out of the common.” - -“You know, I suppose, that I am going to be engaged at Hovel’s. Uncle -Verstraeten has arranged it for me.” - -Hovel was a barrister, and as Paul had, at a somewhat early age, and -after a period of alternate studying and idleness, passed the law -examination, Uncle Verstraeten thought he would be doing the young -barrister a good turn if he recommended him to his friend. It had -therefore been arranged that Paul should continue working at Hovel’s -office, until he could go in practice for himself. - -“At Hovel’s? A very nice man; I like his wife very much. Oh, that will -be splendid, Paul.” - -“I hope so.” - -“But still, if I were a man I should try and become famous. Come, Ben, -don’t be troublesome now; go and look at the nice pictures on the -floor. Wouldn’t you think it splendid to be famous? Really, if I -weren’t Eline Vere I should become an actress.” And she gave vent to a -series of brilliant shakes, which fell from her lips like a sparkling -chain of diamonds. - -“Famous!” and with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. “What a silly -idea, to be sure. Famous! No; I don’t want to be famous, not a bit. But -for all that I should like to paint well, or sing well, or something.” - -“Then why don’t you take lessons, either in painting or music? Shall I -speak to my master?” - -“No, thanks; not that old growler of a Roberts, if I can help it. And -besides, Eline, it isn’t really worth while; I should never be able to -keep it up whatever it was. I am subject to sudden fits, you see. Then -I think I can do anything, then I am anxious to hit upon some great -subject for a picture——” - -“Like papa,” she interrupted with a sad smile. - -“At other times the fit moves me to make the most of what voice I have; -but before long all those grand ideas have died their own death of -sheer inanition, and then I continue in the same old jog-trot as -before.” - -“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” - -“Henceforth I shall go and hide the aspirations of my genius in law -cases,” he answered with a laugh, as he rose from his seat. “But now I -must be off to the Princesse-gracht, to the Verstraetens’. So don’t -expect me this afternoon; we have several details to arrange yet before -Losch comes. Adieu, Eline; bye-bye, Ben.” - -“Bon jour; I hope you’ll soon get over your hoarseness.” - -Paul went, and Eline once more sat down at the piano. For a while she -sat thinking what a pity it was Paul had so little energy, and from him -her thoughts reverted again to Henk. But she felt altogether too -light-hearted this morning to do much philosophizing, and, full of -exuberant spirits demanding an outlet, she continued her singing, until -the mid-day gong summoned her and Ben down-stairs. - - - -Paul had told his mother that he would not be home that afternoon for -coffee, as he would be at the Verstraetens’. He lodged at Madame van -Raat’s, in the Laan van Meerdervoort. Madame van Raat, an elder sister -of Madame Verstraeten, was a stately dame, with pensive, light-blue -eyes, and hair of silver gray, dressed in old-fashioned style, whilst -over her whole being there was suffused, as it were, a calmness, a -placid resignation, that unmistakably spoke of former days free from -troubles and disappointments. As walking exercise was becoming irksome -to her, she was mostly to be found seated in her high-backed arm-chair, -the dull-gray head drooping on her bosom, the blue-veined hands folded -in her lap. Thus she continued to lead a quiet, monotonous existence, -the aftermath of a placid, all but cloudless life, by the side of her -husband, on whose portrait she frequently allowed her eyes to dwell, as -it hung before her yonder, in its smart general’s uniform; a -good-looking, frank, manly face, with a pair of truthful, intelligent -eyes, and an engaging expression about the firm, closed mouth. To her, -life had brought but few great sorrows, and for that, in the simplicity -of her faith, she felt piously grateful. But now, now she was tired, -oh! so tired, her spirit quite broken by the death of that husband to -whom, to the last, she had clung with an affection constant and calm as -the bosom of a limpid stream, into the placid waters of which the -impetuous waves of her youthful love had flowed away. After his death, -she began to worry over every trifling circumstance, petty vexations -with servants and tradespeople. All these she connected, until to her -mind they formed an unbroken chain of irksome burdens. Yes, she felt -she was growing old; time had little more to give her, and so, in -silent egoism, she mused her life away in the long-vanished poesy of -the past. She had had three children: her youngest, a girl, was dead. - -Of her two sons, her favourite was Henk, who, strong and big, reminded -her the most of his father, whilst in her eyes his sleepy good-nature -had more of open, frank manliness, than Paul’s finer-strung fickleness -and airy geniality. Paul she had always found too unsettled and -nervous: formerly, in his constantly interrupted studies at Leyden—at -last, thanks to a little moral pressure on the part of Uncle -Verstraeten, crowned with promotion—as well as now with his staying out -late at night, his rage for painting, tableaux-vivants and duets, or -his fits of indolence, when he would lounge away a whole afternoon on -the sofa, over a book he did not read. - -Before his marriage, Henk, being of a more staid and homely character -than Paul, felt himself better at ease in his mother’s house; although -he was quiet, his silence never irritated her; it was like the silence -of a faithful dog, watching with half-closed eyes over his mistress. -She felt so at her ease with Henk. She disliked being alone, for it was -in solitude that the memories of the past contrasted in their rosy -brightness too sharply with the leaden-gray that was the prevailing hue -of her present life, and Paul she saw but rarely, except when hastily -swallowing his dinner, in order to keep an appointment. She seldom went -out, unaccustomed as she had grown to the noisy traffic of the streets, -and the hum of many voices. - -Henk was her pet, and with her mental vision unimpaired, wherever at -least her son was concerned, she regretted his marriage with Betsy -Vere. No; she was not a fit wife for her child, and knowing that, she -could not bring herself to give him her hearty approval or her parental -blessing, when he told her of his engagement. Still, she refrained from -opposing her beloved son in his choice, fearing lest she should be the -cause of unhappiness; it was therefore under a false assumption of -frankness, at which she was surprised herself, that she had concealed -her ill-feeling against the intruder, and welcomed her as her daughter. -All the same, she felt deeply concerned about Henk. Madame Vere she had -known slightly; passionate and domineering, she never found anything -attractive in such a personality, and this daughter reminded her too -much of that mother. Although, in her eyes, Henk was possessed of much -more firmness of character than Vere, of whom she could not think but -as a pallid, ailing sufferer, only too glad to allow his wife to think -and act for him; although Henk, as she thought, had all the frank -manliness of character of his father, and would not allow himself to be -domineered over; still, happy as she had been with van Raat, it would -never be his lot to be. And at that thought she would sigh and her eyes -would grow moist; her mother’s love, despite her blindness to his -failings, was the instinct which gave her an inkling of the truth, and -if she could have taken his place, she would gladly have given up her -own former happiness to her son, and have suffered for him. - -Her thoughts ran away with her as she saw Leentje, the servant, laying -the cloth for lunch for herself alone, and with a weary resignation at -the hateful loneliness of her days, she sat down. To-morrow would be to -her as to-day; what remained of her life was but an aftermath of -summer, and though autumn and winter might be free from storms, yet the -only promise they held out was that of a barren, soulless lethargy. To -what end did she live? - -And so weary did she feel under the leaden pressure of this -soul-killing loneliness, that she could not even muster up the energy -to scold Leentje for her clumsiness, although she could not help -noticing the damage that was done to one of her old china dishes. - - - -Much earlier than she was wont to go out, Eline went to the -Verstraetens’ that afternoon. It was near the end of November, and -winter had already set in with extreme severity. There was a sharp -frost; the snow, still white and unsullied, crackled under Eline’s -light, regular tread, but her feet preferred to feel the smoothness of -the clean-swept pavement; the delicately-gloved hands were hidden away -in the small muff. At times bestowing a friendly nod, from under her -veil, on some passing acquaintance, she proceeded along the Java-straat -to the Princesse-gracht. She still felt in a happy humour, which was -quite undisturbed by the little tiff she had had with Betsy about some -trifling question with the servants. These little bickerings were not -of such rare occurrence lately, although they always irritated Henk -beyond measure. - -But Eline had not taken much notice of Betsy’s words, and had replied -to her with less sharpness than was her wont; she did not care to allow -such trifles to spoil her good-humour: life was too dear to her—— - -And feeling glad that she had curbed her temper, she turned the corner -of the Java-straat. - -At the Verstraetens’ there still prevailed an unusual disorder. Dien -was loth to admit her, but Eline took no notice, and passed inside to -the large reception-room, where she found Madame Verstraeten, who -apologized for being in her dressing-gown. Losch, the photographer, -half hidden under the green cloth of his apparatus, was taking a view -of the group representing the Five Senses. The girls, Etienne, and Paul -smiled their welcome to Eline, who said it was splendid still to be -able to see something of the tableaux. But now, in the chill -snow-reflected daylight, the scene no longer created the vivid, glowing -impression of the previous evening, nor had it the same wealth of -colouring, with which a plentiful application of Bengal fire had -endowed it. The draperies hung in loose and crumpled folds; -Frédérique’s cloth of gold had a smudged, faded tint, her ermine had -more the appearance of white and black wool. Etienne’s fair wig was -decidedly out of curl. Lili, representing the sense of Smelling, lay -half dozing in her pillows. - -“I am afraid it won’t come to much,” said Marie, as Losch was arranging -her draperies; but Toosje van der Stoor thought otherwise and remained -lying motionless, with a terribly cramped feeling, owing to her -difficult attitude. - -Eline, unwilling to disturb the artistes in their grouping, sat down -beside Mr. Verstraeten. He laid away his book and removed his -eye-glasses, and with his sparkling brown eyes glanced with unfeigned -pleasure at the graceful girl. - -“Do you know,” she said, as she unhooked the little fur-lined cloak, -“do you know, I am really jealous of that little group there. They are -always together, always happy and jolly, and full of fun and amusing -ideas—really I feel quite old by the side of them.” - -“Just fancy that!” answered Madame Verstraeten, laughing. “You are of -the same age as Marie, three-and-twenty, aren’t you?” - -“Yes; but I was never spoilt as Marie and Lili are being now, and yet I -think I should not have minded a bit. You know, of course, when I was a -child—papa was mostly ill, and naturally that threw a damper over us; -and afterwards at Aunt Vere’s house—aunt was a dear, good woman, but -much elder than papa, and not very jolly certainly——” - -“You must not say anything about Aunt Vere, Eline!” said Mr. -Verstraeten; “she was an old flame of mine——” - -“And you must not laugh at her; I was very fond of her; she really was -a second mother to us, and when that long illness ended in her death, I -felt the loss keenly, I was as alone in the world. You see, all these -things were not exactly calculated to make my youth a very gay one.” -And she smiled a saddened smile, whilst at the thought of all she had -been deprived of, her eyes glistened with moisture. “But when you look -at Paul and Etienne, and the girls, it’s nothing but laughter and -pleasure—really, enough to make me jealous. And that Toos, too, she is -a dear child.” - -The artistes came down from the platform. Losch had finished. Paul and -Etienne, with Freddy, Marie, and Cateau came forward, whilst Lili went -to bed, thoroughly exhausted with the excitement of the last two days. - -“Good morning, Miss Vere,” said Cateau, as she held out her little hand -to Eline. - -Eline felt a sudden, indescribable, unreasoning sympathy for that -child, so simple and so unconsciously engaging, and as she rose to go, -she was obliged to hide her emotion by playfully embracing the child. - -“Good-bye, darling,” she said dotingly. “I am going, Madame -Verstraeten; there is still plenty left for you to do, now that all -that excitement is over. Ah! yes—I promised Betsy to ask you for the -tickets. May I have them?” - - - -It was still early, only half-past two, and Eline thought what a long -time it was since she had visited old Madame van Raat, and she knew -that the old lady liked her, and was always glad to have a chat in the -afternoon. Henk never failed to visit his mother every morning after -his ride, and the two boarhounds, whom his wife had banished from his -home, followed him undisturbed up the stairs in his mother’s house. As -for Betsy, of her the old lady saw very little; Betsy was well enough -aware that Madame van Raat did not care for her. Eline, however, had -succeeded in winning her affections, by means of a certain most -engaging manner she had when in the company of aged ladies; in the tone -of her voice, in her little attentions, there was a something, a -delicate flavour of respect, which charmed the old dame. - -Eline returned through the Java-straat to the Laan van Meerdervoort, -and found Madame van Raat alone, seated in her high-backed chair, her -hands folded in her lap. And in the young girl’s eyes she appeared such -a picture of mute sadness; over the rich faded furniture there hovered -such a melancholy shadow of past comfort; the whole apartment was -filled with such an atmosphere of sorrow, and about the folds of the -dark green curtains there hung such a mist of melancholy, that on -entering, Eline felt her heart grow cold within her, as though a voice -had told her that life was not worth living. - -But she struggled against the feeling. She recalled those thoughts -which in the morning had brought her such lightness of heart. She -smiled, and her tone assumed that vague respect, mingled with somewhat -of love and pity, and with much animation she spoke about Paul, about -the tableaux, about that evening’s dinner, and the opera—and promised -Madame van Raat to send her some books, nice light literature, in which -one looked at the world through rose-coloured glasses. - -It pained her to chatter in this way; she would much rather have sat -and cried with the old dame, in sympathetic melancholy, but she -controlled herself, and even plucked up courage to touch upon a more -serious subject. With her engaging, respectful manner, she took Madame -to task for having been discovered by her with moistened eyes, which -now she would not own; she was not inquisitive, but she would so gladly -console and cheer her, if she could; and why did she not again make her -her confidante, as she had done before, and so on. - -And the old lady, already placed at her ease by this charm of manner, -smilingly shook her head; really, there was nothing the matter at all; -she only felt a little lonely. Ah, it was her own fault, she feared, -for there was very little in which she still took any interest. Other -old people read the papers and continued to take an interest in things -generally; but not she. Yes, it was all her own fault; but Eline was a -dear girl; why could not Betsy be a little like her? - -And with increased animation, she began to talk about her dear husband; -over there was his portrait.... - -It was past four when Eline hurried away; it was growing dark, it was -thawing, and the lowering clouds threatened to fall upon her and choke -her. That old lady had been happy, very happy.... and she, Eline, was -not happy, even at her age—oh! how would she feel when she too would be -old, ugly, and shrivelled up! To her even the memories of the past -would bring no comfort, nor yet the solacing thought that happiness did -exist, that she had tasted its sweets; to her all would be dull and -leaden as the clouds above! “Oh, God, why live, if life were void of -happiness?—why, why?” she whispered, and she hurried on to dress for -dinner. - - - -It was to be a simple, homely little dinner. At half-past six the -Ferelyns came, and shortly after, Emilie and Georges. Betsy received -them in the drawing-room, and asked Jeanne how the child was. - -“She is much easier now, the little dot; the fever is gone, but still -she is not quite better. Doctor Reyer said she was getting on. It’s -very nice of you to have invited us; a little change is really -necessary for me. But you see, I took your word for it that it would be -quite a family party, so I haven’t dressed for it.” And with some -misgiving her eyes wandered from her own plain black dress to Betsy’s -gown of gray satin. - -“Really, there is no one else coming but Emilie here, and her brother. -But you told me you would be going home early, so we have arranged, -later on, to look in at the opera, in Uncle Verstraeten’s box. So you -need not be uneasy, you were quite right to come as you are.” - -Henk, looking jolly and contented, entered in his smoking-jacket, and -on seeing him Jeanne felt more reassured than by all Betsy’s -protestations. With Emilie, lively as ever, she was on the most -intimate terms, and it was Georges alone, with his immaculate -shirt-front, and his big gardenia, who made her feel somewhat uneasy at -her own simple dress. - -Frans Ferelyn, an East-Indian official, was in Holland on furlough, and -his wife was an old school-mate of Eline’s and Betsy’s. - -Jeanne seemed a homely little woman, very quiet and depressed under her -domestic troubles. Delicate, emaciated, and pallid, with a pair of soft -brown eyes, she felt crushed under the double burden of pecuniary -embarrassment and anxiety for her three ailing children, and she felt -an irresistible longing for India, the land of her birth, and for the -quiet life she led there. She suffered much from the cold, and numbered -the months she would still have to pass in Holland. She told Emilie of -her life at Temanggoeng in the Kadoe—Frans was Comptroller -first-class—in the midst of a menagerie of Cochin-China fowls, ducks, -pigeons, a cow, two goats, and a cockatoo. “Just like Adam and Eve in -Paradise,” remarked Emilie. Then she told them how each morning she -used to look after her Persian roses and her pretty azaleas, and gather -her vegetables from her own garden, and how her children, immediately -on their arrival in Holland, were taken ill and began to cough. “’Tis -true, in India they looked rather pale, but there at least they were -not obliged to be in constant fear of draughts and open doors.” And she -was sorry that, owing to the expense of the voyage, she had had to come -away without her baboo, Saripa. She was now in service at Samarang, but -she had promised to come back to her “as soon as we are home again,” -and she was to bring her over some pretty frocks from Holland. - -Emilie listened attentively, and did her best to set her talking; she -knew how those Indian reminiscences could draw Jeanne out of her usual -quiet reserve. Betsy considered her out of place in company, so when -she did ask her, it was always together with her husband, and if -possible, with one or two others. The fact was, she thought her a bore, -generally ill-dressed, and her conversation flat and uninteresting, but -still she could not help occasionally inviting her, more with a kind of -pity than anything else. - -While Frans Ferelyn was speaking to Henk about his forthcoming -promotion to Assistant Resident, and Georges was listening to Jeanne -telling him about Frans’s horse one day stepping right into their room -to fetch his pisang, Betsy lay back in her chair, thinking how long -Eline was. She would have liked to have dined early, so as not to be so -very late at the opera, and she inwardly hoped that the Ferelyns would -not be indiscreet and stay too long. Amusing they certainly were not, -she thought, and she rose, concealing her impatience, to fix a bunch of -peacock feathers in one of the vases, a few of the knick-knacks on the -little centre table; then with her foot she arranged the tiger-skin rug -in front of the flaming hearth, all the time feeling annoyed at Eline’s -delay. - -At length the door opened and Eline entered, and Jeanne could not help -noticing how pretty and elegant she looked in her pink rep silk frock, -simple but rich, with a neat little bow here and there on her V-shaped -corsage, on the short sleeves, and at the waist. In her light-brown, -back-combed hair she wore a touffe of wavy pink feathers with a small -aigrette; her nimble feet were encased in small pink shoes; a single -string of pearls encircled her throat. In her hands she held her long -gloves, her fan of pink ostrich feathers, and her binocle set in -mother-of-pearl. - -Ferelyn and de Woude rose, and she shook hands with them, and kissed -Emilie and Jeanne, at the same time inquiring about little Dora. She -noticed how all, even Henk and Betsy, took stock of her, from head to -foot, struck as they were with the rich simplicity of her dress: and -when Jeanne spoke to her about her child, she smiled upon the -struggling little woman, all conscious of the effect of her brilliant -charms. - - - -At table, Eline chatted pleasantly with de Woude, next to whom she was -seated. Betsy sat between her two gentlemen guests, Emilie between Henk -and Frans, Jeanne between Eline and Henk. In the somewhat sombre -dining-room, with its antique furniture, the table glistened with snowy -damask, with silver and fine glass, whilst the rays of gas-light -glinted on decanters and glasses, making the dark-red or amber-coloured -wine appear to quiver under the glow of its radiance. From amid a nest -of flowers in a silver basket rose the prickly crown of a splendid -pine. - -De Woude commenced telling Eline about the soirée at the Verstraetens’, -and in glowing terms described how well Miss van Erlevoort had looked -her parts, successively as Cleopatra and the sense of Sight. With -Emilie, Frans, and Betsy the conversation turned on India. In this -Jeanne joined every now and again, but she sat too far away, and her -attention was diverted by de Woude’s chattering and the little shrill -laugh of Eline, who was engaged in a mild flirtation. - -Henk drank his soup and ate his fish in silence, occasionally -addressing a short monosyllable to Jeanne or Emilie. And Jeanne grew -more and more silent, as much from feeling ill at ease, as from fatigue -at her long talk to Emilie after a day full of worries. She felt very -much out of place, next to that coquettish couple. Eline in full -toilet, de Woude in his evening dress, to which her own little black -dress offered a shabby contrast. Still, she was glad she sat next to -Henk, and in her own malaise she was conscious of a vague sort of -sympathy for him, who was as much out of place there as herself. - -And she could not help comparing herself with Eline and Betsy: she, -struggling with her three children and her husband’s slender furlough -allowance; Eline and Betsy, on the other hand, unhampered, and ever -moving in a whirl of pleasures and excitement. Where was the old, happy -friendship that united them in one bond, when all three used to go -hand-in-hand to school, Eline with the cape of her mackintosh filled -with cherries, and she herself under Betsy’s leadership giving free -vent to her childish spirits in naughty answers to the governess? She -felt herself repelled by that young wife, with her self-conscious, -indifferent manner, and her domineering tone towards her husband; -repelled also by that young girl, who appeared to her frivolous and -vain in her conversation, full of brilliant nothings; and by that -dandy. Eline, especially, she could not understand; in her she found -something uncommon, something indefinable and puzzling, and certain -attributes which seemed ever at war with one another. Her laughter -about nothing at all wearied her, and she wondered how it was that a -girl who, as they said, sang so divinely, could have such an unpleasant -and affected laugh. Oh! if they would but be silent for a moment!.... -And in her heart she longed to be back once more in her humble -apartments, with her little Dora. Why had she accepted that invitation? -’Tis true Frans had insisted, now that the child was out of danger, -that she should have some change and relaxation, but this dinner-party -gave her no relaxation; on the contrary, it made her nervous and -confused, and she declined Henk’s offer of sweetbreads and asparagus -which he recommended her. - -“Did I hear aright, Miss Emilie; is Mr. de Woude a brother of yours?” -Frans asked softly. It was the first time that he had met either Emilie -or Georges, and he was as much struck by their resemblance as by the -contrast between them. - -“Certainly,” whispered Emilie; “and I am proud of him too. He is an -awful swell, but a nice boy; he is engaged at the Foreign Office. Be -careful, don’t you think bad of him!” she laughed, and held up her -finger threateningly, as though she read Ferelyn’s thoughts. - -“I have scarcely exchanged more than half a dozen words with Mr. de -Woude as yet, so I should be sorry to express any opinion about him so -soon,” he said, a little alarmed at Emilie’s brusqueness. - -“That’s right; most people get a very different opinion of Georges -after they have known him some time, from that formed when they first -met him. You see, like a loving sister, I take my brother’s part. Just -fill my glass, please.” - -“Yes; you champion him even before he is attacked!” resumed Ferelyn -smiling, as he filled her glass; “but thus much I can see already, that -he is a spoilt pet of the ladies, not only of his sisters, but also of -Madame van Raat and Miss Vere.” - -Betsy joined in the conversation with Eline and Georges, feeling -attracted by the latter’s lively manner, as he chatted away, skimming -over all sorts of subjects; a conversation without substance, without -actual wit, but light as foam, airy as soap-bubbles, sparkling as -firework crackers. In such a conversation she was in her element; -serious talk, be it ever so spirited, was too burdensome for her; but -this tintinnabulation of sparks and foam-flecks, like wine glistening -through crystal beakers, charmed her exceedingly. She thought Georges -much more amusing than he was yesterday at the Verstraetens’, where he -had twice observed that the effect of red light was more flattering -than that of green. To-day he did not repeat himself, but rattled on, -interrupting her with laughing impudence, and rounding off his -sentences with truly French vivacity. - -Several times Eline tried to lead Jeanne into that circle of sparkling -nothings, but in return Jeanne had only smiled a faint smile, or just -answered with a single monosyllable, and at length Eline gave up the -attempt to draw her out. The conversation grew more general; Emilie -joined in with her easy nonchalance and airy banter; and Frans, in the -midst of this charmed circle, could not help throwing in a stray spark -of fun, although his eyes frequently rested with an anxious look on his -quiet little wife. - -To Jeanne it seemed as though the dinner would never come to an end. -Although she had not the slightest appetite, she did not like to -continue refusing, so she took of the truffled chicken, of the gâteau -Henri IV., of the pines, and the choice dessert; her wine, however, she -merely touched with her lips. Henk, next her, ate much, and with -evident gusto, wondering why she helped herself to such small portions. -De Woude ate but little, his continued talking prevented that; but -Emilie did her share, and was not sparing with the wine. - -It was past eight when they rose, and the ladies retired to the -drawing-room. Frans joined Henk and de Woude in a cigar, as Jeanne had -expressed her desire to stay another half-hour. Betsy had asked her to -do so; she could not let her guests go so soon, and there would be -plenty of time for the opera. - -“Is Dora often ill, Jeanne?” asked Eline, as with a rustle of her red -silk she sat down on the sofa beside her, and took her hand. “Last time -I saw her nothing ailed her, and even then I thought she was looking -very pale and delicate.” - -Jeanne gently withdrew her hand, and felt something like irritation at -such a question after the conversation at table. She made but curt -reply. But Eline persisted, as though she intended by her present -amiability to make good her former neglect; and she managed to impart -such a sympathetic tone to her voice, that Jeanne felt quite touched. -Jeanne began to express her fears that Doctor Reyer had not examined -her little girl as carefully as he might; and Eline, whilst sipping her -coffee, listened with evident interest to her maternal plaints. Emilie -and Betsy had meanwhile gone into the adjoining boudoir, to look at -some fashion-plates. - -“Poor girl! what a lot of cares and worries you have, and scarcely -three months in Holland yet! You only arrived in September, did you -not?” asked Eline, as she placed the little china cup on the round -table in front of her. - -Jeanne was silent; but all at once she rose up, and in her turn -grasping Eline’s slender fingers, she remarked, in her longing for -affection— - -“Eline, you know I have always been pretty straightforward and frank; -may I ask you something?” - -“Of course you may,” answered Eline, rather surprised. - -“Well, then—why we are no longer to each other what we were formerly, -when your parents were still living? It is now four years since I -married and went to India, and now that we have returned, now when I -see you again, all seems so different between yourself and me. I have -no acquaintances, and but few relations in the Hague, and I should so -much like to keep my old friends to myself.” - -“But, Jeanne——” - -“Yes; I know you think it foolish of me to talk like that; but at times -I feel so terribly depressed with all that flummery and false -excitement, I do so long to unburden myself to some dear true -friend—for of course I cannot say all I wish to my husband.” - -“Why not?” - -“Oh, he has enough of his own worries; he is ill, and—peevish.” - -“But, Jeanne, I really don’t see what change has come between us.” - -“Perhaps it is only my fancy after all. You see, formerly we used to be -oftener together, now you move in such a different circle. You go out a -good deal, and I—well, you see, we have become much estranged from one -another.” - -“But considering that we have not seen each other for four years——” - -“But we kept up the correspondence.” - -“What value is there in three or four letters in the course of a year? -Doesn’t it seem natural that one’s ideas change, as one gets older, and -is placed in different circumstances? Yes; I have had my cares and -worries too. First it was dear papa, then Aunt Vere, whom I attended in -her illness——” - -“Are you happy here? can you get along with Betsy?” - -“Oh yes, admirably, or I should not stay with her, of course.” Eline, -with her usual reserve, deemed it unnecessary to say more about it. - -“You see, there is no need for you to trouble yourself about anything,” -Jeanne continued; “things come about just as you wish them; you are -free and unfettered, and live only for your pleasures—it is all so -different with me.” - -“But surely all that does not justify you in saying that we have become -estranged from each other. In the first place, I think ‘estranged’ is a -most unpleasant word, and secondly, it is not true, whatever word you -may use.” - -“Oh yes.” - -“Oh no. I assure you, Jeanne dear, if I can be of service to you in any -way, you will find me quite at your disposal. Do you believe me?” - -“Yes, I do, and I thank you very much. But, Eline——” - -“Well?” - -Several questions rose to Jeanne’s lips. She felt eager to ask her to -tell her more about herself, to be more free and open with her; but the -studied cordiality of the smile that hovered about the delicate lips, -and was reflected in those dreamy, almond eyes, effectually silenced -her. And she felt a sudden regret at her frankness towards such a -coquette of a girl deftly playing with her fan; it was mere waste of -time in talking to her. Why had she allowed herself to yield to the -first impulse? for they were entirely unsuited to one another.... - -“Well?” Eline repeated, at the same time fearing what the next question -might be. - -“Another time, when we are alone again!” stammered Jeanne, and she -rose, dissatisfied, annoyed with herself, feeling ready to burst into -tears, after that unsociable dinner and fruitless conversation. Betsy -and Emilie were just leaving the boudoir. - -Jeanne thought it was time to be going. The three gentlemen came in, -and Henk assisted her with her cloak. With a forced cordiality she took -her leave, thanking Betsy for her invitation, and again she shivered -with annoyance when Eline kissed her cheeks. - -“What an awful bore she is, that Jeanne!” said Betsy, after the -Ferelyns had gone. “She scarcely opened her mouth. What were you -talking about together, Eline?” - -“Oh—about Dora, and her husband, nothing else.” - -“Poor girl!” said Emilie pityingly. “Come, Georges, just fetch my -cloak.” - -Mina, however, was just coming in with the ladies’ wraps, and de Woude -put on his ulster, whilst Henk rubbed his big hands, well pleased at -the prospect of spending the evening at home after a nice dinner. The -carriage had already been waiting outside in the thawing snow for the -last half-hour, with Dirk the coachman and Herman the footman seated on -the box, half smothered in their big fur capes. - - - -“Oh, Frans, never ask me to accept another invitation of the van -Raats!” said Jeanne, in an imploring voice, as, on her husband’s arm, -she shiveringly went splashing along the muddy streets, while, with her -little hands benumbed with cold, she constantly endeavoured to keep her -cloak fastened, each time that a gust of wind blew the ends open. -“Really I don’t feel at home any more with them, with Betsy and Eline.” - -He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. They plodded on with their -mud-bespattered shoes, in the flickering light of the street lanterns, -whose dull rays were reflected with monotonous regularity in the -numerous puddles they had to pass. - - - -The third act of Le Tribut de Zamora had just commenced, when Betsy, -Emilie, Eline, and Georges entered their box. There was a full house, -and their arrival broke in upon the silence that prevailed in the -listening auditorium; there was a rustling of silk and satin; a hundred -eyes and opera-glasses were directed to their box, and here and there -the question was whispered, “Who are they?” - -Emilie and Eline sat down in front, Betsy and Georges behind them, -while Eline laid down her fan and her pearl-rimmed binocle. Then she -slowly commenced to untie her white plush, red satin-lined cloak, and -as a cloud of pink and white it glided from her shoulders, and de Woude -folded it over the back of her fauteuil. And in the triumph of her -beauty it did her good to see how she was stared at and admired. - -“What a number of people there are here this evening! we are -fortunate,” whispered Emilie. “There’s nothing, I think, so wretched as -to see an empty house.” - -“You are right!” said Betsy. “Look, there are the Eekhofs, Ange and -Léonie, with their mamma. They were at the Verstraetens’ too yesterday; -next week they are giving a soirée dansante.” And she nodded to the -girls. - -“The new baritone from Brussels, Théo Fabrice, sings this evening,” -said de Woude to Eline. “You know that since the débuts commenced, two -have been dismissed; he makes the third.” - -“How terribly long those débuts are this winter!” remarked Eline, in an -indifferent tone. - -“The tenor robusto was all right from the first, but they say Fabrice -is very good too. Look, there he comes.” - -The chorus of Ben-Saïd’s odalisques was ended, and the Moorish -sovereign entered his palace, leading Xaïma by the hand. But Eline paid -little attention; she glanced round the theatre, and gave a friendly -nod of recognition as her eyes met those of some acquaintance, and she -did not cast another glance in the direction of the stage until -Ben-Saïd and his slave were seated under the canopy, and the ballet -commenced. That attracted her, and her eyes followed the danseuses, as, -gliding along on the tips of their toes, they ranged themselves in -groups beneath the Moorish arches, and under the uplifted veils and -fans of silver fringe, their forms encased in corsages of glossy satin, -and all a-glitter with the spangles on their gauze-like frocks. - -“A pretty ballet!” said Emilie, yawning behind her fan, and she leaned -back cosily in her fauteuil, somewhat under the generous influence of -her choice dinner. - -Eline nodded her head, and while at the back of her she could hear -Betsy and Georges whispering together, she still followed the clever -gyrations of the première danseuse, as with graceful movements she -hovered beneath the waving fans of the dancers on the tips of her -pointed, satin-clad feet, a dazzling aigrette of diamonds in her hair. - -With her dreamy, idealistic nature, Eline was passionately fond of the -opera, not only because it afforded her the opportunity of being the -object of general admiration, not only because of the music, or that -she was anxious to hear one or another aria sung by some celebrated -prima donna, but also because of the intricate, romantic-coloured plot, -the somewhat rudely-painted melodramatic effects, full of hatred and -love and revenge, the conventionality of which did not trouble her, and -in which she did not even look for any truth. There was no need for her -to forget for one moment that they were but actors and actresses whom -she saw before her, and not knights and noble ladies; that she was -seated in a crowded, brilliantly illumined theatre, looking at painted -scenes, and listening to the harmony of a visible orchestra, and not -living with hero and heroine through some more or less poetic period of -the middle ages; but none the less did she enjoy herself, if the actors -did not sing too badly, nor play with too much prosy conventionality. - -Betsy, on the other hand, went to the opera with the object only of -seeing and being seen; Eline’s intense enjoyment she would have voted -childish in the extreme, but Eline enjoyed in secret, for she suspected -Betsy’s opinion, and so left her sister in the belief that she, like -herself, found no pleasure in the theatre but to see and to be seen by -friends and acquaintances. - -The ballet was at an end. Ben-Saïd and Xaïma descended from their -throne, and he sang the recitative— - - - “Je m’efforce en vain de te plaire!” - - -and then the air: - - - “O Xaïma, daigne m’entendre! - Mon âme est à toi sans retour!” - - -The new baritone’s voice was full and sonorous, more like that of a -basso cantante, and in his song he enveloped it as with a veil of -melancholy. - -But in his rich Moorish dress he had a heavy appearance; and neither in -his attitude nor in his acting did he succeed in imparting even the -merest semblance of amorous homage, and he looked at the prima donna, -in her dress of cloth of silver, and her long pearl-clad fair hair, -with more of threatening rage in his glance than with the humility of a -tender devotion. - -Eline was not insensible to the shortcomings in his acting; but still, -the very contrast between the expression of haughty superiority in his -demeanour and the tone of humility in his voice pleased her. She -followed every note of the song, and when at the sudden fortissimo of -Ben-Saïd’s metallic organ, the actress appeared to tremble with terror, -Eline asked herself the question— - -“Why is she so frightened, I wonder?—what is the matter? He does not -look so bad.” - -And during the applause that followed the song she glanced round the -theatre, when by accident her eye fell upon a group of gentlemen -standing just at the entrance to the stalls. She noticed how they -stared at her box, and with her graceful languor she was about to draw -back a little, when she saw one of them look at her with a smile of -recognition. For a moment she looked at him with wide-opened eyes, and -in her surprise did not return the salutation, but with a quick -movement she turned round, laid her hand on Betsy’s shoulder, and -whispered in her ear— - -“Just look, Betsy; do you see who is standing there?” - -“Where? who?” - -“There, in the stalls—Vincent—don’t you see?” - -“Vincent!” Betsy repeated, amazed in her turn. “So it is, Vincent!” - -They both nodded to Vincent, who laughingly fixed them with his glass, -upon which Eline hid her face coquettishly behind her fan. - -“Who is it? who is Vincent?” asked Emilie and Georges. - -“Vincent Vere, a first cousin,” Betsy answered. “Oh, such a silly boy; -nobody ever knows where he is; sometimes you don’t see him for months -at a time, then all at once he stands before you again. I had no idea -at all that he was at the Hague. Eline, for gracious sake, don’t fidget -so with that fan.” - -“I don’t want him to stare at me,” said Eline; and with a graceful turn -of her shapely arm she held her fan before her face. - -“When did you see your cousin last, Madame van Raat?” asked Georges. - -“Oh, more than eighteen months ago. I think he was going to London, -where he was to be a reporter on a paper, or something of that sort. -Fancy, they say he was in the Foreign Legion in Algeria for some time, -but I don’t believe it. He has been everywhere, and he never has a -sou.” - -“Yes; now I remember, I have seen him before,” said Emilie, with a -yawn. “A curious customer.” - -“Yes, that he is. But you see here, at the Hague, where he has -relations, he knows he must be on his best behaviour, so we tolerate -his presence.” - -“Yes,” remarked Emilie, very philosophically, “you generally find a -black sheep like that in every family.” - -Eline smiled, and slowly closed her fan. - -The third act came to an end without her understanding much about the -scena with Manoël, but the grand duo between Hermosa and Xaïma afforded -her a clue: it was the mutual recognition of mother and daughter after -the air— - - - “Debout, enfants d’Ibérie!” - - -and the curtain fell amid thunders of applause, and the two actresses -were called to the front, and each received her share of bouquets. - -“Mr. de Woude, do tell me what the plot is really about?” asked Eline, -turning to Georges. “Je n’y vois pas encore clair.” - -But Betsy proposed to go into the foyer, and so they rose and left -their box. In the foyer, seated on a divan, Georges related to her the -plot of the opera, to which Eline listened with more attention than she -cared to show. Now she knew why Xaïma shuddered in Ben-Saïd’s presence, -and she would have liked to see the auction of maidens in the first -act, and the sale of Xaïma as slave in the second. - -All at once they observed Vincent, who was coming up the steps of the -foyer, and approaching them free and unconcerned, as though he had seen -his cousins but yesterday. - -“Hallo, Vincent, have you dropped from the clouds again?” exclaimed -Eline. - -“Hallo, Eline; hallo Betsy! charmed to see you once more. Miss van -Bergh and Woude, I think?” and he shook hands with them. - -“I admire your memory; I had forgotten you,” answered Emilie. - -Betsy introduced them: “Mr. de Woude van Bergh, Mr. Vere.” - -“Very pleased. And how are you?” - -“A little astonished,” laughed Eline. “I dare say you are off again -to-morrow, aren’t you? To Constantinople, or St. Petersburg, or -somewhere, I suppose.” - -He looked at her, with a smile in his pale blue eyes, like faded china, -behind their pince-nez. His features were handsome and regular, rather -too handsome for a man, with their finely-chiselled Grecian nose, the -small mouth, about which there generally lurked somewhat between a -sneer and an audacious smile, lightly shaded by the thin, fair -moustache; but the charm of the handsome face was completely spoilt by -the unhealthy yellowish tint, and the expression of lassitude that was -suffused over it. Of slender form and delicate proportions, he looked -tasteful in his dark, plain clothes, whilst none could fail to note the -smallness of his feet, and the finely-shaped hand, with its slender, -white fingers, the hand of an artist, and which reminded Eline very -much of her dead father. He sat down beside them, and in a languid -voice told Eline that he had arrived at the Hague the previous day, on -a business matter. His last employment had been at Malaga, in a wine -business; before that he had been engaged in an insurance office in -Brussels; previous to that he had for some time been a partner in a -carpet manufactory in Smyrna, but the firm failed. Nothing would do. -Now he was tired of all that rushing about; he had given proof enough -of energy and perseverance, but fate was against him; whatever his -hands touched seemed to bring him ill-luck. He expected, however, to -obtain a situation in a chemical manufactory in Java, but he must first -have some more information. To-morrow morning he hoped to call on van -Raat, whom he wanted to see. Upon this Betsy asked whether he was -coming to coffee, as van Raat was never at home in the morning, only in -the afternoon. He gladly accepted the invitation, and then commenced -talking about the opera. - -“Fabrice? oh, that is the baritone, is it not? Yes; a nice voice, but -an ugly, fat customer.” - -“Do you think so? No; I think he shows off very well on the stage,” -observed Emilie. - -“No, Miss de Woude, you don’t mean that.” - -Emilie abided by her opinion, and Eline laughed at their disagreement. -The tinkling of the bell warned them that the fourth act was about to -commence, and Vincent took his leave, although Georges politely offered -him his seat in the box. - -“No; thank you very much; I don’t want to rob you of your place, I am -comfortable enough in the stall. Au revoir. To-morrow then, eh? Adieu, -Betsy, Eline; au plaisir, Miss de Woude; good evening, Mr. de Woude.” - -He bowed, pressed Georges’ hand, and slowly went away, lightly swinging -his bamboo walking-stick in his hands. - -“A strange boy!” said Eline, shaking her head. - -“I am continually in fear that he will do something to scandalize us,” -Betsy whispered into Emilie’s ears; “but up to now he has kept himself -quiet enough. Besides, you see I want to be nice and friendly to him, -so as not to make him an enemy. I am a little afraid of him, one never -can tell what a fellow like that may do, you see.” - -“I can’t say he is a prime favourite of mine,” said Emilie, and they -rose to return to their seats. - -“Come, Emmie, you only say so because he did not say any nice things -about Fabrice,” Georges chimed in, in a teasing voice. - -Emilie shrugged her shoulders, and they passed into the vestibule. - -“Oh, there is no fifth act! I thought there were five acts,” said -Eline, with some disappointment, to de Woude, who told her the end of -the plot. - - - -The fourth act commenced, and Eline felt much interested in the moonlit -garden scene, in Manoël’s cavatina, in his duet with Xaïma, and in the -trio with Hermosa; but her interest grew when the Moorish monarch -appeared at the gates of his palace, and commanded his guard to seize -Manoël, whilst, deaf to his entreaties, he dragged Xaïma away with him, -in a sudden burst of passion. The last scene in the opera, where -Ben-Saïd is murdered by the mother, who comes to her child’s rescue, -affected her much more than she would have cared to confess. In his -scenas with the two female characters, the new baritone played with an -amount of fire and power which lent the melodrama a glow of poetic -truth, and when, fatally wounded, he sank down on the steps of the -pavilion, Eline fixed her glasses, and gazed at his dark face, with the -black beard and drooping eyes. - -The curtain fell, but the four actors were re-called, and Eline saw him -once more, bowing to the audience with a calm, indifferent expression, -in strong contrast to the beaming smiles of the tenor, the contralto, -and the soprano. - -The audience rose, the doors of the boxes opened. Georges assisted the -ladies with their wraps, and they proceeded through the corridor, and -down the steps, until they reached the glass doors, where they waited -until their carriage was announced. - -“I shouldn’t think that the Tribut is one of Gounod’s best operas; do -you, Eline?” asked Emilie, when they were in their carriage. “It is not -to be compared with Faust or Romeo and Juliette.” - -“I don’t think so either,” Eline answered cautiously, afraid to show -how much she was affected; “but it is so difficult to judge music on -hearing it for the first time. I thought some of the melodies very -pretty. But then, you must bear in mind that we only saw half of it.” - -“Yes; it’s very nice just to go and see a couple of acts; but to have -to sit out a whole opera I think an awful bore, I must admit,” said -Betsy yawning. - -And Georges hummed the refrain— - - - “Debout, enfants d’Ibérie.” - - -The de Woudes were taken home first to the Noordeinde, and Betsy and -Eline rode on, snugly ensconced in the satin cushions of the landau, to -the Nassauplein. They spoke a little about Vincent, and then both were -silent, and Eline let her mind wander musingly to the waltz in -Mireille, to her dispute with Betsy that morning, to the group of the -Five Senses, to Madame van Raat and de Woude, to her pink dress, and -Ben-Saïd. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -About a week after the tableaux-vivants, Lili Verstraeten was sitting -in the small drawing-room, where the representation had taken place. -The room had long since resumed its usual appearance, and in the grate -burned a cheerful fire. Outdoors it was cold; there was a bleak wind, -and it threatened rain. Marie had gone shopping with Frédérique van -Erlevoort, but Lili had preferred to stay at home, and so she settled -herself cosily in a big, old-fashioned, tapestry-covered arm-chair. She -had taken Victor Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris with her, but she did not -wish to force herself to read, if she did not care for it, and the -book, in its red calf cover and with gilt edges, lay unopened in her -lap. How nice it was to do nothing except dream the time away! how -stupid of Marie and Freddie to go out in such wretched weather! What -did she care about the weather! let it pour and blow outdoors as much -as it liked, indoors it was beautiful; the clouds subdued the light, -the low hanging curtains allowed it but a modest access. Papa sat -reading in the conservatory, where it was lightest; she could just -catch a glimpse of his dear gray head, and she noticed how quickly he -turned the pages; yes, he was really reading, not like her, who had -taken her book just for a make-believe. She never felt ennui, though -she did nothing at all; on the contrary, she enjoyed those musing -thoughts, rose-leaves wafted along by gentle breezes; soap-bubbles, -bright and airy, which she loved to watch, floating on high, and the -rose-leaves blew away, the bubbles broke, but she wished neither her -rose-leaf to be an ivy plant, clinging closely to her, nor her bubbles -to be a captive balloon. Mamma was still up-stairs, ever active—ah! she -could not lighten mamma’s work; she would do everything herself, though -Marie occasionally helped a little. She inwardly hoped no visitors -would come to disturb her in her dolce far niente. How jolly it was! -How nice to watch the flame curling and twisting round the live coal! -The grate was a miniature hell, the peat-blocks were rocks, and between -them there were yawning precipices, all fire and glowing embers—it was -like Dante! The souls of the damned hovered about the brinks of the -precipices, shuddering at the fiery mass.... And, smiling at the -wildness of her own fantasy, she averted her eyes, somewhat dazed with -staring into the fire. But a week ago, on that very spot yonder, they -had posed before their applauding acquaintances. How different it all -looked then! The scenes, the lyres, the cross, and all the rest of the -paraphernalia were stowed away in the lumber-room. The dresses were -nicely folded up by Dien, and put away in boxes. But it had been a -jolly time, what with the consultations beforehand with Paul and -Etienne, the rehearsals, and so forth. How they had laughed! what -trouble they had taken for the sake of a few moments’ entertainment! - -Papa still read on, turning page after page. How the rain beat against -the window-panes! how it rushed down the pipe! Yes; Freddie and Marie -were out for their enjoyment ... how grand it was to be snug and safe -from all the wet. And her feet sought the soft warmth of the -hearth-rug; her fair head nestled deeper into the cushions of the old -chair. - -Freddie was to go to a dance that evening. How could she stand it, -going out night after night! Yes; she was very fond of it herself—a -nice dance, a sociable soirée; but she liked staying at home too; to -read, to work, or to—do nothing. But as for ennui, she did not know -what it was, and her life flowed on like a limpid rivulet. She was so -entirely in love with her darling parents; she only hoped things would -ever remain as they were; she would not mind being an old maid.... -Quasimodo, Esmeralda, Phœbus de Châteaupers—oh, why had she not taken -Longfellow with her? she did not care about the Cour des Miracles, but -she longed for Evangeline or the Golden Legend— - - - “My life is little, - Only a cup of water, - But pure and limpid——” - - -How poetic she was getting! she laughed at herself, and looked out into -the garden, where the dripping bare branches were swaying to and fro in -the wind. There was a ring at the bell, and light footsteps and -laughter echoed through the hall. Freddie and Marie were returning -home, they would go up-stairs she supposed; no—they were coming this -way, and entered the room, their wet wraps removed, but bringing with -them a rush of wind and a chill dampness. - -“Well, I never!” cried Marie; “my lady seated by the fire warming -herself. That’s right!” - -“Would my lady like a pillow for her back?” asked Freddie teasingly. - -“Yes; you laugh as much as you like,” murmured Lili with a smile, and -she nestled herself more snugly in the chair. “I am warm and jolly -here, and my feet are not cold and damp. You go and splash in the mud -by yourselves!” - -Freddie went to speak to Mr. Verstraeten, and Marie thought she would -like a refresher, and she set about making a cup of tea. So the girls -sat down; yes, Lili would like a cup of tea too, although she had not -been out mud-splashing. - -“How dark it is here, Lili! how could you see to read? Why, it’s enough -to blind you, peering away in the dark like this!” cried Marie. - -“But I have not been reading,” replied Lili, enjoying her dolce far -niente. - -“My lady has been musing,” mocked Freddie. - -“Ah,” said Lili with a smile, “it’s grand, doing nothing at all—just -dreaming the time away.” - -And they all three burst out laughing at such a confession of shameless -laziness, when Madame Verstraeten came down, looking for her bunch of -keys. - -Frédérique said she had to go soon; she was asked to a dance at the -Eekhofs’ that evening, and there were one or two things she had to see -to yet, and Madame Verstraeten thought Lili much more sensible than -Freddie and Marie, who were foolish enough to go shopping in such -weather. - - - -Again there was a ring at the bell. - -It was Paul, bringing with him such a marked odour of wind and damp, -that he was sent out of the room again to wipe his feet better. - -“There’s weather!” he sighed, as he sat down. - -Madame Verstraeten left the young people to themselves, and sat down -beside her husband, who, however, on hearing that Paul had come, rose -and walked to the back drawing-room. - -“Morning, uncle.” - -“Ah! morning, Paul; how are you?—how is your mother?” - -“Mother is very well. I lift her reading a book that Eline had sent -her.” - -“And how is it—have you paid a visit to Hovel yet?” - -“No, uncle, not yet.” - -“But do so then. Don’t delay too long about it; Hovel wants to make -your acquaintance.” - -“Paul, it’s four days ago that you said you were going to Hovel,” cried -Marie. “How can you be thinking so long about it? It isn’t such a great -journey.” - -“I intended to go to-morrow.” - -“Then go to-morrow, about half-past six. You are sure to find him at -home then. I should advise you not to fail,” said Uncle Verstraeten, -and in his usually so friendly dark brown eyes there gleamed something -like annoyance, when he turned to go back to the conservatory. - -“Paul, Paul,” said Frédérique, shaking her head, “how can you be so -lazy? You are even lazier than Lili.” - -“Oh, to-morrow will be quite time enough,” grumbled Paul, as he -finished drinking his cup of tea. - -“Yes; but you’re very lazy, all the same. And I tell you frankly that -we don’t think it nice of you at all, any of us.” - -“Go on, grandmother, give me a good sermon; that’s right.” - -“Grandmother or no grandmother, that’s my opinion. And you see, I think -it’s a great pity that you should be like that; you could do a great -deal more if you only had a little energy. Mark my words, now, if you -don’t better yourself you will grow just like Henk—a dear good fellow, -but good for nothing. You know very well that I am not altogether in -love with Betsy, but I can quite understand that she must sometimes -feel terribly bored with that brother of yours, doing nothing all day -long.” - -“Don’t you say anything against Henk now; Henk is a thorough good -fellow,” cried Marie. “And besides,” Marie continued, “you have much -more ability than Henk; and that’s just why I think that laziness and -want of energy are doubly inexcusable in you.” - -“Come, Marie,” said Lili, rising, “don’t go firing away like that at -Paul, poor boy! You go to Hovel to-morrow, do you hear?” she whispered -in his ear; “then it will be all right.” - -He laughed, and promised to better himself under the able guidance of -the three of them. - -“And as I have evidently been placed under the guardianship of my -cousins and Miss Erlevoort,” said he good-humouredly, “may I ask if -they’ll allow their little protégé another cup of tea?” - - - -The heavy rain had ceased, but the wind still shook the dripping -branches. - -It was half-past five when the door-bell rang once more. - -“Half-past five!” exclaimed Frédérique. “I must go; I ought to have -gone long ago; I have some bows to fix on my dress. Oh! I shall look -bewitching to-night, all in flot de tulle! Where are my parcels, -Marie?” - -“There goes the bell; I wonder if there are any visitors,” said Lili. - -Frédérique was about to go, when Dien came in to say that Mr. de Woude -van Bergh was there. - -“What! that unspeakable bore!” - -“Oh, he’s not so bad,” said Paul. - -“Well, I don’t care; I’m going to close the folding doors. I don’t wish -to see him!” she continued, and she was just about to suit the action -to the word. - -“Come, Lili, don’t be so silly; come this way,” said Marie. - -“No, thanks; you go by yourself,” she answered and closed the doors, -just as de Woude entered the front drawing-room, where Marie received -him. - -Paul and Frédérique laughed, and took leave of Lili, and all three -passed through the dining-room to the hall. - -“Good-bye; give my regards to uncle and aunt, and tell uncle that I -shall go to Hovel to-morrow for certain,” said Paul. - -“Remember me to them also, and tell them I really had to go,” said -Freddie. - -“All right; much pleasure to-night in your flot de tulle. Boo! how cold -it is here in this hall!” - -Paul and Freddie left, and Lili returned through the dining-room. And -Georges de Woude, what had he come for? No; she could not bear him at -all. So affected and formal. How could Paul see anything in him? Paul -she thought ever so much nicer and manlier. And how Marie did lecture -him! he was a good boy, too; and what if he were a little lazy—he had -money, and might just as well enjoy himself a little now; later he -could look out for a situation, and he would soon find one, that was -certain. Yes; she would tell pa Paul had promised to go to Hovel -to-morrow, and he always kept his word. - -She sat down once more in the old chair, and poked the fire. She warmed -her fingers and rubbed her little hands, soft as satin. Through the -closed doors she could hear the sound of voices, amongst which that of -Georges prevailed—he seemed to be telling them a long story. She must -have a look for one moment, and she rose and cautiously pushed one of -the doors aside a little. Yes; that would do; pa and ma she could not -see, but Marie she could just see in the face, and of Georges she got a -back view. What fun it would be if Marie were to catch sight of her; -but no, she appeared to be all attention for that little fop. Lili -could just admire his shining white collar, and the tails of his -coat—superfine, all of it! There—Marie looked up—there—she just caught -sight of her through the crack in the door: “Hallo! bon jour;” she -shook her finger at Marie, then she curtseyed and made grimaces, until -Marie had to compress her lips, so as not to burst out laughing. - - - -As it was getting dark, Frédérique hurried home to the Voorhout. On -arriving, she rushed up the broad staircase. She nearly stumbled over -Lientje and Nico, two children of Madame van Ryssel, her eldest sister, -who since her divorce from her husband had been living with her four -children at Madame van Erlevoort’s. - -“Miss Frantzen, do look after the children, they will fall!” said -Frédérique, out of breath, to the bonne, whom she met on the first -landing, searching high and low for the youngsters. - -“Do you know where Ernestine and Johan are?” asked Miss Frantzen. - -“No; I have only just come home,” answered Frédérique, quite indignant, -and she hurried further, flew into her room, threw off her cloak, and -with nervous fingers proceeded to open one of the little parcels she -had brought with her in her muff and her pockets. - -“I shall never be ready!” she muttered, and she drew aside the green -damask curtains from her bedstead, disclosing her ball dress, spread -out on the bed—a diaphanous cloud of light-blue tulle. - -That morning Frédérique’s dress had been sent home from the dressmaker, -but she wanted to add a bow here and there herself, although she almost -feared to touch it, lest she should tangle the filmy, web-like stuff. - -“Oh, what shall I do!” she cried; then a sudden thought seemed to -strike her, and she rushed out of the room, and on the landing she -cried— - -“Tilly, Tilly, Mathilde!” - -One of the doors opened, and her sister, Madame van Ryssel, entered in -some alarm. - -“Freddie, what is the matter? why do you scream so? is the house on -fire?” - -“No; if it were I shouldn’t call for your help. But do help me a bit, -or I shall never be ready.” - -“Help you? what with?” - -“With my ball-dress. I want to put on a bow or two. It’s so bare at the -side, and I bought some ribbon.” - -Madame van Ryssel was about to reply, when the door of Madame van -Erlevoort’s room opened, and the old lady came out to ask what was the -matter. At the same moment a shrill burst of laughter and a sound of -children’s voices re-echoed from the landing, there was a loud tripping -of little feet, and a girl of seven came half tumbling down the stairs, -followed by a lad of six. - -“Mamma, mamma!” the child cried, as she jumped down the last steps. - -“I say, Tine, Johan, what a noise you are making! What are you doing, -you two?” asked Madame van Ryssel severely. - -“Jo is always teasing me; Jo wants to tickle me, and he knows I can’t -bear it,” panted the girl, and she hid herself behind her grandma’s -petticoats, whilst Frédérique caught hold of Johan. - -“I told you before that I won’t have all that running and noise in the -house!” resumed Madame van Ryssel. “I wish you would remember that -grandma cannot bear it.” - -“Never mind,” said Madame van Erlevoort kindly, “they were only -playing; eh, Tine?” - -“Look out, do you hear, or I’ll tickle you!” cried Frédérique, and she -tickled Johan under his little arms, so that he fell, struggling and -crowing, on the floor. - -“Mais comme vous les gâtez, toutes les deux! ne les choyez donc pas, -quand je suis fâchée. Je perdrai tout mon pouvoir, si vous continuez -ainsi!” exclaimed Madame van Ryssel despairingly, as she glanced over -the banisters, for down below Madeline and Nikolaas were giving Miss -Frantzen a terrible trouble and would not go up-stairs with her. - -“Lientje, Nico!” cried Madame van Ryssel in her severest tones. - -“Come, Mathilde, do leave the children alone for a moment, and come and -look at my dress!” Freddie implored. - -“I can’t keep them in order any longer, really,” said Mathilde, with a -sigh of despair. - -“Make haste, Freddie; we dine rather earlier to-day,” said Madame van -Erlevoort. - -The street door was being opened; it was Otto and Etienne van Erlevoort -who were coming home, and their cheerful voices mingled with the -laughter and screams of the children, the chiding tones of Miss -Frantzen, and the barking of Hector, Otto’s dog. - -“Come, Mathilde, do just have a look at my dress,” Freddie pleaded, in -coaxing tones. - -Mathilde thought it best to give up all attempts at exerting her -maternal influence in that Babel of confusion, and yielded to -Frédérique’s coaxing. - -“Really, I mean it, I have no more control over them——” - -“Come, children, don’t fight any more now; be good!” said Madame van -Erlevoort to Ernestine and Johan. “Come with us down-stairs, ’tis -enough to freeze you here.” - -Madame van Erlevoort had always been used to excitement and hubbub, and -it never seemed to upset her. Herself mother of seven children, she had -always been surrounded by noisy laughter, turmoil and excitement, and -she could not have understood how a large family could have existed in -any atmosphere that was calmer than her own. From the first, her house -had been filled with the shrill voices, the boisterous laughter, and -the continual running to and fro of her children, until they grew up, -in all the joyful freshness of their youthful spirits. Then with the -death of her husband, Théodore Otto, Baron van Erlevoort ter Horze, -member of the Second Chamber of the States General, commenced a period -of unwonted calm and peacefulness, which grew even more so when her -four children, one after another, left her house and got married. The -first to go was Théodore, the eldest, who now managed their estates in -Gelderland, and who, in the midst of his numerous family, lived at the -Huis ter Horze the life of a gentleman-farmer and of a youthful -patriarch combined. He was followed by her third daughter, Mathilde, -whose brief married life had been very unhappy; after her, the two -eldest girls, Cathérine and Suzanne, left their mother’s home, the -former married to an English banker, Mr. Percy Howard, living in -London, the other to Jonkheer Arnold van Stralenburg, Recorder at the -Court of Justice at Zwolle. - -Thus Madame van Erlevoort was left with her two sons, Otto, assistant -clerk at the Ministry of the Interior, Etienne, studying for the bar at -Leiden, and her youngest child, Frédérique; and without the novel charm -and refreshing emotions of her grandmothership, the comparative calm by -which she was surrounded would certainly have made her ill with ennui, -used as she was to the tripping of light feet and the song and laughter -of clear young voices. - -A few years after her marriage, Mathilde with four children returned to -Madame van Erlevoort, the children being assigned to her on her divorce -from her husband. Since then, van Ryssel had been living abroad, and -little more was heard of him. - -Madame van Erlevoort sympathized deeply with her daughter, who had so -long and with such dignity sustained her part of neglected and -misjudged wife, and she received her with the greatest love, inwardly -happy in the new, fresh-budding life which the four grandchildren had -brought into her house. She spoilt them all, as she had never spoilt -her own children. Try what she would to be cross with them, their -wildest pranks failed to provoke her anger, whilst Mathilde they often -drove to desperation, for she feared what would become of them with so -much indulgence. She begged Madame van Erlevoort not to oppose her when -she meted out some well-deserved punishment; Madame van Erlevoort -promised readily enough, but as quickly forgot her promise on the first -opportunity; whilst Frédérique, herself a spoilt child, always thought -Mathilde right in her complaints, but for the rest did little to -encourage a firm discipline. It was only from Otto that Mathilde could -now and then expect a little support, and accordingly it was for Uncle -Ot alone that the four young rascals had any respect. With his mother’s -kindliness of disposition he combined his father’s common sense and -practical nature, and in the unruffled calm of his demeanour he -appeared older than he really was; but over his manly features there -lay such a charming geniality, there was so much that was sympathetic -and trustful in his bright dark eyes, that his earnestness and his -sound sense attracted rather than appeared too severe in a young man of -eight-and-twenty. Etienne, on the other hand, was all gaiety and -thoughtlessness, and his mother’s idol, in fact her nature seemed to -bask in the glow and sunshine of his character. Frédérique loved both -her brothers passionately, but Otto she was fond of nicknaming papa, -whilst with Etienne she would romp about much as Lientje did with Nico, -and Tina with Johan. - - - -Madame van Erlevoort wished to dine a little earlier that day, -intending to have her siesta before going to dress. In the evening she -was going with Freddie and her two sons to the ball at the Eekhofs’, -whilst Madame van Ryssel stayed at home, a quiet, saddened young woman, -whose smile but faintly lit up her wax-like face, and who lived but for -her children. - -By Mathilde’s express desire, the four noisy customers always dined in -a separate room, with Miss Frantzen. As for Madame van Erlevoort, there -was nothing she would have liked better than to have sat at table with -the whole batch of them, Miss Frantzen included, not caring one iota -whether her damask table-cloths were swimming in gravy, her glass ware -broken to bits, or the preserves mauled about by a set of greasy little -fingers. Thus Mathilde had been unable to prevent the children, who -dined earlier and whose meal was over sooner, from running in one after -another into the dining-room, to the despair of Miss Frantzen, whose -round face and terrified eyes would then appear at the half-open door. -This sort of thing Madame van Erlevoort in her kindliness having -tolerated once or twice, soon became the rule, and Mathilde was obliged -with a sigh to resign herself to the inevitable. As for Etienne and -Frédérique, they only helped to make the youngsters noisier than ever. -Otto also played with them, and Mathilde with a smile shrugged her -shoulders; she could not help it, let things go as they would. - -“No, thank you, Otto, nothing more,” said Frédérique, at the -dinner-table. “I can never eat when I am going to a ball; you know -that.” - -“Is it still like that?” asked Otto. “I always thought that it was only -very young girls who could not eat at their first entrée into society. -Are you still so nervous? Poor girl!” - -“Freddie, what have you been doing to your dress? I hope you have not -spoilt anything?” asked Madame van Erlevoort, with some anxiety. - -“No, ma; I took Mathilde’s advice and did not touch it at all. Ah! you -shall see me this evening,” she continued to Otto; “I shall look quite -ethereal in my blue tulle—just fit to be blown away, you know. Hallo! -there they come, the young Vandals!” - -This was meant for the four little van Ryssels, who now came storming -into the room, Nico with an ear-splitting trumpet in his mouth. They -came to eat their orange with wine and sugar. Madame van Erlevoort took -Nico next to her and gave him his plate full of fruit, and ere long the -young rascal was sucking away at the luscious morsels, varying the -repast with an occasional blare from his trumpet. - -Ernestine, Johan, and Etienne were picking their hardest from one dish, -and amid loud laughter their forks got jangled one in another, whilst -Freddie told Otto who were coming to the Eekhofs’ that evening. - -“There are the Hydrechts, Eline Vere, the van Larens, Françoise -Oudendyk. Don’t you think Françoise prettier than Marguerite van Laren? -Eh, Otto, which of the two are you going to mash? Oh, Nico! my nerves! -Nico!” - -Tootterootoo, too, went the trumpet. - -“Nico, you will drive me crazy with that blaring noise. Put that thing -down now, and eat properly. There, it’s all running down your jacket!” -cried Mathilde. - -“Oh, he is only making a little music; eh, little dot?” said Madame van -Erlevoort, and she drew her arm round the child, who, without much -respect for his grandma, blew his trumpet right into her ear. - - - -After dinner Freddie and Etienne romped about with the children, whilst -Madame van Erlevoort retired to her boudoir, and Otto sat down to smoke -his cigar beside Mathilde, who took up some embroidery. Rika, the -servant, cleared the table, much hampered in the process by Nico, and -in fear and trembling for the safety of the tray upon which she had -placed the dirty plates and glasses. At last the clock struck eight, -and Miss Frantzen came to fetch the children. - -“Ciel de mon âme!” cried Frédérique, half smothered on the sofa between -Ernestine, Johan, and Lientje, and with an effort she extricated -herself from the labyrinth of arms and legs that twined itself about -her like an octopus. “I must get up-stairs; Mathilde, will you help -me?” - -“Yes; I am coming,” answered Mathilde, rising. “And you, children, you -be off to bed, quick!” - -“No, I won’t; I want to see Aunt Freddie look pretty first,” cried -Ernestine, in a little whining voice. “And I want to help auntie, too.” - -“Auntie can do without your help, and pretty she always is. Come now, -go up-stairs, all of you, with Miss Frantzen; allons, like good -children.” - -Freddie ran off, and as Madame van Erlevoort was asleep, Mathilde could -for once exert her influence, and the four of them were bundled off up -the stairs, with an admonition on each step, as Nico wanted to run down -again, and Lientje remained sitting on the floor, playing with Hector. - -“I am coming directly, Freddie!” cried Mathilde; “as soon as the -children are up-stairs.” - -Freddie was already in her room, brushing out the wavy masses of her -hair. Mathilde was to dress it: she did it so deftly. And she set about -arranging everything—her fan, her gloves, her handkerchief, her -pale-blue satin shoes. A nervous blush suffused her clear pale face, as -she looked at herself in the mirror and smiled, until in each cheek -there formed a little dimple. “Yes; it would be all right,” she said. -In half an hour Mathilde came back with Martha, the chamber-maid, and -Frédérique sat down in front of the glass, in her white under-bodice -and blue shoes. - -“Just as simple and fetching as last time you did it, Tilly,” coaxed -Frédérique, as Martha handed her the comb, the curling-tongs, or a -hairpin, as they were wanted. “Oh! it’s quite cold here! Do wrap -something round my shoulders, Martha!” - -Martha wrapt a fur cape about her. With deft fingers, Mathilde had soon -completed her task. - -“There!” said she, and arranged the frizzy fringe in front. “Simple, -tasteful, and fetching—are you satisfied?” - -Frédérique looked at herself, and with the tips of her fingers she just -touched her hair. - -“Rather!” she said. “And now—my flot de tulle.” - -The fur cape was thrown on the floor, and Martha arranged the confused -mass of garments which were spread about the room. Mathilde lifted up -the cloud of delicate azure, and light as a sigh she let it glide about -Freddie’s shoulders. - -“There’s something fairy, something naiad-like about me!” said Freddie, -raising her arms, and Tilly and Martha knelt down and drew open the -folds of silky gauze. “La, la, la——” and Freddie’s little feet kept -time to the tune she hummed. - -“Freddie, Freddie, do be quiet now! Martha, a pin; here, that bow is -undone.” - -“How do I look, Martha?” - -“Sweetly pretty, miss.” - -“Doesn’t it look bare at the side, Tilly?” - -“Oh, dear, no; ’tis all bows and ribbons. Come, Freddie, do sit still a -moment, now.” - -All at once the door opened slowly, with a creaking sound. - -“What now?” cried Mathilde impatiently, and her anger rose when she -caught sight of Ernestine, shivering in her white nightgown, making her -appearance behind the door, a little frightened, but with an elf-like -impudence. - -“Oh, ma, I want so much——” - -“But, Tine, ’tis enough to get your death of cold, running about like -that! I don’t know how you can be so disobedient.” - -“Get into my bed, Tine, quick; but mind my bodice!” cried Freddie. -“Never mind, Tilly, let her alone,” she whispered. - -Tine crept into the bed, and nestled herself like a dove in the -blankets, and her little fingers passed over the blue satin of -Frédérique’s corsage, which was lying on the pillow. - -Mathilde shrugged her shoulders with a sigh, resigned as usual, but the -bodice she took away. Madame van Erlevoort appeared in the open door, -rustling in silk moiré. - -“Oh, how nice mamma is looking!” cried Frédérique excitedly; “you will -see, Tilly, I shall be the last again to be ready. Make haste a bit, -do!” - -Mathilde laced in the satin bodice, and Madame van Erlevoort smiled in -admiration at her airy Undine. But what was that shuffling sound behind -her? Looking round, she caught sight of Johan and Lientje, both numbed -with cold, and in their nightgowns. - -“No; this is really too bad. ’Tis enough to drive one mad,” cried -Mathilde, and she left Frédérique standing with her bodice half-laced, -and rushed away to the young rascals. “How can you be so naughty, all -of you, and worry ma so! To-morrow you will all be ill. Come, up-stairs -at once!” - -She spoke with much annoyance, and the children half began to cry; but -Madame van Erlevoort came to the rescue. - -“Never mind, Mathilde, let them stop a little while.” - -“In my bed—get in, quick!” cried Frédérique, laughing her hardest; “but -don’t you touch my tulle; hands off there!” and she drew back in fear -from the outstretched hands of the little Vandals, who were burning to -tumble the filmy gauze, and pull at the long bows. - -Mathilde could see well enough for herself that Freddie’s bed was the -best place for the children, and so for the thousandth time she gave -in, as with a sigh she set about lacing up Freddie’s corsage. Johan and -Lientje quickly crawled alongside Tine under the quilt, and with eyes -asparkle with life and fun, they all three sat staring at the blue -fairy. - -“Are you going to put something over all this, auntie?” asked Johan, -“or will you keep as you are, naked like that?” - -“Go on, you stupid boy!” cried Tine indignantly, and she gave him a -push, so that he tumbled over Lientje, and in a few moments -Frédérique’s bed was a chaos of woollen blankets, fair curls, pillows, -and bare pink legs and arms, all tumbling and wriggling about to the -accompaniment of loud screams and yells. - -Madame van Erlevoort and Frédérique nearly cried with laughing at the -scene, to the great confusion of Mathilde, who, do what she would, -could not manage to get the laces tied, and Madame van Erlevoort called -Otto and Etienne, who in evening dress and overcoats were coming -down-stairs, to go in and have a look at the scene. - -“Get in here with us, Uncle Eetje; come along, do!” screamed Johan; but -Etienne declined the honour; he was much too pretty now to romp about -like that. - -“You look like a fairy queen, Freddie!” said Otto smiling; “fit to——” - -“To be blown away, eh? But, Tilly, aren’t you finished yet with those -laces?” - -“Well, Freddie, you won’t stand still for one minute.” - -At last Tilly was ready, every one was ready, and Madame van Erlevoort -went down-stairs, as the carriage had just arrived. - -“Now, children, stop in bed, and don’t run about in the cold,” cried -Mathilde commandingly, while Frédérique, with Martha’s help, wrapped -her sortie about her, Otto took charge of a fan, and Etienne of a -glove. - -“Come, Freddie, mamma has gone down-stairs long ago,” said Otto, and he -beat the fan impatiently on his hand. - -“Freddie, haven’t you forgotten anything?” asked Mathilde. - -“I say, where is your other glove, Freddie, or are you only going to -wear one?” cried Etienne as loud as he could, to make himself heard -above the noise and the din the children were making in the bed. - -“Oh! how you are worrying me, all of you!—I have already got it half -on, my second glove! Martha, my handkerchief! Thanks; everything right? -Yes? Well, good-bye, you pets!” - -“Freddie, you have forgotten something!” cried Etienne. - -“What is it, then?” - -“Your umbrella, here.” - -“Silly boy! Mamma is waiting in the carriage, and you delay me with -stupidities! Well, good-bye, Tilly! good-bye, dearies! yes, Otto, I am -coming.... Good-bye, Tilly, thanks for your assistance. Good-bye, -Martha!” - -“Much pleasure, miss.” - -“Much pleasure, Freddie.” - -Freddie went, followed by Otto and Etienne. Ernestine sprang out of the -bed, followed by Johan and Lientje. - -“Here, children, come here!” cried Mathilde. - -She threw some wraps about them, shawls, blankets, whatever she could -find. - -“And where is Miss Frantzen, that you have all come in here like this?” -she asked, dissatisfied. - -“In her own room, with Nico, ma; Nico is asleep,” said Tine. “Come, ma, -don’t be angry,” and she raised her little arms fondly up to her -mother. - -Mathilde smiled, and allowed herself to be embraced. - -“Come away now, all of you, to bed,” she said, somewhat conciliated. - -“There’s a state Miss Frédérique’s bed is in,” said Martha, shaking her -head; “I can just go and make it all over again, naughty rascals!” - -“Good rascals!” cried Lientje. - -Mathilde took her up in her arms, and Tine and Johan followed, -stumbling as they went over their strange garments, and screaming with -laughter at the success of their ruse. - -“Hush! hush! or you will wake Nico!” - -Miss Frantzen knew nothing about it; she was sitting near Nico’s -bedside, with Hector at her feet, and engaged in knitting, and was not -a little upset when she saw the caravan approaching. Those naughty -children, to slip away slily like that; she was under the firm -impression that they were all nicely asleep in the next room! - -The three were put to bed, shivering and numbed, but mad with fun, and -Miss Frantzen requested them not to talk any more, but to go to sleep. - -And Mathilde bent down over the cot of her Nico, lying there with -closed eyes in the blankets, the moist lips half open, and the little -fair curls straggling over the pillow. Pet of a boy he was!... And the -rest too, real darlings, terrible worries to be sure they were, and -quite uncontrollable, especially with such helpers as mamma and -Freddie. But still, how happy she was that she had them, the four of -them. - -And she bent down and just touched Nico’s little lips and felt his -soft, warm breath on her cheek like a caress, and her tears fell on his -forehead, so transparent and white, so soft .... the darling boy.... - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -Now and then old Madame van Raat came to drink a cup of tea at her -son’s, in the Nassauplein; she was brought there in her brougham about -half-past six, and was taken home about half-past nine. - -This time Betsy was still up-stairs, probably with Ben, as Eline -assured the old lady, although she knew that Anna the nurse usually put -the child to bed. - -She took Madame van Raat into the boudoir, where the soft light of wax -candles fell from a small crystal chandelier on the violet plush of the -chairs and couches, and was reflected through the many-coloured glass -drops in the mirror opposite. - -“And Henk?” asked the old lady. - -“Oh, he is still dozing,” laughed Eline. “Stay, I’ll just go and call -him.” - -“No, no; let him be, poor boy!” said Madame van Raat. “Let him sleep, -and have a little chat with me, child.” - -She took her place on the sofa and looked smilingly at Eline, who sat -down on a low settee by her side. Eline took the old lady’s thin, dry -hand in hers. - -“And how are you? All right? You are looking like a young girl to-day; -so smooth I don’t see a single furrow on your forehead.” - -Madame van Raat allowed herself, as usual, to be fascinated by that -caressing voice, that sunny smile, and sympathetic expression. - -“You naughty girl! to make fun of my old age! Elly, you ought to be -ashamed of yourself!” and she threw her arms round Eline’s neck and -kissed her forehead. “And how is it with Betsy? is she not very -troublesome?” she whispered. - -“Oh—really, Betsy isn’t so bad; she is only a little—a little hasty, -just in her way of speaking, you know. All the Veres have hasty -tempers, I as well; only papa I never remember to have seen in a -temper; but then papa was a man without his equal. Betsy and I get -along splendidly. Of course you can’t help a little bickering now and -then, if you are always together like that; I think if I even lived -with you that could not be helped.” - -“Well, I wish you would come and try it.” - -“Come, I should be much too troublesome to you. Now you think me very -nice, because you don’t see me very often; but if you were to see me -every day——” and she laughed lightly. - -“Did you ever see such a girl? Just as if I had a temper!” - -“Oh no, I didn’t mean that; but really, au fond, Betsy is an -affectionate girl, and I assure you Henk has a charming wife in her.” - -“Maybe; but—but if I had had the choice, I think I know whom I should -have chosen for my son’s wife, Betsy, or—somebody else.” She laid her -hand on Eline’s head and gave the girl a look full of meaning, a faint, -sad smile about the pinched mouth. - -Eline felt a little frightened. Madame van Raat’s words called to mind -her own old thoughts; thoughts long passed and nearly forgotten, in -which she had felt that sudden longing for Henk, the vague desire to -lean on him for support. Ah, those thoughts! they seemed so far off and -hazy, as though they were but mere ghosts and shadows of thoughts. They -had lost all charm, they even assumed something grotesque, that all but -made her smile. - -“Oh, my dear madam,” she murmured, with her rippling laugh, “who knows -how unhappy he would have been then, whilst now—he is a little under -the slipper, ’tis true, but Betsy has rather small feet.” - -“Hush—hush!” whispered Madame van Raat, “there’s some one coming.” - -It was Henk, who opened the door of the boudoir, and was surprised to -find it so late. Eline laughed at him, and asked him if he had had -sweet dreams. - -“You eat too much, that’s it that makes you so lazy in the evening. You -should see what a lot he eats!” - -“There, mother, do you hear how your son is talked to in his own house, -even by his little sis-in-law? Oh, you don’t know what a troublesome -child it is!” - -“You had better not say any more about that; your ma won’t hear -anything against me, not even from her beloved Henk—eh? Just you dare -to say that I am wrong!” - -She looked at the old lady with so much childlike freshness in her -bright eyes, and in her bearing, and such a warm glow of sympathy -seemed all at once to emanate from her whole being, that Madame van -Raat could no longer restrain herself from embracing her. - -“You are a dear,” she said, happy in the genial warmth of the affection -of old age for the bright sun of youth. - -Betsy, when she came down, apologized for having been detained so long, -and asked if mamma would not rather drink tea in the drawing-room—there -was more room there. - -“Paul was coming too, later on,” said Madame van Raat, as Eline placed -a marble footstool under her feet. “Then you must have a little music -together, Elly, will you?” - -“Yes—with pleasure.” - -Madame van Raat brought out her glasses and her crochet-work, while -Betsy sat down in front of the tea-tray, glittering with silver and -china. She talked about all the doings of the day; of the ball at the -Eekhofs’ the other night, which she had enjoyed very much. - -“And you as well, Elly?” asked the old lady. - -“Yes, first-rate. I had a splendid dance, and the cotillon was very, -very jolly.” - -“And you, Henk?” - -“Oh, Henk!” - -Betsy and Eline both laughed. Eline exclaimed that he was much too -stout to dance; a minuet he might perhaps do very nicely, and of course -she was aware that was coming into fashion again. Madame van Raat -joined in the laughter, and Henk, quite unconcerned, sat drinking his -tea, when there was a ring at the bell, and Paul entered. - -He told them that he had just come from the Prince-gracht, from -Hovel’s; he wanted to call on him last night, but he had met Vincent -Vere in the Hoogstraat, and so he had postponed his visit to go and -drink a glass of wine in Vincent’s lodgings, with a few acquaintances. -Hovel he thought a very nice man indeed, and he had arranged to begin -his work at his office the following Monday. - -Madame van Raat involuntarily heaved a sigh of gratitude that the -long-talked-about visit had at last been paid. The last time she had -seen her brother-in-law, Verstraeten, she thought she could detect -something like annoyance when he spoke of Paul, and in matters relating -to her youngest son she depended a good deal on the aid of Verstraeten, -who had been Paul’s guardian during his minority. - -As she heard Paul speaking, Betsy felt as though there was something -very incongruous about the way Henk “fooled” away his time with his -horse and his dogs. But what was she to do? she had spoken to him so -repeatedly, and certainly the present moment, with Madame van Raat -there, was hardly the time to mention it. - -“Come, Paul,” Eline cried, all at once, “shall we sing something?” - -Paul expressed his readiness; he rose; Eline sat down at the piano. -Every Thursday they practised duos together, and she already prided -herself on her répertoire. Paul had never had a lesson, and hardly knew -how to play; but Eline gave him a hint now and then, which he followed -faithfully, and she asserted that whatever he might be able to do with -his voice, he owed to her. He opened his mouth properly and kept his -tongue down, but really he ought to take some lessons of Roberts. A -fellow couldn’t be expected to sing without some study. - -“What shall we have? Une Nuit à Venise?” - -“Right you are, Une Nuit à Venise.” - -She opened a music portfolio, bound in red leather, with “Eline Vere” -in golden letters on the cover. - -“But don’t bring out your high sol so loud here,” said she. “Take it in -your medium register, and not from the chest. It will sound much -sweeter. And begin very softly, swelling here and there; and keep in -good time with me towards the end—the refrain, you know. Now, nicely, -Paul.” - -She played the prelude to Lucantoni’s duet, whilst Paul gave a little -cough to clear his voice, and both commenced together, very softly— - - - “Ah viens la nuit est belle! - Viens, le ciel est d’azur!” - - -His light tenor sounded a little shaky, but still it went very well -with the resonant ring of her pure soprano. It was a pleasure to her to -sing together like that, when Paul was in voice, and would listen to -advice. It seemed to her as though she sang with more feeling when -another voice accompanied hers, and that she felt more, especially in -the repetition of such a phrase as— - - - “Laisse moi dans tes yeux, - Voir le reflet des cieux!” - - -words into which she infused something of the glow and languor of an -Italian’s love. To her mind the duet assumed a more dramatic form. In -her imagination she saw herself, with Paul as tenor, gliding along in -the radiant moonbeams in a gondola on a Venetian canal. To her mind’s -eye she saw herself in the rich dress of a young patrician, Paul in the -garb of a poor fisherman, and they loved each other, and half-dreaming, -half-singing, they went gliding along the water— - - - “Devant Dieu même - Dire; Je t’aime - Dans un dernier soupir.” - - -There was the refrain! She feared—ah, she feared that Paul would break -down. No; Paul kept time with her. That was splendid! and their voices -died away in unison— - - - “Dans un dernier soupir.” - - -“Lovely, lovely, Eline!” cried Madame van Raat, who had been listening -attentively. - -“You are in good voice,” said Betsy. - -“Now you must sing by yourself, Eline,” cried Paul, pleased with his -success. - -While the duet was being sung, Mina had come in with the papers, the -Vaderland and the Dagblad, and Henk was soon absorbed in them, turning -over the sheets as noiselessly as possible. - -“But, Paul, don’t you want to sing any more?” asked Eline. “Something -else; or are you tired?” - -“I had rather you sang alone, Eline.” - -“Oh no, if you aren’t tired, I should like another duet Really, I think -it’s splendid to sing together like that. Would you venture the grand -duo in Romeo?” - -“Really, Eline, I don’t know it very well yet, and it is so difficult.” - -“Oh, you knew it well enough the other day; if only you will sing soft -and low, and not force your notes. There—you see, the whole of this -passage with your medium register; don’t shout, whatever you do.” - -With an anxious look he asked her for a little more advice about the -piece, and she told him what to do. - -“Come now, will you venture? But don’t shout; that’s frightful, and—if -we do break down, what of it?” - -“Well, if you like to try, I don’t mind.” - -Eline’s face glowed with pleasure, and she played the soft prelude to -the grand duo in the fourth act. - - - “Va! je t’ai pardonné, Tybalt voulait ta mort!” - - -she sang, with splendid delivery, and Paul answered with his -recitative; then together they warbled— - - - “Nuit d’hyménée, o, douce nuit d’amour!” - - -Once more the dramatic form of the duo rose before her: Juliette’s -departure; Romeo, in his brilliant dress, lying on the cushions at her -feet. And it was no longer Paul, but Fabrice, the new baritone, who was -the Romeo, and she let her head rest on his shoulder— - - - “Sous tes baisers de flamme - Le ciel rayonne en moi!” - - -Paul’s voice was growing very shaky and uncertain, but Eline scarcely -heard it. To her imagination it was Fabrice, with his deep voice, who -sang; and her song sounded full and ringing, quite forgetful as she was -that she entirely eclipsed the tenor. - -There—there was the warbling of the lark at daybreak, as in alarm she -asked— - - - “Qu’as tu donc—Roméo?” - “Ecoute, o Juliette!” - - -replied Paul in firmer tones, after his rest. - -But to her it was not the voice of the lark, but the soft tones of the -nightingale; not the first rays of the morning sun, but the silvery -gleam of moonlight, and still it was Fabrice, and still the orchestra -resounded in the chords she struck on her piano, as, without speaking, -they sank in each other’s arms. At times, in the brief intervals, the -stern reality dispelled Eline’s vision, and no longer was it the stage -and Fabrice she beheld, but Paul, turning the pages. But again she -revelled in the luxury of her fancies; Juliette saw the danger of -Romeo’s prolonged stay, she urged him to go, and he answered— - - - “Ah! reste encore, reste dans mes bras enlacés! - Un jour il sera doux, à notre amour fidèle! - De se ressouvenir de ces douleurs passés!” - - -This was a passage in which Paul’s lyrical weakness appeared most; and -Eline, awakening out of her reverie, heard smilingly with what -melancholy he repeated it. She felt ashamed at having eclipsed him in -her ecstasy; she would be more careful. - -And she sang the finale less with overpowering despair than with soft -languor, so that Paul’s high chest-notes made better effect than at -first; but the vision was gone, the stage, the audience, Fabrice, all -had vanished. - - - “Adieu, ma Juliette!” - - -sang Paul; and she answered, with a light cry, in which he joined— - - - “Toujours à toi!” - - -“Oh, how grand to sing like that!” cried Eline in ecstasy, and she -rushed to Madame van Raat, and embraced her with sudden impetuosity. -“Doesn’t Paul sing nicely, eh? Isn’t it a shame that he will take no -lessons? You ought to make him.” - -But Paul declared that Eline gave him lessons enough, and that she -would be the death of him with her difficult duos; but Eline again -assured him that he had acquitted himself splendidly. - -Betsy gave a sigh of relief after the stormy parting of the Veronese -lovers, which under the low ceiling and plush draperies of her -drawing-room had sounded much too heavy and loud in her ears. To her -thinking it was a terrible hullabaloo! Why didn’t Eline rather sing -something light and jolly from one or another opéra bouffe? - -Eline and Paul having sat down, the conversation grew more general -about the on dits of the day, the busy stir in the streets before St. -Nicholas’, until it struck half-past nine, when Mina came to say that -the carriage was there. - -“’Tis time for me,” said Madame van Raat, slowly rising from her seat; -and Eline ran away, humming as she went, to fetch her things from the -boudoir, a fur circular, a woollen shawl, a cape. She let herself be -snugly muffled up by her young favourite, and carefully placed her -glasses and the crochet-work in her reticule. Then she kissed them all, -bending over them with the slow movements of tired old age, and Henk -and Paul assisted her into the soft satin cushions of the brougham. - -The carriage rolled away; and in Madame van Raat’s ears there still -resounded the echo of singing voices; she smiled sadly as she wiped the -vapour from the window to look outside where the snow was lying, dirty -and bespattered in the light of the street lanterns, and thought of the -time when she used to go to the opera with her husband. - -Paul stayed a little longer; and then, after a good glass of wine after -his duos, he hurried off. When he had gone Eline went up-stairs to put -the room in order a little, as she told Betsy. It was chilly in Eline’s -sitting-room, but the cool air was refreshing to her cheeks and hands, -heated by the faint atmosphere of the drawing-room. She threw herself -on the Persian cushions, raised her hand, and stroked the leaves of the -azalea. And she smiled, whilst her eyes grew large in a dreamy stare as -her thoughts flew back once more to Fabrice with his beard and his -splendid voice. What a pity that Betsy did not care more for the opera! -They went but very rarely, and yet she was so passionately fond of it. -Yes; she would give Madame Verstraeten to understand, in a genteel way -of course, that she would not mind being invited now and then to -accompany her; Mr. Verstraeten never went himself, and Madame generally -invited some one or another to a place in her box, sometimes Freddie, -sometimes Paul—why not her? - -All at once she jumped up as a thought suddenly struck her; last night -Fabrice had appeared in William Tell. She ran out of her room and leant -over the banisters of the stairs. - -“Mina, Mina!” she cried. - -“Yes, miss,” answered Mina, who was just passing along the hall with a -tray full of wine-glasses. - -“Just bring me the papers, if master and mistress have read them, will -you?” - -“Yes, miss.” - -She went back and threw herself on the sofa again. And she laughed at -herself as she felt her heart beating with suspense. The idea! what -could it matter to her, after all? There was Mina, coming up the -stairs. She brought the Vaderland and the Dagblad. - -“If you please, miss.” - -“Thank you, Mina,” said Eline indifferently, and languidly she took the -papers. - -But scarcely had the servant closed the door behind her when she opened -the Vaderland, and with sparkling eyes began to look for the art and -literature column. Then she read: - - - “THE FRENCH OPERA. - - “After his performances in Hamlet and Le Tribut de Zamora, no one - could doubt that Mr. Théo Fabrice would find favour in the eyes of - the subscribers to the French Opera, and we cannot but wonder that - there were even three votes recorded against the brilliant - baritone. Again, in William Tell, Mr. Fabrice gave ample proof of - his fitness to fulfil the post of baritone at the Grand Opera here, - and we sincerely rejoice in his appointment. With a powerful and - well-cultivated organ, the artist couples great histrionic ability. - In the duo with Arnold (Act I.) and in the grand trio, in the scena - with Jemmy, Fabrice gave striking evidence of a perfection rarely - to be met with on our stage.” - - -And Eline smiled and nodded approvingly. It was true enough—and she -read the article to the end, rejoicing in his success; and then she -turned to see what the Dagblad said about him. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -The Ferelyns occupied the upper part of a small house over a grocer’s -shop in the Hugo de Grootstraat. There they lived in a cramped, -depressing atmosphere of economy; Frans had had but little left him by -his parents, and he was therefore compelled with his wife to live on -small salary while on furlough. They settled in the Hague, the city in -which both of them had lived since their childhood, where they had -first met one another, where they had expected still to find their -former friends and their old associations, although Frans had expressed -the opinion that they would do better to make their stay in a smaller -town. But Jeanne’s father, Mr. van Tholen, was also living in the Hague -on his pension, leading a solitary life, little visited by his friends, -and gradually forsaken by his children, as they married or went into -situations. It was therefor that Jeanne persuaded her husband, -notwithstanding their slender purse, to stay in the Hague. She would be -economical, she promised, and she kept her word, although by nature she -was not much inclined that way. - -So they remained in the Hague, in spite of many disappointments. In the -four years that they had not seen each other, Jeanne found her father -much aged, more discontented and irritable than she had known him -before. The days of yore were past and gone, thought she: her happy -youth in the old, sunny home, with her mother and her brothers and -sisters; her innocent pranks with school-mates; her girlish dreams -under the lilac and jasmine in their garden; her engagement days, full -of ideal fantasies, with Frans. The souvenirs which she had hoped to -find in Holland were scattered far and wide like shrivelled leaves, and -much as she had longed in the burning Indies for the damp and fog of -her fatherland, she now, bowed down under her disappointments and under -her forced economy, looked forward to a return to that matter-of-fact, -easy-going life she had enjoyed in the Kadoe with her cow, her fowls, -and her goat. And yet, plucky in spite of the thousand and one little -troubles that beset her daily life, she struggled on. Doctor Reyer -visited her Dora every other day; but she fancied she saw a nervous -haste in the popular young physician which made him count every minute -of his visit. He stayed a moment, laid his ear on Dora’s little chest, -assured her that her cough was going, impressed upon Jeanne not to -allow the child to leave the house, and left in his brougham, whilst he -made a note in his pocket-book with his gold-cased pencil, and glanced -through the list of his patients. Frans, with his severe headaches and -his low fever, he had referred to a physician in Utrecht, to whom he -had minutely described the patient’s case; and Frans had gone to -Utrecht and returned, much dissatisfied at the vague way in which the -physician had spoken to him. Whenever Doctor Reyer came to visit Dora, -Frans went out, feeling annoyed with him and his Utrecht physician, who -between them had been unable to cure him; and he buried his headaches -and his continued cold shiverings in a gruff solitude within the four -walls of his little private office on the first floor. Something like a -twinge of conscience came over him when he heard Jeanne up-stairs -talking to the doctor; and Dora, in her peevish little way, was crying -in her efforts to escape the ordeal of examination; but he did not -move; all doctors were quacks who could talk very wisely, but could not -cure him when one was ill. - - - -Jeanne conducted the doctor down-stairs, talking the while, and Frans -in his office heard Reyer ask after him, heard her say something and -call the servant to show him out. Then, as the carriage rolled away, -she came in. - -“Do I disturb you?” she asked, in her soft, subdued voice. - -“No, certainly not; why?” - -“Why did you not come up-stairs for a moment, Frans? Reyer asked after -you.” - -He shrugged his shoulders. - -“What is the use?” he said with irritation. “They send you to their -Leiden or Utrecht celebrities, who make you pay a tientje [1] for a two -minutes’ talk.” - -“But what do you want, then? You can’t expect to be cured by magic of a -complaint from which you have suffered for the last two years. I think -you ought to do more for your health than you have done in the three -months we have been here. You have come to Europe for that purpose, -have you not?” - -“Certainly; but first I must find some one in whom I can place more -confidence than Reyer. Reyer is a doctor à la mode, a recommendation of -the van Raats, very polite and gentlemanly, but much too superficial -and hasty for me. Why, he is gone ere you have seen him.” - -“But you don’t speak to him frankly. I ask him about Dora and force him -to stay longer, and really, now that he knows us better, he seems to -take greater interest in us. And everybody says he is clever; it is not -only the van Raats who believe in him.” - -“Well, I shall see; there’s plenty of time yet. Sometimes you are just -like a drop of water on a stone, continually drip, drip, drip. You are -for ever hammering, hammering away at that doctor story,” he cried, -impatient and dissatisfied with himself, and he opened his -writing-case, as though to give her to understand that he had no more -time. - -She went, and gently closed the door behind her. Up-stairs in the -nursery she found their only servant, a young girl of sixteen, in a -dirty apron and unkempt hair, making the beds; while Dora, with the two -boys Wim and Fritsje, were playing in the next room. - -“I will close the door, then you can air the room, Mietje,” said -Jeanne, and she closed the folding doors, and with a smile sat down -beside the children, at a table near the window, covered all over with -little socks, pinafores, frocks, all to be repaired. Oh! what tiresome, -wasteful children they were, to be sure! She sighed, and her small thin -hand fumbled about the things, and her eyes filled with tears. Why was -she not stronger? how she would have enjoyed getting through all her -household duties! Now she found it so hard to lift herself out of the -listlessness into which she felt herself sinking, as into a yawning -abyss; from the lifeless languor which seemed to encircle her as with -velvet arms; and yet—there was so much to be done she durst not yield -herself up to idle dreaming, nor rake up her old, wide-scattered -recollections, like so many burnt-out cinders, and forget herself in -her longing for the illusions of former days. Stern reality stared her -in the face, in the shape of a great rent in Dora’s woollen frock, and -in the washing that was waiting to be counted before being sent to the -laundry. - -And yet even now, while her hand went fumbling about the little socks -and vests, she let herself be drawn deeper and deeper into the soft -down of her listlessness; she bestirred herself with no energy to set -about her work, and she did not hear the shrill quarrelling voices of -the children. - -She would so gladly have infused a flood of sunshine, a wealth of -harmony into her humble home; but she was no fairy, and she felt -herself so weak even now, and already no longer able to withstand -life’s small troubles, so that she dared not hope for a much rosier -future. Indeed, when she thought of the future at all, it was not -without fear and trembling, as a vague terror shaped itself into an -indefinable form before her mind’s eye, so dread and awful that she -could find no words with which to depict it. - -Her head fell on her hand, and now and again a tear dropped on the -linen in front of her. Oh! how sweet would be her slumbers, if but the -caress of one who loved her might be hers, one in whose affection she -would have felt herself safe from all danger! And she thought of her -Frans, and how he had asked her to be his in their garden, under the -blossoming lilac; and now she worried him, and had become like a drop -of water on a stone—drip, drip, drip. - -Ah! she knew it; she had not made him happy; she was a great -disappointment to him, but it was not her fault if he thought to find -more in her than she possessed; a stupid, simple, weak little woman, -with a great need of much, very much love and tenderness, and with -something of sentimental poesy in her little soul. - -And sighing, she raised herself, and told the children not to make so -much noise, papa was down-stairs and had a headache. - -Then she looked about on the table after her work-basket, but she had -left it in the sitting-room, and so she ordered Dora, like a big girl, -to look after her little brothers for a while. She usually spoke to the -child as though she were a grown-up daughter, and Dora often helped -her, very pleased that ma found her so useful. And Jeanne went -down-stairs to the sitting-room, and began looking for the basket, when -Frans came in. - -He had heard her coming down-stairs, and wanted to see her for a -moment, as a feeling of self-reproach overmastered him. He approached -her unawares, softly, on the tips of his slippered feet. He took her -gently by the arms. - -She felt frightened for a moment, and when she looked up she saw in his -eyes that very tenderness for which she longed, and with a little smile -in which there almost lurked something like fear, he asked her— - -“Are you angry?” - -Her eyes suddenly grew moist, and she nestled her head on his shoulder, -and laid her arm round his neck, and shook her head. - -“Really not?” - -Again she shook her head, laughing amid her falling tears, and she -closed her weeping eyes and felt his moustache on her lips as he kissed -her. How quickly he repented when he had been unkind, and what a luxury -it was to forgive him! - -“Come, don’t cry then; it wasn’t so bad as all that.” - -She gave a sigh of relief and clung closer to him. - -“If only you are a little gentle and kind to me—oh, then I feel myself -so—so strong, then I feel equal to anything.” - -“Darling little woman!” - -Again he kissed her, and under the warm love of his lips she forgot the -icy cold of the fireless room, which caused her to shiver as she clung -to his arms. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -It was the fifth of December, and from early morn a mysterious stir and -excitement, a joyous whispering, an anxious stowing away from peering -eyes, had prevailed all day at the van Erlevoorts. - -A little after seven in the evening the Verstraetens arrived; the two -cousins, Jan and Karel, who had taken part in the tableaux, accompanied -them; then came the van Raats and Eline, followed by old Madame van -Raat and Paul; Henk, however, and Jan Verstraeten did not enter the -drawing-room, but mysteriously disappeared in a little cupboard where -Marie and Lili had already laid a parcel of costumes. - -In the large drawing-room Madame van Erlevoort received her guests, who -met with a jubilant welcome from the little van Ryssels and from -Hector, and neither Mathilde nor Miss Frantzen could succeed in their -efforts to stop the ear-splitting noise. - -“Now, why did you not bring Ben with you?” Madame van Erlevoort asked -Betsy, indignantly. - -“Really, madam, Ben is too young; he is only three, you must remember, -and it will be so late to-night.” - -“He could have ridden home with our Martha. It’s a pity; I had -something for him just to suit him,” said Madame van Erlevoort, in a -tone of disappointment. - -In the opposite drawing-room, where the girls, with Otto, Paul, and -Etienne, were talking and laughing, there was a stir, and the young van -Ryssels looked up with nervous curiosity. Martha had just come in, and -she had smilingly said something to Frédérique. - -“Now, children and all good folks,” cried Frédérique, with a dignified -face, “silence! Santa Claus has arrived and wants to know if he may -enter. Do you agree, mamma?” - -They all kept themselves as serious as possible, with many a furtive -glance at the little van Ryssels. - -Meanwhile, Santa Claus made his appearance in his white gaberdine, and -long red cloak bordered with gold lace. His hair and beard were long -and white, and on his head he wore a golden mitre. With much dignity he -made his entry into the room, leaning on his staff, and his black page -behind him, dressed in a costume which those who had witnessed the -recent tableaux at the Verstraetens’ would probably have recognized. -The three women-servants and Willem followed them by way of rear-guard, -and remained in the room looking on. - -The grown-up people all bowed, with a self-conscious smile, before my -lord bishop. - -Santa Claus muttered a greeting, and all but stumbling over his -immensely long gaberdine, he walked up to the sofa, where old Madame -van Raat and Madame Verstraeten were seated, surrounded by Madame van -Erlevoort, Mr. Verstraeten, Mathilde, Betsy, and Otto. No one troubled -himself to rise from his seat, and Madame van Erlevoort welcomed the -illustrious guest with a most familiar smile. - -“Why doesn’t grandma get up?” whispered Ernestine wondering, as she -raised her delicate intelligent little face to Marie’s. “I thought she -would have got up when such an old, strange gentleman came in.” - -“Mais, écoute donc, comme elle est fine!” Marie whispered to Eline, who -stood next to her. - -But Eline did not hear; she stood laughing with Paul and Etienne at -Santa Claus, whose gaberdine was certainly coming down, and already -quite covered his feet, whilst a streak of fair hair became visible -between his gray locks and his mitre. - - - -Now Santa Claus raised his deep, full voice, and as, with an energetic -wrench, he pulled up his gaberdine into his girdle, he motioned the -little van Ryssels to come to him. They did not feel quite sure of the -business, but when Santa Claus took one of the bags from his little -servant’s hands, and opening it began to scatter its contents about, -the youngsters’ faces grew radiant with joy, they forgot their terror, -and one and all they threw themselves, tumbling over Hector, on the -floor, to scramble for what they could find—ginger-nuts, figs, nuts, -oranges, chocolate. - -“Scramble away, scramble away,” Santa Claus cried encouragingly, “we’ve -got a lot more; look here! Come, you big boys, don’t you want something -too?” - -The cousins Verstraeten did not wait for a second invitation, and -joined in the scramble. - -“Will you save them for me, grandma?” screamed Nico, and poured a -torrent of sweet-stuff into his grandma’s lap; “then I’ll go and fetch -some more!” - -“Nico, Nico!” remonstrated Mathilde. - -“Never mind,” said Madame van Erlevoort kindly. - -Santa Claus and the little page shook out their big sacks, which had -been growing limper and limper by degrees, and turned them inside out, -as a proof that they were quite empty. - -“Oh, now we are going to the dining-room!” cried Ernestine, and she -jumped up and clapped her little hands with pleasure. - -“Oh yes; to our little tables!” Johan chimed in. - -Every one rose, and they followed the Saint and the children to the -small drawing-room, and the girls giggled at Santa Claus’s falling wig, -but the Saint called out to the servants and Willem— - -“Quick, throw open the doors; make haste!” - -The folding-doors were opened, and the children stormed into the -well-lit room, where, instead of the dining-table, there now stood four -small tables; on each of them lay a name in letters of chocolate, on -each of them rose a tower of toys. - -The Verstraetens and the van Raats whispered to the servants, and their -gifts to the youngsters were brought in also, one by one—hoops, whips, -balls, tin soldiers, and a cow that gave milk. - -Meanwhile Santa Claus and his little slave took their departure, and as -it was close upon half-past eight, Mathilde considered it time to stop -the fun. But even with Miss Frantzen’s assistance she was not to -achieve her object very quickly. The children got muddled in their -attempts to collect their toys and dainties; from Ernestine’s pocket a -shower of nuts fell on the floor; Johan’s tin soldiers could not be got -into their box again, and Lientje with her hoop and Nico with a trumpet -rushed along the room followed by Hector, without troubling themselves -much more about the rest of their property, which was scattered all -around. - -“Come, children,” cried Mathilde, “make haste now; ’tis getting -bed-time.” - -But they heard nothing; the little van Ryssels, mad with joy, ran up -and down, scattering about in wildest disorder the toys which the -others had gathered together, and Frédérique joined in the fun, and -took Nico on her back, whilst he made a horse of her, and struck her on -the back with his whip. - -The little Verstraetens, too, ran after Tina and Johan, along the -marble hall, making a furious stampede with their boots. - -Mathilde clasped her hands in despair. No one took any notice of her. -Miss Frantzen was assisting the servant with the toys, and the young -girls were laughing with Paul and Etienne. Fortunately she caught sight -of Otto, who was speaking to Betsy and Madame Verstraeten, and she -walked towards him and took his hand. - -“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Otto, do help me; the children must really go -to bed, and they won’t even listen to me. Mamma is not a bit of help -either.” - -Madame van Erlevoort, in fact, was at that moment in the other room, -very busy filling Lientje’s toy tea-service with milk, water, and -sugar, and old Madame van Raat and Mr. Verstraeten stood looking on -with much amusement. - -“Oh, I see; Otto is to act the bogey man again,” he said -good-humouredly. - -“No, no bogey man; but really I shall go crazy if you don’t come to my -assistance. Did you ever see such uncontrollable creatures as those -children of mine, Betsy? Are you coming, Otto?” - -Betsy laughed. - -“You had better just go and assert your authority as uncle, Mr. van -Erlevoort,” said Madame Verstraeten. - -Otto accompanied Mathilde, first to Freddie. - -“Come, Freddie, Nico must go to bed. Come, Nico, quick; to-morrow you -may ride again on auntie’s back. Down, Hector!” - -“You have nothing to do with my back, do you hear?” said Freddie; “do -you hear, little grandpapa? Come, Niek, little grandpapa says we must -leave off.” - -Nico obeyed, pouting, as he asked for his trumpet. Otto went into the -hall, where he checked the two eldest in their mad race. - -“Come, Tine and Jo; mamma wants you to go to bed now. Don’t be -disobedient now, or you will make mamma cross.” - -“What a lot we’ve got this year, uncle!” cried Ernestine, out of -breath. - -Mathilde came into the hall, leading Nico and Lientje by the hand. - -“Just fancy, there was mamma, quietly playing at tea-parties with -Tine,” she said, and her despairing face made Otto smile. “Really if it -were midnight, mamma would——” - -“Ma, dear, mustn’t we say good-night first to everybody?” screamed -Johan. - -“No, no!” cried Mathilde, quite terrified, and grasped the little hands -close; “I shall wish all the people good-night for you. Thank you, -Otto.” - -She gave him a friendly nod, and he nodded back with his genial smile -and his frank eyes. - -And Mathilde took the children up-stairs. - - - -“Then you can bear all that noise and turmoil?” asked old Madame van -Raat of Madame van Erlevoort, and she looked at her smilingly, but -wondering, with her sad, lack-lustre eyes. - -There was a sudden calm after the exodus of the children. They left the -dining-room, where the toys were still scattered about; the apartment -was closed, and the guests went into the double drawing-room, where -Madame van Erlevoort poured out tea. - -“Can I bear it, madam? I feel myself live again under it; it -rejuvenates me. I need the life of youth about me. I never spent a -drearier time than when my daughters and my son Théodore were married, -and yet I still had three children left me. But I must see those little -beings fluttering about me; there is nothing that keeps one in a -brighter condition like their wild gaiety. May I pour you out another -cup?” - -Madame van Raat handed her cup, and envied Madame van Erlevoort her -youthful vivacity with her gray hairs. She compared her with herself, -and her own melancholy solitude, the effect of which she felt doubly -keen, after her former life of cloudless happiness, and her present -existence stood out in cruel contrast to the joy-surrounded old age of -that happy grandmamma. - -“And you don’t know how sorry I am that I see so little of Théodore’s -six. The boy is in love with country life, and won’t hear of it when I -attempt to persuade him to come and live in the Hague.” - -“Your daughter in England has only one child, has she not?” asked -Madame Verstraeten and Madame van Stralenburg. - -Madame van Erlevoort bent down to Madame Verstraeten, and whispered -something mysterious in her ear, whilst in reply to Mr. Verstraeten, -who nodded to her smilingly, she archly winked her eye. - -Thereupon Madame van Erlevoort related how the little van Ryssels had -placed their shoes aside the previous evening, when Henk and Jan -Verstraeten came in, both smiling, and Henk with a very red face. -Mathilde too came back, and many nice things were related about the -children. All at once there was a furious ringing at the house-bell. - -All eyes turned to the door as it opened. Willem, Truitje, and Rika -between them dragged a big box into the room, towards Madame van -Erlevoort. - -“Oh!” exclaimed Frédérique; “that is the box from London!” - -Madame van Erlevoort informed Madame van Raat that every year at St. -Nicholas, her son-in-law Howard sent her a big box containing something -for everybody. Willem, armed with crowbar and pincers, and assisted by -Etienne, removed the screws and nails. Every one was on the watch, and -the shower of presents commenced. - - - -Eline made a little heap of her presents. Oh, how she was being spoilt, -she declared, radiant with smiles. From Martha’s hand she took another -packet; slowly she broke the string, cautiously looking about for a -seal, or some stray letter or cipher, to give her a clue to the sender. -But she found nothing of the kind, the address ran simply—“Mdlle. E. -Vere.” It was a gray leather case; she opened it, wondering who could -have sent it. Inside the case, resting on the gray velvet, lay a fan of -beautifully-carved mother-of-pearl. She took it up, and slowly opened -it; she looked at it in admiration. - -“Bucchi!” she softly said, as she read the name of the painter at the -bottom; “Bucchi!” - -The fan was, in fact, painted by the Italian artist, a fantasy of roses -and fairies on a groundwork of ivory satin. - -“From whom can this come?” she said. “How splendid!” - -Every one rose, every one crowded round Eline, who carefully held the -fan open, and the costly gift attracted general admiration. Eline was -astonished. From Madame van Raat she had had a scent set, that she -knew; from Henk and Betsy—— - -“Betsy dear, must I thank you for this?” she asked, rising. - -Betsy shook her head. - -“Parole d’honneur—not me, Eline.” - -Of course she had had a bracelet from Betsy and Henk; but who, then, -sent this fan? - -“Would it be from—Vincent perhaps?” she asked. - -“From Vincent? No, no; what put that into your head now? What young man -would make such a present? Let me look at it.” - -Eline handed her the fan. - -“’Tis really magnificent,” said Betsy. - -Eline shook her head, quite at a loss for a clue. Meanwhile the fan was -passed from hand to hand, and Eline carefully scanned every one’s face, -but she could gather not the least sign from any of them. But suddenly -Frédérique raised her head, with a look of surprise on her face. She -quickly recovered herself, and with apparent indifference approached -Eline. - -“May I see the case one moment?” she asked. - -Eline handed her the case, and Frédérique eagerly scrutinized and felt -the gray leather and the gray velvet. - -“Have you got the slightest idea who could have sent me that?” asked -Eline, and she raised her arms in mock despair. - -Frédérique shrugged her shoulders, and laid the case down. - -“No—I really don’t know,” she said, somewhat coolly, and she looked -with some curiosity into Eline’s hazel eyes. - -An indefinable antipathy seemed to her to radiate from out of those -gazelle-like eyes, and to lie hidden in the mock despair at the unknown -giver. She cast not another glance at the universally admired fan, and -during the remainder of the evening she was quieter than ever she had -been before. - - - -The torrent of presents had ceased. Madame van Erlevoort asked her -guests to leave her two terribly disarranged drawing-rooms, full of -paper, straw, bran, and rubbish, when Willem once more opened the doors -of the dining-room, and the table, ready laid for supper, looked bright -and inviting enough. - -It was a gay and lively supper-party. Mr. Verstraeten kept Madame van -Erlevoort and Betsy, between whom he was seated, amused with his jokes, -and Mathilde, next to Betsy, often joined in the laughter. Henk, seated -between his mother and his aunt, wanted nothing; whilst Otto and Eline -were busily engaged in conversation, and Etienne chattered noisily with -Lili and Marie. - -“Freddie, how quiet you are, chère amie,” said Paul, as he took -possession of a lobster salad, seeking in vain to set his little -neighbour, generally animated enough, a-talking. “Didn’t receive enough -presents to your liking, perhaps?” - -“Quiet? am I quiet? How can you say such a thing?” answered Freddie, -and she began to chatter with an overpowering animation, which sounded -like an echo of Etienne’s. But still there was something artificial -about it; her laugh was not always a hearty one; and every now and then -she stole a furtive glance at Eline, as she sat there, brilliant in her -beauty, in lively chat with Otto. Yes, there was something very -fascinating about her, something of a siren’s charm; her beautiful -dreamy eyes half closed, as she laughed, while the soft line of her -delicate lips faded away in two small dimples. And those beautiful -hands, peeping out so white from amid the black lace and the dark red -bows of her bodice, and that coquettish-looking diamond, one single -brilliant stone, trembling like a drop of crystal in the black tulle -round her throat. Yes, Frédérique thought her bewitching; but still, -she could not help it, she thought her antipathetic; and almost with -anxiety her eyes followed those of Otto, whose glance seemed riveted to -the siren. - -Meanwhile, however, she continued laughing and talking with Paul, with -Etienne, and Lili, and Marie, and old Madame van Raat declared across -the table that the family’s arch-elf of fun was thoroughly sustaining -her reputation. - -The champagne streamed into the glasses, and Mr. Verstraeten drank a -toast to the ever-youthful hostess, with her beautiful white hair, and -thanked her with a kiss for the jolly evening. Eline and Otto drank -together to some toast of which Frédérique could not catch the words, -and which she would gladly have given her best present to understand; -but still she did not ask. - -“Etienne, what a noise you’re making!” she cried, with some impatience, -to her brother, who, with all the strength of his lungs, sang something -about— - - - “Buvons jusqu’a à la lie!” - - -while his glass nearly spilt its contents over Lili’s plate. But when -she had said so much, she was sorry for it; why should not others enjoy -themselves, if she could not? - -The supper was over, the carriages were waiting for the guests, who -left one by one, laden with the presents each had received. Mathilde -felt tired, and soon went up-stairs, whilst Madame van Erlevoort and -Otto were packing the presents together. - -“What a state the rooms are in!” said Frédérique, as she kicked a -cardboard box aside. Then she approached the table; ah, where was the -fan? Eline had taken it away with her. Then she kissed her mother and -Otto, playfully rumpled Etienne’s hair, and took her presents -up-stairs. - -Slowly she undressed herself, so slowly that the chill air made her -shiver. And as she, trembling with cold, crept under her blankets, she -once more saw Eline before her, in all her bewitching grace, in her -black lace, smiling at Otto. It all began to whirl before her eyes, -like a confused kaleidoscope—Henk, in his dress as Santa Claus, with -his falling gaberdine, and Jan Verstraeten as the little page, the box -from London, the fan by Bucchi. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -It was a few days after St. Nicholas’ Eve when Eline went out one -afternoon, taking little Ben by the hand. The previous evening she had -been, together with Madame Verstraeten, Marie, and Lili, to the opera, -to see Il Trovatore, and that morning she had asked her old grumbler of -a singing-master to accompany her in - - - “La nuit calme et sereine.” - - -He shook his head; he did not care for those bravura arias of the -Italian school, about which Eline was often at variance with him; she -thought Bellini, Donizetti, Verdi most graceful and melodious music, as -though written for her ringing soprano. He on the other hand considered -them childish with their rippling airy little tunes, and was never -tired of dwelling upon the richer depth of Wagner. But she had him -completely under her thumb, and he played whatever she wished him to. - -“Come, Ben, walk properly, there’s a good child!” said Eline to the -sturdy little chap. “Come, keep up with auntie. Isn’t it nice to go -into all the nice shops?” - -Last evening, when at the opera, during the cavatina of the Comte de -Luna, Eline had an idea rising in her mind. In the window of a -photographer’s she had noticed some portraits of Fabrice in various -characters and dresses, and a sudden desire overtook her to possess -one. So now she was on her way to buy one of the portraits. And she -smiled to herself as though she enjoyed the secret pleasure of it, as -she pictured him with his big heavy frame, his fine head of hair, and -his black beard. How glorious to be an actor! - -From Fabrice her thoughts wandered back to her new fan, which she had -used last evening. Betsy thought she had acted very foolishly in taking -it with her before she knew the giver, but she had taken no notice of -her sister’s objections; on the contrary, she thought there was -something fascinating in that uncertainty which had a peculiar -attraction for her romantic nature; indeed she had already formed quite -a little romance for herself out of the little incident. Fabrice had -noticed her in the Verstraetens’ box; he was quite captivated by her; -in future it was only to her that he sang, and his heart was filled -with disappointment whenever he did not see her at the opera. It was he -who had sent her the fan with its modest superscription, “Mdlle. E. -Vere”; he had seen her use the fan last night, and one time or other he -would be sure to betray himself by a glance or a certain note in his -song. - -She smiled at her own romancing, at the wildness of her fantasy. She -remembered last summer at the picture academy to have seen several fans -by Bucchi, and now she also recollected with what admiration she had -gazed at them, and how she had expressed the desire to possess one. Who -could have had the delicate attention to meet her in that desire? With -whom had she been to that exhibition? With Emilie de Woude, with -Georges perhaps—surely Georges could not have—or her dancing-master, -who had proposed to her, but whom she had refused? Oh! it was too -stupid; no, she would think no more about it—one day she would know. - -By way of the Parkstraat and the Oranjestraat she had reached the -Noordeinde and was close to the picture-shop, when all at once the -thought struck her—would not the shopkeeper think it absurd for a young -girl to purchase such a portrait? No; she would never summon up -courage. But already she stood before the window, behind which masses -of engravings, photographs, groups of statuettes in marble and -terra-cotta, and numbers of various objects of art were displayed in -elegant confusion; actors and actresses, singers and painters, with -their names attached: Estelle Desveaux, Moulinat, Théo Fabrice. - -“Come, Ben,” she said, and gently pushed the child inside. There were -some ladies in the shop, selecting photographs, and they looked at her. -She could not help it, but really she thought she blushed under her -white tulle fall. - -“May I see some of your New Year’s cards, like those in your window?” -she asked the shopkeeper. “Don’t touch those statuettes, Ben.” - -A number of cards were shown her. She looked at them attentively, took -them up with the tips of her well-gloved fingers, and laid a few aside. -Then she looked round her, noticed a heap of portraits, and with her -languid indifference she took them up. Fabrice’s were among them. - -Which should she take? This melancholy-looking one in the black velvet -costume and lace collar, representing Hamlet; that one as Tell? No, -this one, as Ben-Saïd, the character in which she had first seen him. -But she would also take that one of Moulinat, the tenor, and of Estelle -Desveaux, the contralto; then it would not be remarked that she had -come expressly for Fabrice. But then she might just as well take -another of Fabrice, as Hamlet. - -“Will you let me have these cards, and these four portraits?” - -“Shall I send them to you?” - -“Oh no, I will take them. How much is it altogether?” - -She paid the money, took the envelope in which the shopman had enclosed -them, and left the shop with Ben, under the firm impression that the -ladies, who were still engaged with the photographs, looked at her as -though they would read her inmost thoughts. - - - -A glow of pleasure came over Eline’s face when once she was outside. At -last she had summoned up courage to do what she had long determined, -and she spoke in a gentle motherly way to Ben. And when, on reaching -the Hoogstraat, she saw Jeanne Ferelyn in her winter cloak, wide as a -sack, and her modest little black hat, walking on the opposite side -without noticing her, she took Ben’s hand, and quickly crossing the -street between two carriages, greeted Jeanne with smiling cordiality. -They walked on a few steps together, Jeanne telling her that Dora was -getting on nicely, but that she had been obliged to engage a nursemaid, -as she could not always leave the children to the care of Mietje, who -was so slovenly and careless, and that it had somewhat crippled her -finances. Eline forced herself to be attentive to the tale of her -latest troubles; but soon Jeanne began to speak with more animation -about Frans, her father, and Doctor Reyer, with whom she was getting on -better now. Then as she saw how sympathetically Eline looked at her, -and how gently she spoke to Ben, she raked up some of the recollections -of her school-days, and they laughed about their childish pranks, and -about the cherries she used to pick out of Eline’s cape. Jeanne was -annoyed at herself for having formed such an unfavourable impression of -Eline when she met her at the van Raats’ dinner-party; now she found -her quite unaffected and amiable. - -“But don’t let me detain you any longer, Eline,” said she, stopping -short; “I have to make a few trifling purchases, order some saucepans, -and a milk-jug. Mietje has been breaking some things.” - -“Oh! I have nothing to do, I’ll walk with you so far, if you don’t -think I’m de trop, and if Ben isn’t tired. Are you tired, little man? -No, eh? Oh! he is such a good one at walking!” - -They walked on, and Jeanne ordered the saucepans, and Eline went into -the china-shop and chose a milk-jug for her. At the same time her mind -was still running on Fabrice, and at times she felt an irresistible -longing to open the envelope and look at his portraits. She was so -passionately fond of music, and Fabrice sang with such pathos, with so -much more feeling than other actors. He was still young, she thought; -he would yet be famous, and make his début in Paris. Jeanne never went -to the opera, and probably had never yet seen him. - -Would she, Eline, meet him one day in the street, she wondered? And how -would he look, in his everyday clothes? Yes; one morning she would -pretend to have an early call to make somewhere, and she would pass by -the opera-house. Perhaps there might be a rehearsal, and if so she -would probably meet some of the artistes in the neighbourhood of the -building. Absorbed in her own thoughts she did not always hear what -Jeanne was saying; but she continued to look at her, as she walked by -her side, with those sympathetic eyes and that winning smile, which -were among Eline’s greatest charms. - -Meanwhile they had turned the corner, and on reaching the Hoogewal, she -took leave of Jeanne. - -“Well, good-bye, I’ll come and look you up soon, Jany; remember me to -Ferelyn, do you hear? Come, Ben, shake hands with the lady.” - -In her longing after affection, Jeanne felt something like a grateful -glow of warmth at the sound of that name Jany; it seemed like an echo -of former days, when as a girl every one called her Jany. - -And she hurried back to the Hugo de Grootstraat, full of high spirits, -longing once more to be in her little home, with her husband and her -little darlings of children. - -Eline smiled to herself as she passed through the Willemspark on her -way home. The bare branches over her head glistened with hoar frost, -and the frigid air was clear and seemingly full of vague echoes. She -felt a strong impulse to give expression to her happiness in that free -atmosphere, by an outburst of joyous song. Was she a little smitten -then—with that—— - -No, no, it was too absurd; it was only that he sang well! - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -The flaming fire cast great, quivering shadows, like dancing, black -spectres, on the walls and ceiling of the dark room. Now and then a -momentary flash of brightness would hover about an antique silver ewer, -or glint along a carved sideboard, which, like a vague dark mass, -filled up an angle in the room, or play about a set of old china, or a -pair of antique vases over the mantelpiece. - -Vincent Vere lay stretched on his sofa, and looked around with -half-closed eyes, each time there was a flickering of light over the -room. That strange prevailing gloom, penetrated by fitful gleams of -ruddy light, made him pleasantly forgetful of his prosaic rooms, where -a stray object of vertu of his own was in screaming contrast with the -shabby gentility of the furniture. And he lay musing awhile in the -Dantesque twilight. - -These last few days he had felt very worn and exhausted. A languor -seemed to numb his limbs; it was as though it were warm water instead -of blood that coursed through his veins; at times a mist seemed to hang -before his eyes, so that he could neither act nor think. His eyelids -drooped wan and limp over his lack-lustre, light blue eyes; his lower -lip hung down heavily, and about his small mouth there was a very -pained expression. He had often felt like that, but this time he -ascribed it to the atmosphere of the Hague, which well-nigh suffocated -him, and he longed for more space and more air, and could not -understand why he should have gone to a city, which had always had so -little attraction for him. Yes, he remembered—through the mist of his -exhaustion—he had wished for a span of rest, after all his restless -wanderings; but already, notwithstanding his fatigue, he felt a nervous -stimulation to action, and an inward spur once more to throw himself -into a vortex of change. Rest and monotony had a dulling effect upon -him, and in spite of his weakness he felt continually excited to -movement and action, and an insatiable longing for an ever-changing -horizon. And yet he lacked the energy to devote himself with -determination to any kind of labour, whilst his changeable nature -constantly drove him onward in a restless search after some -surroundings, some sphere or occupation in which he might feel at home, -and which he ever failed to find. - -The two weeks which he had spent in the Hague seemed to him an age of -ennui. The day after he had met Betsy and Eline at the opera, he had -been to take coffee at the van Raats’, and had asked Henk to lend him -500 florins; he was daily expecting some money from Brussels, he said, -and he would repay him at the very first opportunity. Henk, though he -knew him to be exceedingly forgetful in such matters, did not like to -refuse, and handed him the amount, and so Vincent lived on, one day -allowing the money to run as water through his fingers, the next with -parsimonious economy hesitating to spend a dubbeltje, while the drafts -from Brussels continued to stay away. - -About the future he troubled himself but little; he had ever led a -hand-to-mouth existence; he had known days of luxury in Smyrna, and -suffered privation in London and Paris; but in whatever circumstances -he might have found himself, that feverish desire for change had -spurred him on, in continual dissatisfaction with the present; and at -that moment, while he was living on his 500 florins, he felt so -unnerved that the very burden of his listlessness at times almost made -him forget his weakness. - -Then he mused on, gazing into the darkness, now and again lit up by the -ruddy flames, as they shot forth from the hearth and fell in spectral -relief about the gloom-hidden furniture. He mused on, in coldest -pessimism. Why should he be other than he was? He would again want -money, and he would get it somehow; why not? There was neither good nor -evil in the world; everything was as it should be, and the inevitable -result of an unbroken chain of causes and reasons; everything that was -had a right to be; no one could alter that which was, or was to be; no -one had a free will; every one was only a different temperament, and no -one could act in any way but in accordance with the demands and nature -of that temperament, influenced by circumstances and surroundings; that -and that alone was truth, yet mankind with its childish idealism, -eternally prating about virtue, and provided with a handful of -religious poesy, was ever seeking to hide it. - -“Great heavens! what a life it is!” he thought, and his fingers -wandered about his light brown curls. “The life at least that I am -leading now, for a year of it, would kill me, or drive me mad. -To-morrow is like to-day, nothing but one blank monotony.” - -And he threw himself into an ocean of memories, as he thought of what -he had lived through, and scenes in many climes and pictures of various -cities rose before his mind. - -“And yet, what a struggling, what a toiling for nothing at all,” he -muttered, and his eyes closed, whilst swiftly a veil appeared to -descend over his memory, and light drops of perspiration formed on his -brow. There was a singing in his ears, and suddenly, a vague space, -terrible in its extent, unrolled before his closed eyes. - -But this state of weakness, bordering almost on a swoon, lasted only a -few seconds; and a deep sigh escaped his bosom. - - - -There was a noise of rapid footsteps up the stairs, and a cheerful -voice was heard exchanging a word of greeting with the lady in the -fancy shop below. He was expecting a few acquaintances that evening. - -The door opened. - -“The deuce, how dark it is! It looks like hell here, with that terrific -fire. Where are you hiding, Vere?” cried Paul van Raat, standing by the -open door. - -Vincent rose and walked towards him, and grasped Paul by the shoulders. - -“Here, old chap, don’t be alarmed. Wait, I’ll light the lamp.” - -He sought some matches, lit a couple of old-fashioned lamps on the -mantelpiece, and blinked his eyes, dazzled by the sudden light. The -Dantesque halo that hung over the room was soon dispelled by the yellow -petroleum light, but the bright burning fire still looked sociable, -although the antique sideboard with the silver ewer and a few Oriental -objects of art looked sorely out of place among the old-fashioned -furniture in threadbare red Utrecht velvet, and the antique pieces of -china seemed like so many misplaced aristocrats among the ugly, cheap -engravings and common oleographs which lined the walls. - -It was the first time that Paul had entered Vincent’s abode, and he -looked admiringly at the ewer and the china plates. - -“Yes, they are not bad; the ewer is cracked, but the workmanship is -very fine, do you see? I called upon an old Jew dealer to-day; I want -to get rid of the things. You see, they only take up the room. He was -going to call to-morrow. Or perhaps you would like them? They are to be -had.” - -“No; my room—or my studio, if you like—is too full already.” - -“Well, a few plates more or less——” - -“No; thank you.” - -“After all, I would rather sell them to the Jew. Perhaps I can manage -to best him a bit, and, of course, I should not care to do that to -you.” - -“Much obliged. And suppose he is too sharp for you?” - -“Well, then he must best me, that’s all. It’s always thus in the world, -isn’t it? You have had tea, I suppose?” - -“Yes—no, thank you; never mind. But, tell me, how long are you going to -stay in the Hague?” - -They sat down, and Vincent shrugged his shoulders. He really did not -know; he had not yet received any information about the situation in -the quinine factory in Java; but he heard they would give the -preference to a chemist, which he was not. So he would most likely give -up the idea; and, besides, he didn’t think the Indian climate would -agree with him. In the meantime, staying in the Hague, to find -something there, was out of the question. He was already getting tired -of the Hague—it was so kleinstättig; every one knew every one else, at -least by sight, and everywhere he met the same people, intensely -tiresome! He had not yet made up his mind what to do, but he was -expecting letters and remittances from Brussels. And he concluded by -asking Paul if he could lend him a hundred gulden for a day or two. -Paul thought he could manage it, but he could not yet say for certain. - -“You would really be doing me a service; shall I hear from you then -to-morrow? or do you think me indiscreet?” - -“Oh no; not at all. Yes, all right, I shall see to-morrow.” - -“Well, thanks in advance. You know the two Erlevoorts and de Woude are -coming this evening. I have asked them to come and drink a glass of -wine,” said Vincent, in an altered tone. - -“Yes; I saw them this afternoon at the Witte,” answered Paul. - -Vincent leant back against the old red bench, and the lamp-light cast a -yellowish reflection on his sallow features, and a care-worn expression -formed about his mouth. Paul was struck by Vere’s remarkable -resemblance to his uncle Vere, Eline’s father, as he lay back, and -raised his arm behind his head, with a gesture such as he had -frequently remarked in Eline. - - - -A little later, some time after nine, Georges de Woude van Bergh and -Etienne van Erlevoort came, the latter apologizing for his brother, who -had been prevented from coming. - -Otto felt no sympathy for Vincent, although he had never had any -unpleasantness with him whatever; with his own practical, manly -character never disturbed in its healthy equilibrium, with his hearty -brusquerie, he could cherish no friendship towards a man who, in his -opinion, gave himself completely over to a morbid, hyper-sensitiveness, -without making the slightest effort to raise himself out of it. Otto -was one of the few persons whom Vincent could not succeed in drawing -towards him. Almost every one on coming into contact with him felt -conscious of something that repelled even while it attracted; something -like a sweet, alluring poison, like the overpowering fumes of opium. -His continued travelling had given Vincent a good deal of knowledge of -human nature, or rather of tact in dealing with all sorts of people, -and he could, when he chose, assume any character to suit the -circumstances, with the same ease as a serpent writhes itself into -various coils, or as an actor interprets various rôles. But Otto, with -an involuntary pride in his own healthy strength, which ever went -straight at its object, despised Vincent, because of the poisonous -fascination which he had the power to shed about him, and the seduction -of which others were unable to resist. - -Ere long a bluish smoke filled the room, Vincent having offered cigars -round, although he himself did not smoke. He took a couple of bottles -of St. Emilion from a cupboard, uncorked them, and placed four glasses -on the table. Etienne, with his usual spirits, sat relating story after -story, with an amount of mimicry and gesture, and a strong flavouring -of youthful patois, that gave him somewhat the air of a singer at a -café chantant. Paul and Georges laughed. But Vincent shrugged his -shoulders, with a blasé smile, and as he filled the glasses muttered -contemptuously, in his light voice— - -“What a baby you are, Eetje, Eetje!” - -Etienne, however, took no notice of the remark, and continued his -stories, growing more and more spicy as he went on, whilst the others -listened and enjoyed the bouquet of their wine. But Vincent could not -resist the temptation to chaff him. - -“What a naughty boy that young Erlevoort is to talk about such things, -eh? What a sad dog!” he said, and the mocking laugh about his mouth was -too encouraging that Etienne should desist. - -Vincent once more filled the glasses, and Georges praised the wine. He -had never very much to say when amongst young men; he generally gave -himself up to quiet enjoyment. It was only for the society of ladies -that he reserved all the sparkle of his brilliant wit. Vincent asked -him one or two questions about his work at the ministry for foreign -affairs. - -“I suppose you will be attached to some legation or other one day?” he -said. - -“Very likely,” answered Georges. - -“Well, at all events, it is a situation which gives you the chance of -seeing something of the world. But how any one can pass his whole life -in an office, I can’t conceive. It would kill me. There’s Erlevoort, -now—I mean your brother, Eetje.” - -“You let Otto alone,” said Paul. “He has a great career before him, you -shall see.” - -“Yes, you know, Otto is cut out for a cabinet minister or a -governor-general—at least, so his mother always says. ’Tis I alone who -am the outcast of the family,” cried Etienne. - -“Yes; the spoilt child, eh?” laughed Vincent “How far are you now in -your studies?” - -“Oh, I’m going on all right. I am not at college, you know, I am -studying in the Hague.” - -“Do you think it so enjoyable in the Hague, then, in July?” asked -Vincent, in a tone of contempt. - -“Yes; it’s not so bad.” - -“How, in Heaven’s name, is it possible? You fellows are very easily -satisfied then, I must say, or rather you haven’t any idea of what the -world is like. The Hague makes me sleepy and dull, there’s something -drowsy in the atmosphere.” - -“That’s your own doing, I dare say,” laughed Paul. - -“Possibly; and maybe ’tis my fault too that I think the life you -fellows lead here too soul-killing. Now what is it you are doing here, -I should like to know? You are continually running about in one little -circle, like a horse in a roundabout at the Kermis. Should you be in a -situation, you have always exactly the same little jobs to do, and when -you have done, the same little amusements await you in the evening. -Great Scott! how insipid!” - -“But what is it you would have us do then?” asked Georges. - -“As far as I am concerned you can go on vegetating here, if you like; -but I can’t understand you fellows not even wanting to see something of -the world.” - -“Well, now there’s yourself; you have seen the world, as you call it, -haven’t you? and what have you gained by it? you are a -Jack-of-all-trades, and a master of none; and up to now you haven’t -achieved any very brilliant results!” cried Paul, a little out of -humour at the contemptuous way in which Vincent had referred to him. - -Behind his eye-glass an angry gleam shot forth from Vincent’s dull blue -eyes, whilst his thin lips closed. - -“And you are forgetting your duties as a host, with your -philosophizing,” cried Etienne, pointing to his empty glass. - -“I suppose the fact is that I am of a more excitable temperament than -you fellows,” said Vincent, in a languid voice. He again filled up the -glasses, and sank down wearily beside Georges, and his eyes wandered -listlessly about the room. - - - -It was growing very warm, and the tobacco smoke hung in thick clouds -about the ceiling. Vincent opened the door. Etienne, who could not take -much wine, had become very excited, there were red circles about his -eyes, and he had broken his glass. Georges and Paul continued to enjoy -his jokes. Vincent, however, listened to him with a faint smile. - -And in his mind there arose a strange wondering, a wondering that a man -always retained his own individuality, without the power of -transforming himself into the personality of any one else. Often, -without the slightest cause, he would find himself lost in wonder at -this idea, in the midst of the most cheerful company, and he would be -filled with an indescribable feeling of ennui at the thought of his -inevitable fate ever to remain what he was—Vincent Vere; that he never -could be transformed into some entirely different being, which would -breathe under entirely different circumstances and in an entirely -different sphere. He would have liked to have lived through various -phases of life, to have existed in different ages, and to have sought -his happiness in constantly changing metamorphoses. And this desire -appeared to him at the same time very childish, because of its -ridiculous impossibility, and very noble because of the grandiose -unattainability which it involved; and he believed that no one but him -cherished such a desire, and thought himself very much exalted above -others. In his musings it seemed to him as though the three others were -very far removed from him, as though they were separated from him by -the smoky haze. A feeling of lightness suddenly passed through his -brain; it was as if he saw every object in brighter colouring, as if -their laughter and chat sounded louder and more metallic in his ear, as -if the flavour of the tobacco, mingled with the aroma of the wine, -assumed a more pungent odour, whilst the veins in his temples and pulse -throbbed as if they would burst. - -This excitement of his nerves continued for a few seconds, then he saw -his guests laughingly looking at him, and although he had not -understood a word of what they said, he also laughed lightly, that they -might think that he shared their amusement. - -“I say, Vere, ’tis getting confoundedly close here, my eyes ache with -the smoke,” said Georges; “couldn’t we open a window?” - -Vincent nodded his head and closed the door, whilst Paul, who sat by -the window, opened it. A rush of cool air quickly entered. Outside it -was very quiet; now and again voices might be heard to the -accompaniment of measured footsteps, or a shrill street tune re-echoed -through the stillness. - -The chill air brought Vincent quite to himself again, and his strange -desires vanished, now that his nerves grew calmer. Now, on the -contrary, he envied the three that same physical and moral Nirvana -which he had looked upon with such contempt a short while since; Paul -he envied his vigorous health, just a trifle enervated by a somewhat -languid æstheticism; Georges his calm equanimity and contented mind; -Etienne his joyous youthfulness. Why indeed was he not like them, -healthy, contented, and youthful? why did he not enjoy life as it was? -why was he continually seeking after a something which he could not -even define himself? - -It was close upon one when the three young men rose, and Paul declared -that they would have to take Etienne home, as his early excitement had -given way to a mood of melancholy, and he was continually talking about -suicide. - -“I say, Eetje, have you got your key?” he asked. - -“Key?” asked Etienne with dull staring eyes, and husky voice. “Key?” he -repeated, reflecting. “Yes, in my pocket, yes—a key—in my -pocket—here——” - -“Come, let us go then,” said Georges. - -Etienne approached Vincent and took him by the shoulders, while the -others listened in amusement. - -“Good-bye, Vere, thanks for your hospi—hospitality. I always had a -liking for you, Vere; you’re a trump of a fellow, do you hear, Vere? I -feel much, very much sympathy for you, do you hear? Only this afternoon -at the Witte I was saying—Paul was there—and heard me—I said, Vere, -that your heart was in the right place. They misjudge you, Vere, but——” - -“Come, allons!” cried Paul and Georges, with impatience, taking hold of -his arm; “cut it short.” - -“No, no; let me have my say—they misjudge you, Vere; but don’t you take -any notice of it, old boy; ’tis just the same with me, they misjudge me -too. ’Tis sad, very sad, but so it is; good-bye, Vere; good-night, -Vere; sleep well.” - -Vincent saw him to the door with a lighted candle, and Etienne walked -to the steps, supported between Georges and Paul. - -“Vere, be careful now. Don’t catch cold standing at the door, and don’t -you take any notice; they misjudge you, but I will take your part——” - -Vincent nodded smilingly at Georges and Paul, and closed the door. - -“Deuced pleasant chap, that Vere!” stammered Etienne. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -After four o’clock the Verstraetens were generally at home, and to-day -about that time the house happened to be stormed with visitors. Betsy -and Eline had just looked in, and met the Eekhofs, and the Hydrechts, -Emilie de Woude, and Frédérique; later on came Madame van der Stoor and -little Cateau. - -Eline, with her hand on Cateau’s shoulder, bent over the photograph at -which the latter was looking. - -She felt conscious of a strong impression on Cateau by her grace and -geniality, and as, in her need for affection, she was always glad to -create sympathy, she nurtured Cateau’s love as a precious flower. But -that longing for affection was not unmingled with a touch of proud -triumph towards Frédérique, in whom, ever since St. Nicholas’ Eve, she -suspected, she knew not why, a secret aversion towards herself. - -While Cateau was speaking to her, in her pleasant little voice, Eline -just glanced round at Frédérique in order to see if she noticed the -sympathetic admiration of her little friend. But Frédérique was too -much engaged joking with the young Eekhofs. - -“You often sing with Mr. van Raat; has he a nice voice?” asked Cateau. - -“A little weak, but very pretty.” - -“Oh! I should so much like to hear you together.” - -“Well, I dare say you will some day.” - -“You have such a splendid voice; oh! I think it so delightful to hear -you sing.” - -Eline gave a little laugh, flattered by Cateau’s ecstasy. - -“Really? But, Toos, don’t go on calling me Miss Vere, ’tis so formal; -call me Eline in future, will you?” - -Cateau blushed with pleasure, and stroked the fur of Eline’s muff. She -gave herself completely over to the charm of that melodious voice, to -the fascinating influence of that soft, gazelle-like glance. - -Eline felt more than usually in need of much affection and tenderness. -In her innermost heart, her admiration for Fabrice had blazed forth in -a passion that filled her whole being, and to which she felt -constrained to give vent, without betraying herself. The wealth of love -which she felt was in her, and which she durst not proclaim, she -attempted to share amongst those who were worthy of it, like a costly -bouquet of which she threw a flower to those around her. Those chosen -ones she beamed upon with her captivating glance, and was enraptured -when she saw that others felt themselves drawn towards her; but on the -other hand it gave her pain when she was met with coldness in return. -Thus it was with Frédérique’s inexplicable surliness; and although at -first with a certain haughtiness she would take no notice of it, she -now did her best to win her affection, and on meeting her she had -addressed her with all the charm of her manner. But Frédérique’s -answers were given in a curt, careless tone, and with averted head; she -suspected that Eline had remarked her coolness, but she was of too -frank a nature to be able to hide her feelings: she had no tact to -feign what she did not feel. - -The conversation turned on portraits, and Madame Verstraeten passed by -Eline and Cateau to take from a table an album which she wanted to show -Madame van der Stoor and Madame Eekhof. - -Musingly, and half listening to Toos, Eline thought of Fabrice, and saw -the album in Madame Verstraeten’s hands. And suddenly an idea rose to -her mind, like a twig of her vivid fantasy, with which her passion was -overgrown. Yes; she would procure an album for herself, with various -portraits of him; it would be as a little shrine of her love, in which -she could worship the image of her god, unbeknown to any one but -herself. A secret joy stole over her features at that resolve, and at -the thought that she had so much to conceal from the eyes of others she -began to consider herself very important in her own eyes, and to feel -herself more and more absorbed by the treasures of her passion. She was -happy, and her happiness was mingled with an arch playfulness and -secret exultation at the thought that she concealed within herself -something that her circle of friends would naturally have considered -very foolish and very reprehensible, had they known of it. A girl like -her, to be in love with an actor! What would Madame Verstraeten and -Betsy and Emilie and Cateau and Frédérique, Henk and Paul and Vincent, -what would they all think and say could they suspect that? - -And with a half-mocking glance she looked round at her relatives and -friends; she thought herself plucky, secretly to defy the -conventionalities to such an extent as to dare to be smitten with -Fabrice! A jocular remark of Emilie’s made her laugh more immoderately -than it called for; at the same time she laughed at all who were there, -in haughty arrogance at her illicit passion. - -“And Mr. van Raat—Mr. Paul, I mean—will be a lawyer, I suppose?” asked -Cateau. - -What a lot that child had to say about Paul! thought Eline. There was -no end of Paul—Paul’s nice voice, and Paul a lawyer—— - -“I think you rather like Paul, don’t you?” asked Eline. - -“Oh, yes; I like him very much,” said Cateau, without hesitation. “Only -sometimes, you know, he gets so angry. Fancy, the other day—when we had -the tableaux——” - -And Eline had to listen to the story of Paul’s anger when they had the -tableaux, and of Paul’s cleverness in the grouping. - -“She’s not afraid to speak her mind, at all events,” thought Eline; -“but then, she need not be exactly smitten, although she talks a great -deal about him; if she were she would probably do as I do, and—say -nothing.” - -It was nearly half-past five; the guests were leaving. - -“Then I shall hear you sing together one day?” insisted Cateau. - -“Come round one Thursday afternoon; we always practise then.” - -“Oh! then I am in school.” - -“Well, one evening then, nous verrons.” - -“Yes, with pleasure—Eline.” - -She pronounced that name for the first time since Eline’s request, and -she let it fall from her lips, much flattered at the familiarity. Then -she took leave, urged thereto by her mother. - -Eline stood still for a moment, by accident, beside Frédérique. She had -already said good-bye, and was waiting for Betsy, who en passant was -talking to Mr. Verstraeten, and she was on the point of saying -something to Freddie. But she waited, until Freddie spoke first—and -both remained silent. - -On her way home, Cateau in ecstasy poured all kinds of nice things -about Eline and Paul into Madame van der Stoor’s ears. - - - -New Year’s Day had come and gone. On New Year’s Eve Betsy invited the -Verstraetens and Erlevoorts, as well as Madame Van Raat and Paul, to an -oyster supper, and a happy evening was spent in the warm comfort of her -drawing-room. Now the winter days followed each other in unbroken -monotony, whilst the evenings glided on for Betsy and Eline in one long -string of dinner-parties and soirées. The van Raats had a large circle -of acquaintances, and Betsy was famous for her choice little dinners, -never with more than twelve persons at the utmost, and always served -with the most unstinted and refined luxury. They lived in a coterie, -the various members of which saw one another often and intimately, and -they were very pleased with the circle in which they moved. - -Eline, meanwhile, in the midst of that light glamour of worldliness -continued to feed the flame of her secret love in silent happiness, and -thought it all very romantic. One morning she had been shopping, and as -she was returning along the Princessegracht, she saw Fabrice slowly -coming from the Bosch, close by the Bridge. She felt her heart beating, -and scarcely dared look up. Still, at last, with apparent indifference -she just ventured to glance at him. He wore a short frieze overcoat; a -woollen muffler was thrown carelessly about his throat, and he walked, -his hands in his pockets, with a somewhat surly expression on his dark -face, shaded by the broad brim of his soft felt hat. He gave her the -impression of haughty reserve, and this made her idealize. No doubt he -was of a good family, for she thought there was something very -distingué in his powerful frame; his parents had been against his -devoting himself to his art, but he had felt a calling within him that -was irresistible; he had received his musical training at a -conservatoire, and he had made his début. And now a bitter -disappointment filled his soul; he discovered that the surroundings of -actors in which he had to move was too rude and uncultured for him; he -felt himself different from them, and he withdrew himself within the -coldness of his pride. He thought of his youth, of his childhood, and -again he saw his mother before him, entreating him with clasped hands -to bid farewell to his determination and think no more of the stage. - -From that day Eline was seized with the caprice, as Betsy called it, to -take long walks in the morning. She thought the Bosch so beautiful in -winter, she said; it was grand to see those lofty upright stems, like -pillars of marble, after the snow; it was like a cathedral. Henk -accompanied her once or twice with Leo and Faust, the two boarhounds, -but he preferred his usual morning ride, and she went alone, after she -had fetched the two dogs out of the stable. They sprang up at her with -their big paws, and like two rough pages waited near her protectingly -in their wild playfulness. - -It was good for her health, she declared, when people spoke to her -wonderingly about those walks; she walked much too little, and feared -she would be growing as stout as Betsy, if she always rode. Doctor -Reyer thought those morning promenades an excellent idea. - -In the Bosch she met occasional promenaders, mostly the same people—an -old gentleman in a fur cloak, who was always coughing. But Fabrice she -met but rarely. He was at rehearsal probably, she thought, whenever she -did not see the baritone, and then she would return home in a -disappointment that made her feel very fatigued, longing for her -boudoir, her cosy fire, her piano. But still she continued her walks, -and made the discovery that Fabrice took his constitutionals regularly -on Fridays; other days seemed to be very uncertain. She might and she -might not see him. And in order to meet him she did not mind rising -early, sometimes still quite exhausted after a soirée that had not been -over till three o’clock; or tired out with dancing, and sleepy, with -blue circles under her weary eyes. ’Twas true she saw Fabrice very -often now at the opera, from a box, or the stalls, when she went with -the Verstraetens, or with Emilie de Woude and Georges; once she had -invited the Ferelyns. But yet, now she saw him quite differently, not -separated from her by the footlights and the ideal conditions of the -stage; now she saw him right before her, not three paces removed from -her, like an ordinary person. - -On the days that she met Fabrice, the roomy vault of the besnowed trees -seemed too small to contain her happiness. She saw him approach with -his manly, elastic step, the hat slightly on one side, the muffler -fluttering from his shoulder, and he passed by, just glancing at her or -the dogs, who sniffed at him, with careless eyes. When, after that, she -turned back and returned home along the Maliebaan, she was filled with -a joy that made her bosom heave, that brought a flush to her cold -cheeks, and made her forgetful of all fatigue; and on arriving home she -would give vent to that wealth of happiness with a jubilant outburst of -song. The whole day she remained in a bright, happy humour, and a -charming vivacity took the place of her usual languid grace. Her eyes -sparkled, she joked and laughed continually, felt irritated at Henk’s -lazy good-nature and Ben’s sleepy quietness, and teased both father and -son, making the hall re-echo with her ringing laughter, and the stairs -creak under her, as she almost bounded down them. - -One Friday morning, when she saw Fabrice approaching her, she formed a -resolution. She thought it very childish of her that she never had the -courage to look him straight in the face. He was an actor, after all, -and no doubt he was used to being looked at by ladies who met him in -the street. He came nearer, and with something haughtily audacious, and -almost defiantly, she threw her little head backwards, and looked him -straight in the face. He returned that glance, as usual, with one of -complete indifference, and walked on. Then, in an excess of courage, -she looked back. Would he? No, he walked on, with his hands in his -pockets, and she only saw his broad back gradually disappearing. - -That morning she hurried home, humming to herself between her closed -lips, about which there hovered an expression of roguish playfulness. -She had no thought for anything or any one but him, Fabrice, and she -rang the bell at the Nassauplein. Grete answered the door; Leo and -Faust rushed inside. Oh, how she burst out laughing! she had forgotten -to take the dogs back to the stables. Loudly resounded their barking -through the hall, like a duo of basses. - -Out rushed Betsy from the dining-room, bursting with rage. - -“Heavens above, Eline, are you mad, bringing those wretched dogs in -here? You know I can’t bear them. I can’t understand what makes you do -such a thing, if I don’t like it! Or am I no longer mistress in my own -house? Take them away, please, and at once.” - -Her voice sounded hard and rough, as one who is giving orders to an -inferior. - -“They are thirsty, and I want to let them drink,” said Eline, with calm -hauteur. - -“And I will not have them drink here, I tell you! Look at that hall, -look at the carpet, dirty marks everywhere!” - -“Grete can clean all that in a minute.” - -“That isn’t your business! You lead the life of a princess here, and do -nothing but what displeases me. I tell you, take those dirty dogs -away!” - -“First they must drink.” - -“Great heavens, I will not have them drink here,” cried Betsy, beside -herself with passion. - -“They shall drink, in the garden,” answered Eline, quietly. - -“I should like to see that!” shrieked her sister. “If I——” - -“Leo, Faust,” cried Eline, still with an irritating composure, as she -motioned the dogs towards her. - -Betsy fumed with rage; her lips quivered, her hands shook, her breath -seemed to choke her. She could not say another word, she felt she could -have struck Eline; but Eline, followed by the leaping dogs, slowly went -her way through the passage into the garden, and filled a pail full of -water at the tap. She thought it an exquisite delight to enrage Betsy -that day. The dogs drank their fill, and she led them back into the -hall. - -Betsy still stood there, and her angry eyes flamed with rage at her own -impotency. She would have liked to run after Eline and snatch the pail -out of her hands, but her nerves were too excited. - -“I tell you, Eline, in the name of all that’s holy, that I shall tell -Henk,” she began, with a trembling voice, and a face flushed as red as -fire. - -“Oh, rave as much as you like!” cried Eline, in a suddenly rising -passion, and went out of the house with the dogs, banging the door -after her. - -In about a quarter of an hour she returned, singing, still full of -happiness at meeting Fabrice. She went up-stairs, and burst out in a -brilliant shake, as if to tease Betsy, who, nearly crying, was sitting -in the dining-room. - -When Henk came home, Betsy told him the tale of Eline’s impudence in -their own house; but Henk grew impatient, would not come to any -decision, and she reproached her husband with his timidity, and a -violent scene followed. - -For a whole week the sisters did not speak, to the despair of Henk, who -found all his domestic comfort spoilt by their sulking, especially at -table, where the meals were hurried through, although Eline kept up an -incessant chatter with himself and Ben. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -It had struck Frédérique that last New Year’s Eve, at the van Raats’, -Otto had chatted and laughed a good deal with Eline; not remarkably so, -but more than was his wont generally with girls. For some days after -that a question constantly rose to her lips which she wanted to ask her -brother, but no opportunity seemed to arrive for her to put it. At -times she was quite brusque towards Etienne, when he wanted to have a -joke with her, and Lili, Marie, and Paul had come to the conclusion -that she had lost something of her good temper; and she played but -little with the children too. - -It was one of their evenings at home; only Etienne had gone out with -some young friends who had come to fetch him. The children were in bed, -and Madame van Erlevoort sat with Mathilde in the small drawing-room, -the old lady with a book, Mathilde with some needlework. Frédérique -entered, smiled at her mother, and lovingly smoothed the gray hair on -her temples. - -“Freddie, will you just ring for Willem?” asked Mathilde. “Otto would -like a cup of tea in his room; he is busy writing.” - -“Oh, just pour him out a cup, I’ll take it him myself.” - -Mathilde poured out a cup, and Frédérique took it up-stairs. On the -stairs she wondered whether she would have the courage; perhaps Otto -would say something himself; but if he did not, she would venture. - -She entered Otto’s room. He was walking up and down dreamily, with his -hands on his back, quite contrary to his usual habits. - -“Hallo! there’s a nice little sis,” said he laughing, and took the cup -from her hand. “It will taste tenfold as nice from such pretty little -fingers.” - -“But, Otto,” cried Frédérique, “how can you be so silly? I had expected -a more original kind of compliment, not such a stale platitude as -that.” - -She continued to look at him smilingly, but did not catch his reply, as -she was considering to herself how to put her question. Perhaps he -would not like it. Still she wanted to have her say, and she tried to -find something by way of introduction, some pretext or another, to -achieve her object; but in the frankness of her nature she could find -nothing, and so she simply commenced— - -“Otto, I—I have something to say to you, something to confess.” - -“A sin?” - -“A sin, no; hardly that I think—an—indiscretion I unwittingly committed -towards you. But you must forgive me beforehand.” - -“What! simply on your good faith?” - -“I tell you the indiscretion was committed involuntarily, and—I haven’t -even been as indiscreet as I should have liked to have been. I am -therefore entitled to some recompense; but I only ask you beforehand, -whether I may depend upon your pardon?” - -“All right; I shall be merciful; say on then.” - -“You will really not be angry?” - -“No, no. What is it?” - -“Quite by accident—I discovered—you see—I know who, last St. Nicholas’ -Eve——” - -He turned a little pale, whilst he stared at her, full of eager -expectation. It did not escape her with how much concentrated attention -he was listening. - -“Gave—that fan—to Eline—that fan by Bucchi.” - -She remained standing right in front of him, something like a naughty -child, quite confused at her confession. He continued looking at her, a -little frightened, with big, staring eyes. - -“Do you know?” he commenced, stammering. - -“Now don’t be angry,” she resumed. “I really could not help it. I came -into your room one morning, I wanted a piece of sealing-wax, and—you -have never forbidden me to come into your room, have you?—I knocked, -but you had gone out; and when I entered and began to look for the -sealing-wax, I saw in that pigeon-hole the leather case, which I -recognized at once in the evening. I thought at first it was something -for me, and wanted—wanted to open it; you know how inquisitive I am; -but I did not do so, and I was very sorry that I discovered your -present. Tell me, now, are you angry? I couldn’t really help it, could -I now?” - -“Angry, my dear old girl! ’Tis nothing to be angry about at all,” he -answered, with forced lightness. “A surprise gift cannot last for ever; -and besides—you haven’t told Eline, of course, have you?” - -“Oh no; of course not.” - -“Well, what of it then? There’s no harm done,” he said carelessly. “Or -are you sorry that the fan was not intended for yourself?” - -She gave a contemptuous shrug. “I am surprised that you should think me -so childish. Only——” - -“Well, what?” - -She gave him a searching glance with those clear, true eyes, and he -felt a little abashed under that penetrating scrutiny. - -“Only—a young man—does not usually—make such presents—to a girl, if he -is not very fond of her.” - -“Oh, I like Eline very much; why should I not give her something for -St. Nicholas?” - -“No, Otto, you are not frank with me,” she said impatiently, and drew -him with her on the sofa. “Come, sit down, and just listen to me. A -sensible fellow like yourself doesn’t give a fan, of I don’t know how -much value, to a girl, if—if he is not in love with her. That you need -not try to make me believe; you never gave Eline anything before, -neither did you give Lili or Marie anything this time. So, you see, I -am not so blind; I can see well enough that there’s more in it,” she -continued, and laid her hands on his shoulders. But all at once she -stopped. “Oh, perhaps you think—perhaps you don’t want me to speak to -you about it,” she stammered, almost frightened. - -“Freddie, on the contrary,” he said softly, and drew her closer towards -him, “I am very glad to speak to you about—about Eline. Why not? But -suppose, now, that I really cared much, very much for Eline, would you -think it so unwise in me?” he asked smilingly. - -“Oh, Eline is no girl for you!” she suddenly burst out in passionate -fervour. “No, Otto, no; Eline is not the kind of girl for you. She is -very pretty, I know, and there is something about her—something very -attractive—but to me she is—antipathetic, I assure you. Believe me, you -must really not think any more of her, you would never be happy with -her; you are so affectionate and good. If you really were to begin -caring for her very much, you would perhaps devote your whole soul to -her, you would want to live only for her, and she could not return you -one-tenth of what you gave her. She has no heart, she is cold as ice, -and full of egotism—nothing but egotism.” - -“But, Freddie, Freddie,” he interrupted, “my dear girl, how you rush -on! Where have you obtained all your experience of human nature, that -you can give me such a precise description of Eline’s character?” - -It irritated her to hear how softly, almost caressingly, he pronounced -her name. - -“Knowledge of human nature? I know nothing about that. I only know what -I feel, and that is, that Eline lives but for herself, and is incapable -of making the slightest sacrifice for another. I feel—nay, I declare, I -am convinced of it—that if you married Eline, you would never, never be -happy. She might like you for a time, but her love would only be -egotism, as everything in her is egotism.” - -“Freddie, you are severe,” he said, softly but reproachfully. “’Tis -very nice of you to feel so much for me, but you are very, very hard on -Eline. I don’t think you know her, and, on the contrary, I believe that -she would sacrifice herself altogether for one she loved.” - -“You say I don’t know her; but how can you know her then? You only see -her when she is all smiles and amiability.” - -“Do you think it a fault in her, that she prefers to be amiable rather -than discourteous?” - -Frédérique gave a sigh. “Oh, Otto, I—I don’t know what I think; I only -feel that you cannot be happy with her,” she said, in a tone of -conviction. - -He took her hand and smiled. “Why, you speak as though we were going to -be married to-morrow.” - -“Oh, do—do tell me—don’t think me—inquisitive. You haven’t—proposed to -her, have you?” - -He looked at her, still smiling, and slowly shook his head. - -“Then promise me, will you, that you will take time to think over -it?—don’t be——” She clung to him affectionately, and her eyes filled -with tears. - -“You are a dear girl, Freddie, but really——” - -“You think it absurd of me, perhaps, to venture to advise you?” - -“Not at all. On the contrary, I am most sincerely grateful to you for -it; but still, you must not allow yourself to be guided by a mere idea, -or rather an antipathy, for which there is not even a reason, and to -judge another person so harshly. Accept and follow that advice, then I -shall not think you absurd, but a dear, dear little sis.” - -He kissed her repeatedly, and she rested her head shyly on his -shoulder. - -“You won’t be angry with me, will you now? Perhaps I have been clumsy; -I should not have spoken like that.” - -“To me you are most dear when you are most outspoken to me, and I hope -you will always be so.” - -“Then perhaps I shall be discourteous and unamiable,” she answered with -emphasis. - -“And now you are just a little spiteful. What is it? Are you jealous of -Eline?” - -“Yes,” she answered curtly. - -“Because of the fan, I suppose,” he laughed. - -“Oh, you do tease me,” she pouted. “No; not because of the fan, I have -a dozen of them, but because—because you care for her.” - -“Let us make a compact together then. You go and find me a nice girl -whom you consider fit to be my wife, and of whom you are not jealous; -then when you have found her, and I like her, I shall think no more of -Eline. What do you say to that?” - -She answered nothing, but rose, and wiped away her tears. His badinage -displeased her, and made her fear that he thought her foolish. She -approached the table, pointed to the cup of tea, and said— - -“Your tea is getting cold, Otto; why don’t you drink it?” - -Ere he could reply, she had gone, full of conflicting thoughts, pleased -that she had given vent to her feelings, and had obtained Otto’s -confidence; and yet uncertain whether she would not have done better to -have said nothing. - - - -For five days Eline had not met Fabrice on her early walks, and the -disappointment of the mornings spoilt the whole of the days that -followed. At first she grew quiet, morose, and irritable; very soon she -became more melancholy, she sang no more, she refused to see Roberts, -her master, or to accompany Paul van Raat in his duets. One morning, -after her walk, about half-past ten, she returned home, and threw -herself musingly on her sofa, while, with wandering fingers, she -unclasped her cloak. She could not bear Ben near her, and sent him away -to the nursemaid; and thoroughly tired out, with her big, hazel eyes -moist and glistening with unsatisfied longing, she let her glance -wander along the palms, the pictures, the group by Canova. A melancholy -oppressiveness fell upon her like a cloud, and she asked herself the -question, Why must she live, if she were not to be happy? To give her -sorrow a definite shape, she searched about for grievances, and made -the most of them; she was in need of affection, and there was no one to -love her. With Betsy she could get on no longer, as it seemed; she was -continually at variance with her sister, and it was not always her -fault; Frédérique was conspicuously cool towards her, for what reason -she had not the remotest idea. It was only old Madame van Raat who -continued affectionate as ever; but just at present she felt but little -in the humour to display that amiable frankness, tempered with a -flavour of veneration, which had won the old lady’s heart. Yes; her -life was a useless existence, she was continually swinging from one day -to another, without any object, and she longed for—for something like -the vague vision, without definite shape, which seemed to rise as in a -sphere of love, sometimes purely ideal, like an idyll, sometimes -simpler in form and suffused with a halo of homeliness and domestic -happiness. - -She sighed as she raised her hand towards the azalea, and crumpled the -leaves between her nervous fingers. With an effort she compelled her -musings to assume some definite form before her mental vision, and by a -sudden caprice of her fantasy, she saw herself together with Fabrice, -and both of them were singing at the opera in some great city. They -loved one another, and they were famous; they were overwhelmed with -wreaths and bouquets, and the whole vision rose before her vivid and -entrancing, as it had done one day whilst she was singing with Paul. - -But her imagination not receiving any fresh fuel, not having seen -Fabrice for so long, lost its vivid colouring; her vision faded, and -left her in a gray, sombre mood—a seeming reflex of the sky outside, -which was heavy with dark rain-clouds. She felt the hot tears glide -along her lashes; she had a great longing for Henk, to whom she was -anxious to confide her sorrow, he was so fond of her, and knew how to -administer such comforting words to her in his own kindly, clumsy way; -the mere sound of his voice alone, so kindly, so genial, and heavy, -fell like a healing balm upon her soul. - -And so she sat sobbing, and thought how disagreeable all that sulking -with Betsy was. To-morrow it would be her, Eline’s, birthday. Would -Betsy take the first step towards a reconciliation, or did the cause of -the quarrel really rest with herself? Had she felt sure of her -reception by her sister, she would gladly have ventured a -rapprochement, or even have apologized, if necessary; but she feared -Betsy’s coolness. So she would wait; yes, she would wait. - -The afternoon passed slowly, the hours dragged themselves along, as -though weary under the burden of her melancholy. Then she dressed for a -dinner-party at the Hydrechts’, without the slightest expectation of -finding any amusement there. She would gladly have asked Betsy to say -that she was ill at home; but it would not do. Unlike the Verstraetens -recently, the Hydrechts might take offence, and besides, Betsy might -perhaps refuse to do as she asked. So she went, and screwed herself up -to a coquettish gaiety which, with her natural tact in hiding her -feelings, effectually blinded the eyes of all. - - - -The next day was the twentieth of January, her birthday. She stayed -late in bed, surrounded by the warmth of the blankets, in the soft red -light reflected by the curtains, without any desire to rise, or any -longing for her morning walk. She would not see him if she went, her -presentiment told her. She began to feel childishly superstitious. It -was now close upon nine. If Mina should come in before the clock struck -nine, to arrange her washstand for her, she would meet Fabrice in the -Bosch to-morrow. But Mina came after nine, and when the girl had put -everything straight and had left the room, she thought of something -fresh. If last evening she had laid her bracelet in the large vase she -would meet Fabrice; not, if she had placed it in the small one; and she -raised herself up, drew the red damask bed-curtains aside, and glanced -round. There lay the bracelet in the large vase. With a smile, she once -more lay back in the pillows. - -She struggled with herself to get up, but why not stay in bed in the -cosy warmth? She was weary with grief, why commence another day? Ere -long her friends would come to congratulate her; she would have to be -nice and amiable, and receive their presents with delighted ecstasy, -and she was in a far from amiable humour; she felt no desire to see any -one. - -It struck half-past ten, and she thought perhaps Betsy would soon be -coming in, and in a few friendly words make up the quarrel; she -listened for her sister’s step on the stairs, but her expectations were -in vain, and at last, unnerved by her languor, she rose, and lazily -proceeded to dress. The glass reflected her image with something of -sadness in the eyes and a weary expression about the mouth, and to -herself she seemed quite ugly. But what did it matter after all? for -whose sake should she be pretty? There was no one who loved her with -such fervour as she thought that her heart was capable of. - -She was dressed, and all at once a shivering overtook her. She did not -feel equal to going down-stairs; how should she approach Betsy? Should -she take up an attitude of expectation merely? Why did not Betsy meet -her half-way? Why must she continue bearing a grudge like that, about -such a trifling matter? Eline felt almost afraid to see Betsy in the -breakfast-room, and she walked into her boudoir, where the fire was -already burning brightly, and threw herself on her sofa, wretched and -weary with grief and loneliness. Why, yes, why did she live? - -Deeper and deeper she sank into the abyss of melancholy, when at last -some glimmer of light came to pierce the gloom that enshrouded her, for -she heard Henk and Ben coming up the stairs. They came nearer; she -heard their voices; there was a noisy knocking at her door. - -“Where are you, old girl; still in bed?” cried Henk. - -“No; I am here, in my boudoir,” she answered, slightly raising her -voice. - -The door was opened and Henk appeared, shaking his head, while Ben -slipped through between his father’s high riding-boots, a bouquet -clasped in his little fists. - -“Auntie, many happy returns of your birthday—and this is from Ben,” -said the child, as though he were repeating a lesson learnt by heart, -while he laid the bouquet in her lap. - -“But, my dear girl, what a time you are up-stairs this morning! you are -generally back from your walk by now,” cried Henk. - -She did not answer, but embraced the child, and her eyes grew moist as -she did so. - -“Put—put it in water, Ben, will you? in some tepid water. There, in the -vase, carefully.” - -Ben, always obedient and docile, did as he was told. Eline fell back -again in the pillows, and looked at her brother-in-law with a faint -smile. - -“I feel so wretched to-day—not well at all,” she said languidly. - -Henk approached nearer, with his hands on his back. - -“What, on your birthday too?” he asked cheerily. “Come, I would make -haste and get down-stairs if I were you, you lazy girl; but let me give -you a good kiss first—a real good one, do you hear?” and he pressed his -lips on both her checks, while she lay still and smiled. - -“And here is a trifle for you, Elly—I hope you will like it,” he -continued, as he handed her a small case. - -She laughed a little. - -“How droll of you to come and bring me my present here! Thank you, -Henk, thanks very much.” - -She opened the case; in it there was a hairpin in the shape of a -diamond spider. - -“But, Henk,” she cried, “how you spoil me! I remember, when I saw it at -van Kempen’s a little while ago, I said I thought it very pretty. I -really must be careful what I say in future,” she said, almost shyly, -and she thought of the Bucchi fan. - -“Betsy kept her ears open when she heard you speak about the pin,” he -answered. “We are always glad to give you something that will please -you.” - -This almost aggravated her, but she threw her arms round his neck and -kissed him. - -“Really, really, you are spoiling me,” she stammered. - -“Come, come, that’s all rubbish!” he exclaimed. “But now I must be off -for a little ride; so make haste down-stairs, old girl, or I shall -carry you down.” - -“No, no, that you won’t!” - -“All right then; but hurry up.” - -“Yes, yes, in a moment; but no nonsense, Henk, do you hear?” she cried, -frightened, and in a serious, commanding tone, for she could foresee an -attack of practical joking, and she certainly felt in no humour to -tolerate it. - -He laughingly re-assured her. The words were on his lips to urge her to -a reconciliation with his wife, but he feared he had not the tact to -approach the subject with sufficient caution. She might fly up in a -passion, and besides—it would all come right soon, he thought, and left -the room. - -She rose, and lingering over her toilet, suspected that Betsy must have -told Henk to take the present up-stairs, so as not to have to hand it -her herself. She felt embarrassed at her own attitude; now she was -compelled to take the first step towards a reconciliation, and this -wounded her pride. It would seem as though she were so delighted with -their present, that it made up for all past unpleasantness. ’Twas most -tiresome, but still she could not now come down-stairs, and, after a -hasty, cool greeting, commence her breakfast without saying a word. She -felt very sorry that she had not followed her impulse of the previous -day to try a rapprochement. After all it was really too stupid, that -sulking, and only because of those dogs! And she held the diamond -spider coquettishly against her hair and her throat. - - - -Before she came down-stairs, Eline opened a drawer of her writing-desk. -With a furtive smile she took from it an album, a present to herself, -and opened it. It contained nothing but portraits of Fabrice, in -various positions and dresses, and which for some time past she had -been purchasing with much tact, but still not without nervousness; now -in one shop, then in another, never returning to the same, constantly -fearing that the shopkeeper would guess something of her secret. On one -occasion she had been in Amsterdam for a day to visit some friends; -there she was very daring, and in a bookshop had bought seven all at -once; no one knew her there, and she vowed to herself that she would -never again set foot in the shop. - -With her eyes sparkling with wanton playfulness she glanced through her -collection, and whatever page she turned his dark black-bearded face -met her eyes now and again as she had met him in the Bosch with his big -felt and his muffler. Ah! she knew it now; it was tenderer feeling than -admiration that vibrated through her at the sight, which, in her -womanly sense of honour and in shame at herself, made her shudder as -for a moment she pressed her lips on that beloved image. Yes, she felt -it now; it was a passion that filled her being as with a wealth of -rapture; a love for which she could sacrifice all and anything that he -might demand of her. - -And her imagination, a little relieved of its burden of melancholy by -Henk’s cheery words, in which she sometimes heard the echo of -long-vanished wishes, grew heated with romantic ideas. In her flight -with Fabrice, she saw herself at a railway station awaiting the train, -and fearing lest they would be overtaken. - -“Auntie, auntie, let me in!” cried Ben, outside the door. - -She put the album away and opened the door. Ben came in, cautiously -clasping the vase full of water in both his little hands. - -“Carefully, little man,” said Eline. “Sure you haven’t spilt any on the -stairs?” - -He shook his head, pleased with himself at his smartness. Whilst he -placed the bouquet in the vase, Eline reflected that the little -fellow’s present was only another attention on Betsy’s part. It was a -great bother after all. - -But at last she summed up courage and proceeded down-stairs with Ben. -Betsy was in the dining-room, and in consultation with Grete. - -“Good morning, Betsy,” said Eline. - -“Good morning, Elly. Many happy returns!” answered Betsy, without any -expression. - -Eline would not say more; first the servant must leave the room. -Breakfast she did not want; she had no appetite. - -“Grete, you can clear away, I don’t want anything,” she said, and began -playing with Ben to do something. - -Betsy remained seated in front of her writing-desk, absorbed in bills -and books, like a careful housewife. And after a few seconds’ painful -silence, Betsy having peevishly told Ben not to worry, and sent him -away to the nursery, Eline rose. She walked across the room to her -sister, and laid her hand on her shoulder. - -“Betsy,” she commenced. But she could not yet bring herself to say -anything about the present, the diamond spider. “Betsy, come, would it -not be better if—? You don’t know how sorry I am that we are so. Come, -now, don’t be angry with me, it was wrong of me.” - -“Well, Eline, I am glad you admit it. I am not angry.” - -“Is it all forgotten then?” - -“Oh, certainly. You know there’s nothing I dislike more than -unpleasantness, so let us say no more about it.” - -Her cool tone was as so much ice to Eline, but still she bent down and -gave Betsy a kiss. - -“No, really, I am sorry; of course I have no right in your own house—it -pains me very much.” - -She wanted to say something more, but could find no words, and once -more her lips sought Betsy’s forehead. She, however, pushed her lightly -aside. - -“All right; let us say no more about it then. I am no more angry. But -not so much kissing, you know I don’t care about it.” - -Her birthday passed by gloomily enough for Eline. The reconciliation -with Betsy had not made the desired impression on her; she had pictured -something much more cordial—a sisterly embrace, an intermingling of -tears—the prelude to future affectionate intercourse with each other. -But what had been the reality? On Betsy’s part an icy condescension, by -the side of which she, in her attitude, had cut a somewhat sorry -figure. She knew herself to be weaker than her sister, and yet she -would resist her over-ruling; but with every attempt at opposition, and -especially after this latest one, followed as it was by a temporary, -hollow victory, she felt herself more and more powerless to continue -the struggle with such unequal moral weapons. Her pride had only proved -a frail reed, breaking with every gust of wind, and in her dismay a -hopeless gloom seemed to enshroud her thoughts as with a thick veil of -crape. - -For all that she kept up a semblance of gaiety that afternoon in the -midst of the cheery company of the friends who came to congratulate -her. But Madame van Raat, from whose dreamy, light-blue eyes she would -have been so glad to have seen a ray of sympathy beam upon her, was -indisposed, and sent an apology through Paul, and this was a great -disappointment to her. Madame van Erlevoort and Mathilde came to add -the excuses of Freddie, who was at home with a cold, and again Eline -wondered why Frédérique should be so reserved towards her. Jeanne -Ferelyn overwhelmed her with a string of domestic troubles, and it -required all her tact and amiability not to display any undue -impatience in listening to them. Little Cateau van der Stoor, who, like -Madame van Raat, she would have been glad to see, appeared to have -forgotten her birthday; she neither saw nor heard anything of her. But -Emilie de Woude brought her own boisterous gaiety with her. Her lively -chat infused a little brightness into the dull atmosphere of the -drawing-room—in which the gas was not yet lit—into which, along the -heavy folds of the draperies, a darkening twilight penetrated which -seemed to transform the brightness of the gilded panelling, and the -glistening sheen of the fawn-satin cushions, into undefined and gloomy -shadows. Emilie wanted to see Eline’s presents, charming trifles—a few -bouquets arranged on a table, round about a big basket full of flowers -and fruit. - -“What a splendid corbeille!” cried Emilie. “Peaches, grapes, -roses—lovely! From whom, Elly?” - -“From Vincent; pretty, is it not?” - -“I wish I had such nice cousins.” - -“Hush!” whispered Eline. - -Vincent had just entered the room, and his eyes went in search of the -hostess. Betsy received him, as usual, with a certain warmth and -geniality in her constant, vague fear of what that cousin might do. -Eline thanked him, and clasped both his hands in hers. - -Vincent apologized for coming so late; it was a quarter past five, and -the Verstraetens and the others were taking their leave in the -gathering twilight, after which Gerard came in to light the gas, close -the blinds, and draw the curtains. - -“Vincent, stay to dinner, will you?” asked Betsy. For Betsy was in -terror at having to face a dull evening. They were not invited out -anywhere, and besides, she had not thought it the thing to make any -arrangements to go out on her sister’s birthday; neither could she have -done so, as during their late feud she had scarcely uttered a word to -her. With Vincent she need stand on no ceremony, she could very well -ask him half an hour before dinner. Vincent had conversation when he -was in a good humour, and, at all events, he brought a fresh face with -him to the table. - -Vincent accepted the invitation with an indifferent “with pleasure.” In -the meantime Henk declared he wanted a walk, and taking his hat quickly -left the house, his coat-collar turned up, and his hands in his -pockets. Anne, the nursemaid, came to fetch Ben, to make him a little -tidy, as his face was besmeared with jam from the pastry he had been -eating. Betsy disappeared too, and Eline and Vincent were left alone in -the drawing-room, now bright with gas-light. - -“Come, let us sit down in the boudoir,” said Eline, and Vincent -followed her to the little room. The soft, clear beams from the small -crystal chandelier, reflected on the violet plush of the furniture, -lent the place an air of something mysteriously intimate, something -that seemed to tempt to an unreserved confidence. To Vincent, however, -it appeared to convey no sense other than one of a calm well-being; -with a sigh he let himself fall on the couch with his usual languor, -and put Eline a number of indifferent questions about the acquaintances -he had just now seen taking their leave. Whilst answering him, she felt -a great sympathy for her cousin arise within her. Again it was that -need within her that had aroused such a passion for Fabrice, the need -she felt of much love and tenderness, the longing to expend the pent-up -treasures of her affection. And just as it had struck Paul by the wan -reflection of a petroleum-lamp, so it now struck her under the bright -gas-light that played and sparkled in a thousand colours through the -drooping pendants. Vincent’s resemblance to her dear dead father was so -striking that, looking at him, she almost fancied herself once more -back in her childhood. Yes, just like that, with that pained expression -about the mouth, with those eyes full of sadness, her father used to -lie down, exhausted by his artistic visions; just like that his hand -used to hang over the arm of his chair when the brush had fallen from -his grasp. - -And Eline’s sympathy for Vincent grew stronger, permeated with -compassion and poetic melancholy, as she sat listening to his low, wan, -murmuring voice, while he spoke to her about Smyrna; he seemed more -interesting than most of the young men in their coterie. To her he -became a martyr to the littleness of the world, when he told her that -to him the Hague was kleinstättig and tiresome, and that he longed for -much space and freedom. So did she. - -“But I weary you with my complaints, parlons autre chose,” he -interrupted himself in an altered tone. “It isn’t polite of me to talk -so much about myself.” - -“Oh no, not at all; you don’t weary me in the least,” she answered -somewhat hurriedly, rather upset that he had cut the thread of her -fantasy so abruptly. “Don’t you think that I can quite share your -thoughts, that I don’t understand how you can wish for anything else -than the prosy groove in which we continue to go round and round? -Sometimes I, too, would gladly escape from it,” she cried, with a -movement of her arms like that of a captive bird beating his wings -against his cage. “Sometimes I feel myself moved to some terribly mad -freak or another,” and she smiled slyly as she thought of Fabrice. - -He, also smiling, shook his head, and just touched her uplifted hand, -as it fell gracefully by her side. - -“And why should you wish to commit follies now?” he asked. “You go to -extremes. To live independently of anyone, not to trouble yourself -about the small-talk of a coterie, but to follow your own ideas as long -as they are sensible, to change your surroundings as often as you -like—that is my ideal. There’s nothing preserves one’s youth so much as -change.” - -“But in order to be independent, to trouble oneself about nothing—one -must possess more moral strength than we in our superculture usually -dare show,” she answered. - -“Moral strength! Oh dear, no; you only want the money, that’s all,” he -replied briefly. “If I am rich, have good manners, commit no follies, -but manage to keep myself nice and agreeable in the eyes of the world, -it is quite in my power to see my ideal realized, without any one -accusing me of anything more than perhaps—a little eccentricity.” - -All this was much too sober to her way of thinking, and she urged -forward her own ideas, which seemed to her more romantic. - -“Yes, all right, money, of course,” she resumed, avoiding his argument -with true feminine weakness; “but without sufficient strength to force -through one’s own will, one would soon be carried away by all the old -habits. You see, that is why”—he laughed at her charming want of -logic—“that is why I should so much like to do -something—foolish—something terribly foolish. I feel myself strong -enough to go my own way in spite of the world. I sometimes feel very -desperate indeed.” - -He enjoyed the fire and animation that beamed from her glistening eyes, -and her whole elegant little figure, as she sat there in her giddy -coquettishness, gave him the impression of a butterfly just about to -flutter away. - -“But, Eline!” he cried laughing. “What is it you are taking into your -head now? What is it you would like to do then, what sort of follies? -Come, just confess, you naughty child.” - -She laughed too. - -“Oh, say elope!” - -“With me?” - -“Why not? But I think you would soon leave me to my fate. I should be -rather too expensive a luxury to you, and you would send me back with -many thanks. Merci bien then, if your question was intended for an -invitation; I would rather wait for a wealthy milord.” - -“No love in a cottage then?” - -“Oh, Vincent, how stale! Jamais! I should die of ennui. I had rather be -an actress, and run away with an actor.” - -And she was all a-sparkle with sheer wantonness of exuberance; she felt -a secret enjoyment at the thought of Fabrice, and looked Vincent boldly -in the eyes; he could not guess her thoughts. - -He burst out in laughter; the lively playfulness which had taken the -place of her languid grace during their conversation, the brightness in -her eyes, and the tapping of her little hand on her knee, amused him -even more than her words, and yet they were sympathetic enough with his -own ideas; in them there lurked a longing for change, which was very -much like his own. They looked at one another smilingly, and under the -soft but concentrated glance of his eyes, Eline felt something of the -slow, ensnaring fascination of that of a serpent. - -“What a striking resemblance to my dear papa,” she thought, almost -surprised at the sympathy she felt for Vincent, as they rose at the -sound of the dinner-bell. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -Madame Verstraeten was at home with Lili, who had caught a severe cold, -while Marie and Frédérique, skates in hand, accompanied Paul and -Etienne to the Ysclub, round by the Laan van Meerdervoort. The old -gentleman sat reading in the warm conservatory, in the midst of the -glossy green foliage of the azaleas and the palms. Lili was not in her -usual good humour; she answered her mother in languid monosyllables, -and nearly suffocated herself, trying to repress her coughing. For she -was better, she had declared, and coughed no more; it would do her no -good to stay at home any longer, and she would go out in a day or two. - -And yet, notwithstanding that determination, out yonder it seemed to -her like Siberia, when she saw the frozen snow lying hard and white on -the bare branches and on the unsoiled marble-like paths. Madame -Verstraeten continued her crochet work, and the deft movements of the -crochet needle irritated Lili, just as the regular turning of the pages -of her father’s book irritated her. She herself did nothing, and her -hands lay wearily in her lap, but however much she enjoyed such a dolce -far niente at other times, now it wearied her terribly, and yet she -felt no desire for any occupation. Secretly she envied Freddie and -Marie’s good health and spirits, while she was delicate and was obliged -to guard against the slightest draught. But when her sister hesitated -to accompany Freddie and Etienne, she herself had induced her to go and -fetch her skates; Marie could not always stay at home with her if she -were foolish enough to be ill, and besides, mamma would keep her -company. - -A sigh escaped her lips as she took a lozenge from the little box -before her, and the old lady looked at her furtively, well knowing that -in her present excitable mood any show of motherly anxiety on her part -would irritate Lili more than the utmost indifference. - -So the afternoon slowly passed under Lili’s quiet pouting, and no one -came to disturb the dull peacefulness that prevailed until past four, -when the bell rang and Dien showed Georges de Woude inside. Lili felt -annoyed; Dien might have announced him first, she thought. Surely he -was not so intimate with them as all that! And while Madame Verstraeten -gave him her hand, she greeted him somewhat coolly, slowly reaching her -little white fingers towards him—slowly too, following, when her mother -conducted him to the conservatory, to the old gentleman. Her parents -were already sitting down with him, when she languidly pushed up a -cane-chair, and as languidly sat down in it, as though to show him that -his visit disturbed her, and that she joined them merely for courtesy’s -sake. - -At the first few words he addressed to her parents she looked away with -somewhat affected absent-mindedness into the garden, as though she took -no interest in their conversation. Madame Verstraeten had commenced -with a question about Berlin, where he had been attached to the -Legation for three months, but he replied rather briefly; half -addressing himself to Lili, and by turns looking at her and her mother, -he inquired after her health; had she really been seriously ill? Lili -muttered something, whilst her mother replied; but it struck her that -he asked the question with a certain anxiety, not as a mere -commonplace, as if indeed he felt an interest in her welfare. What -could it matter to him whether she was ill or not? But he did not seem -to remark her coolness, when, seeing the subject was not attractive to -her, he again turned his easy flowing conversation to Berlin, and in -his agreeable manner replied to her parents’ questions. Each time he -looked at her, as if to draw her into the conversation, and out of -courtesy she now and again smiled a little, and asked some trifling -question, as indifferently as possible. - -How he rattled on, she thought, as she had thought before, when he once -began to talk; but still, it was as though that thought was rather a -forced one, and not entirely spontaneous. He rattled, it was true; but -there was something pleasant and sociable in his chat—something that, -whether she admitted it or not, entertained her after the tiresome -afternoon she had spent by the side of her knitting mother. He did not -talk badly, a little excited, but tiresome he was not, and—it seemed as -though she had never before remarked it—he was not so terribly affected -after all. His accent was perhaps a little too studied, but that was -all; his gestures were simple, and through his easy manner there shone -an evident sincerity whenever he turned to her. And his dress, it was -faultlessly neat, perhaps too much so; still it was not that of a -coxcomb, she must admit it was simple enough. - -He chatted on as Mr. Verstraeten asked him about his engagements, and -whilst she looked at him, she unconsciously smiled at him with more -cordiality. It did not escape him, and once more he ventured to ask -her, did she feel better now, did she not go out yet? What could it -matter to him? again she thought, almost annoyed; he had asked her once -out of politeness, that was more than sufficient, but still she -answered him, and told him her cough was better—a little cough quickly -belied her words—and that she was feeling much easier under the kindly -care of mamma and Marie. He felt grateful for those words, but he had -heard the suppressed cough, and it was on his lips to caution her to be -careful—the weather was so bleak—but he did not do so; she might think -it was no business of his, and he asked after Marie. - -“Oh yes,” answered Lili; “she has gone skating with Frédérique and -Etienne van Erlevoort and with Paul. Don’t you pity me that I have to -stay at home again, like the sick child?” - -“Are you so very sorry that you could not go? Are you fond of skating?” - -“Yes; that is to say, I like it very much; but speaking frankly, I -don’t know much about it. Marie and Freddie skate much better than I; -they go curling and twisting about while I can only just amble along; I -am too frightened, you know, and——” - -“But do not Paul or Etienne assist you then?” - -“Oh, Paul says frankly that he thinks it tiresome to skate with such a -duffer, and Etienne—yes, I must admit—he will sacrifice himself for -five minutes sometimes.” - -“But, Lili,” said Madame Verstraeten, “if you cannot skate, it is -certainly tiresome to them.” - -“I was more polite in my time,” said the old gentleman. - -“Oh, I make them no reproaches,” said Lili; “I am only telling you the -facts,” and she gave a little cough. - -“But, when you are better, when you are going out again,” resumed -Georges hesitating—he knew he was making a bold plunge—“may I now and -then offer you my assistance? I am mostly at my office, ’tis true, but -still——” - -“You skate, then?” cried Lili. She would never have thought it of him. - -“I am passionately fond of it!” he declared. “Do you accept?” - -She nearly blushed, and answered, smiling, with downcast eyes— - -“Oh, with pleasure, yes. But you will have such a trouble with me. I am -so frightened; I always fancy I hear the ice crack, you see—you don’t -know what you are offering me.” - -“Oh yes,” he answered; “I don’t think I shall ever regret having asked -you.” - -How was it, thought Lili, that he could repeat a sentence like that, -with such an expression of sincerity, and she could find no reply? She -only laughed a little. There was a pause in the conversation, but -Georges quickly revived it, and continued his pleasant chat until it -grew dark, when he rose, apologizing for his lengthy visit. - -“Oh, not at all; on the contrary,” said Mr. Verstraeten, “I am very -pleased to see you again. Remember me to the old gentleman and to your -sister.” - -“Emilie declared she could not manage without you,” added Madame -Verstraeten. “She will be glad you are home again.” - -Lili thought she could understand that Emilie must have missed Georges, -and she offered him her hand, and once more cordially thanked him for -his offer. - -“A good fellow, that de Woude!” said Mr. Verstraeten, when he had gone, -and Lili returned to the small drawing-room, and as she went heard -mamma also express herself favourably about Georges, charmed as she was -with his polished courteousness. - -“He always gives us a call when he can. Of course he would not do so if -there were no girls in the house, if we received no company, but -still——” - -Lili heard no more; she smiled at her own fancies, in which she saw -herself together with Georges, gliding over the ice, their hands -clasped in each other’s. - - - -Marie came home, accompanied by Freddie, Paul, and Etienne, who took -leave at the door; she entered the room tired out, cold, with flushed -cheeks and sparkling eyes. It had been splendid; the ice was crowded, -the little Eekhofs, Eline, and Henk were there. - -“De Woude has called here,” said Madame Verstraeten. “He has been back -these three days.” - -“Indeed!” said Marie with indifference, and she began to unclasp her -little cloak. - -“And he asked me to go skating with him, when I am better,” said Lili, -somewhat embarrassed, and with a little cough. - -Marie all at once stopped undoing her cloak, and looked at her sister -in astonishment. - -“De Woude? With you? And what did you say?” - -“That I thought it very nice of him, of course. What else should I have -said?” - -Marie roared with laughter. - -“What, you skating with de Woude? with that ‘stuck-up coxcomb,’ that -‘piece of affectation’? But, Lili, that will never do; you always -thought him such an intolerable bore.” - -“Qu’est ce que ça fait? At least he is politer than Paul or Etienne, -and if he likes to assist me——” - -Marie still laughed. - -“But he can’t skate!” she cried contemptuously. - -“He says he is passionately fond of it.” - -“Oh, don’t you believe it. Rubbish!” - -Lili shrugged her shoulders impatiently. - -“But he wouldn’t tell any fibs about it, surely!” - -“Dear me, how eager you are all of a sudden to champion him! At one -time there was no good in him at all.” - -“I always thought him very nice and polite.” - -“Lili, how can you tell such disgraceful fibs? You always thought him -unbearable.” - -“But, Marie, that is no reason surely why I should not go skating with -him,” cried Lili, almost in an imploring tone. “When you go to a dance -I am sure you are not so particular about your partners.” - -“Still, I hardly know what to think about it,” Marie persisted -teasingly. “All at once on the ice together.—Mamma, do you think ’tis -right?” - -Lili turned away with dignified contempt. - -“Child that you are!” she said, looking down upon her sister; and she -was much annoyed at herself, for she felt herself blushing, and—for -nothing at all. - - - -“Papa is asleep?” asked Georges, as he entered Emilie’s sitting-room in -the evening after dinner. - -Emilie gave a little start; she was somewhat under the influence of a -copious meal; her chair was so comfortable, the fire so sociable. - -“Yes; papa is asleep,” she repeated, blinking her eyes. - -Georges laughed. - -“And how about Emilie; has she been asleep too?” he asked -good-humouredly. - -“No,” she answered. “I have not been asleep, only dozing a little. Will -you stay at home to tea? Yes, that will be sociable.” - -And she looked at him with a kindly expression in her honest eyes; she -felt a sort of motherly affection for that younger brother, whom she -had brought up and petted from his childhood, and who had now returned -to her fostering care after a two months’ absence abroad. She was glad -that he was looking so well, he had even grown stouter, and with pride -she remarked that a more manly expression lay over his delicate -features, or was it her fancy, because she had not seen him for some -time? - -Georges sat down beside her, and they conversed about things in -general. She knew him well, she thought, and she felt sure that he was -about to ask her some favour. Inwardly she was glad that he needed her, -but still she could not resist the temptation to leave him to shift for -himself entirely, without helping him to come to the point. He -hesitated a great deal, and when from her assumed indifference he -judged that it was not the right moment to speak, he seemed of a sudden -determined to postpone what he had to say, and in a firmer voice began -talking about something else. Then she felt sorry, and said but little -in reply, whilst she tried to think of some means to lead him back to -his original intention. But she could find no pretext whatever, and so -she cut the matter short at once by straightway asking him— - -“I say, Georges, what is it? What have you to tell me?” - -Now it was his turn to pretend indifference, and with assumed surprise -he answered— - -“To tell you? How do you mean?” - -“Oh, I don’t know; I thought—I fancied I could see something in the -ends of your moustache,” she said jokingly. “Is there nothing the -matter, really? Money affairs, perhaps?” - -She knew better, they were no money affairs, it was never anything to -do with money affairs, for in money matters he was always so -desperately precise that she could never find the slightest flaw in -that quarter. And indeed he shook his head in denial, but still, though -he looked at her smilingly, he got no farther; his question must indeed -be an awkward one if it made such a ready talker as he hesitate. - -“Oh no,” he answered. “’Tis all said in a few words, but there are -times when words will not come at all; isn’t it so?” - -“Look here, Georges, don’t beat about the bush, pray; if you have -anything to say or to ask of me, come out with it straight away, -without mincing matters, that is quite unnecessary with me!” she -resumed almost reproachfully, but with such an encouraging tenderness -that he grasped her white hand, and with playful gallantry raised it to -his lips. - -“And now, allons! fire away!” Emilie urged, giving him a light tap -under the chin. - -He was forced to speak, he could not go back, and he gathered up his -courage and began slowly in broken sentences, but soon came to the -point. His position—would she think it very foolish of him, if -he—thought of getting married? There was a tremor in his voice, as -though his fate depended on her answer. - -His words took her by surprise; despite his twenty-four years, she -still looked upon him in some way as her boy, her pet child, and—he -thought of getting married! But notwithstanding the superficial gloss -of his airy manner, she knew him to be manly and sensible; he would not -ask her such a thing if he had not thoroughly thought it out, and it -would be wrong of her to wound him, perhaps in a deep-seated affection, -by one word of banter. Still she felt alarmed at the thought of sooner -or later losing him. - -“Marry! Georges, do you really think of it?” - -He smiled, as though charmed at some bright vision. - -“Why not?” he asked, almost in a whisper. - -“Are you—are you then—so much in love?” she asked softly. “Is it——?” -and a name rose to her lips, but she failed to pronounce it. - -He nodded his head, laughingly, as though he knew that she had guessed -right. Some time before his departure to Berlin, already she had teased -him about Lili Verstraeten, about whom he always had such a lot to say. -But now that he acknowledged it, she felt disappointed. How did he know -that Lili could care for him? Was he not building castles in the air? -But she did not give expression to the thought; she would not shatter -his illusion, he seemed so happy in his quiet hopefulness. - -“Georges, if you are in earnest, really—well, let us consider now,” and -she moved her chair closer to his. “Suppose it all goes smoothly at -first, say you propose, and she accepts you, what then? How long won’t -you have to wait before it can come to a marriage?” - -“Why?” - -“But, Georges, whatever do you mean? How simple you are! You surely -don’t intend to marry on your salary as assistant-consul? Twelve -hundred florins, is it not? ’Tis true you are entitled to your share of -mamma’s legacy, but it is only a trifle, all in all you won’t be very -rich. So I ask you, on what are you going to marry then? You cannot -depend much on what the Verstraetens will give as a dowry; they live -well, but simply; they are not really wealthy.” - -“My dear Emilie, if you want to reckon at all, then reckon properly. -’Tis true, on the support of my intended parents-in-law—if they will -ever be that,” he whispered smiling, “I—don’t reckon at all; in fact I -should not even care about it.” - -“For all that, you would not say no, if they were to come forward with -anything substantial.” - -“I don’t know; that is a factor which I shall put aside for the -present, in fact I haven’t even given it a thought; but you were -reckoning up just now, and you reckoned rather carelessly. Suppose I -don’t pass my examination as vice-consul this year, is my share to the -legacy not fifteen hundred florins?” - -“About that.” - -“Well, twelve hundred plus fifteen hundred makes——” - -“Two thousand seven hundred florins! And would you marry on that?” - -“Why not?” - -She clasped her hands in despair. - -“But, Georges, you are—pardonnez-moi le mot—you are out of your senses. -Don’t be a child, pray, and don’t create illusions out of -impossibilities. Perhaps you have got hold of that little book—let me -see, what is it called? ‘How to live a comfortable married life on -fifteen hundred florins.’” - -“No; I don’t know the book, but fifteen hundred is not two thousand -seven hundred florins, and I flatter myself——” - -“You flatter yourself! Yes, you will do a lot! Are you a fellow to jog -along with a wife from January to December on a wretched couple of -thousand gulden? Yes, indeed you will do a lot,” she repeated -excitedly, and almost angry, when he wanted to interrupt her, and she -rose excitedly from her easy-chair. “I fancy I see you, established in -apartments on the second floor, luxuriating on a beefsteak once a week, -eh! However, ’tis a life I can’t describe to you. I don’t know anything -about it, that I will confess. You are used to good living, Lili also; -how are you two going to—? Oh! come, ’tis too absurd. Do be sensible, -Georges! I know you too well——” - -“It seems you do not quite,” he interrupted in his low voice, which -contrasted with her indignant tone. “At all events, I think I have the -faculty to be able to regulate my wants in proportion to my means.” - -“Maybe you do, but how about your wife? Would you force a young girl, -brought up with a certain amount of luxury, also to regulate her wants -according to your means? Believe me, Georges, nowadays people do not -live on love and moonshine, and young people like yourself, like Lili, -must have some luxuries, they must go out——” - -“Oh! that eternal going out. I went out when I was a youth; surely one -need not always to be going out.” - -“Egotist! Therefore, because you as a youth went out as much as you -liked, you want to marry and stay at home for economy, and sit with -your wife luxuriating over your weekly beefsteak. What a grand prospect -for her, to be sure!” - -“But, Emilie, why must you lay such a stress on the urgent necessity of -going out every evening? I don’t see it myself, I must admit. I base my -happiness on something altogether different.” - -“Up to this moment you have been as gay a butterfly as any one of -them—in short, you have gone out. Now you are in love you have had a -little poesy infused into your ideas; but believe me, that will wear -off, and when you have been married a little while you will find it -very sociable indeed to have a pleasant circle of acquaintances.” - -“Granted, as far as the circle of acquaintances is concerned; but to -give them up is no part of my plan, and it will not cost so very much -to keep up their friendship.” - -“It costs a great deal, Georges, believe me,” urged Emilie. “You -receive invitations; you don’t want to be considered mean; you must -give a little dinner, however unpretentious; you have to do so again -and again, and all this, mind you, you have to manage on two thousand -seven hundred gulden, eh? Well, I fancy I can see you at it already. -Especially your wife, who has to keep house on those two thousand seven -hundred gulden, or rather on as much of it as you allow her. Anyhow, -you won’t catch me coming to stay with you, do you hear?” - -He laughed at her indignation, but still he did not yield himself -vanquished. - -“Emilie, don’t excite yourself about nothing at all, pray!” he said -calmly. “Up to now ’tis all in the air yet, eh? I have not yet—taken a -step—I don’t know even whether——” - -He did not complete the sentence, hesitating to express in words the -thoughts that seemed so disagreeable. - -“Yes, Georges, I understand,” she replied, somewhat appeased by the -calm of his voice; “but still financial circumstances can hardly be put -off as second considerations; this much you will admit.” - -“Of course; but you must not fix my budget too high. By the bye, dear,” -he interrupted himself with a winning smile, “talking about a -budget—just help me to arrange one, will you?” - -“What! of a total of two thousand seven hundred gulden? Impossible, -Georges, I am not equal to the task. Why, to live respectably in -apartments, unmarried, you would want more.” - -He sighed. - -“Then we can’t agree about the matter at all?” - -She shrugged her shoulders. - -“You are a child to persist in such foolish ideas. You don’t know what -life is.” - -She was annoyed that he was so obstinate, and would not listen to her -good advice, but he—although he would not have admitted it—felt himself -hesitate a little in his so-long-thought-out ideas; he felt a burden of -hopelessness overwhelming him, and saw the ground of his expectations -glide away from under his feet. Slowly he passed his hand across his -forehead; it were better perhaps—if he waited. - -“Perhaps—I should—do better to—wait!” he whispered, giving expression -to the thoughts that oppressed, and his words were so full of sad -resignation that Emilie, notwithstanding the victory she had achieved, -felt pained. - -She took his head in both her hands, and looked long into his sad, -wistful eyes. - -“You dreamer!” she said, full of motherly tenderness and sympathy. “Who -knows, eh? You are so young—and perhaps, who knows, perhaps——” - -“Well—perhaps what?” - -“Perhaps you are right, and I am all wrong,” casting aside her victory -at the sorrow it caused her spoilt boy. “Only, think well over it; be -sensible, Georges, I beg of you!” - -And she pressed a loving kiss on his eyelids, which closed, and beneath -which she felt a suspicious moisture. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -“Adieu, Betsy! good-night, Henk! I am going to lie down, I am tired -out!” said Eline in one breath, while still in the hall. - -“Won’t you take a snack of supper first?” asked Betsy. - -“No, thank you.” - -She walked up-stairs, while Betsy shrugged her shoulders. Betsy knew -her and her ways, and from the curt, determined words she guessed that -Eline was in one of those moods of nervous excitability in which she -almost hated any one who attempted to dissuade her from her intentions. - -“What is the matter with Eline?” asked Henk anxiously, when they had -entered the dining-room. - -“Oh, how should I know?” cried Betsy. “It commenced at the concert, and -in the carriage she did not even answer me, as you must have noticed. I -don’t trouble about it, but I think Eline intolerable when she has -those ridiculous fits.” - -Calm and dignified, in her swan’s-down and plush, Eline walked -up-stairs and entered her sitting-room. The gas was alight, and a log -of wood burnt on the hearth. For a moment she looked round, then tore -the white lace from her hair, and the little cloak from her shoulders, -and with bowed head and staring eyes gazed in front of her with a -vacant expression, as though crushed under the weight of a terrible -disappointment. - -In the little Venetian mirror, gracefully suspended with red cords and -tassels, above the white group of Amor and Psyche, whose idyllic -appearance was in mocking contrast with the irony of her thoughts, she -saw herself reflected, glistening in “her pink rep silk,” a pink -aigrette in her hair, the same in which, three months ago, she had -first seen Fabrice. - -And now— - -She almost laughed aloud, she thought herself so ridiculous, she felt a -loathing for herself, as if she had been dabbling in the mire. - -There had been a concert of the Diligentia Society at the Hall of Arts -and Sciences, and at her request, Henk and Betsy had accompanied her -there. Fabrice was to sing; “the popular baritone of the French Opera -had been invited to gather fresh laurels at the concerts in the Hall,” -so ran the paragraph in Het Vaderland. - -Eline did not rest until she was certain of going; at first she had -asked the Verstraetens; Madame Verstraeten did not feel inclined, Lili -was still ill; then she asked Emilie—Emilie had an engagement; at last -she came to Henk and Betsy, who, although neither of them were much in -love with concerts, agreed to go. And Eline had expected great things -in seeing Fabrice in a new sphere, that of a concert-singer. -Fortunately enough, their seats were close to the stage; he—oh! he must -have noticed her at the opera, he would give her a sign, he loved -her—the Bucchi fan! And so Eline went on, creating endless illusions; -her passion filled her mind, more and more with a second, imaginary, -fantastic existence, in which Fabrice and she were the hero and -heroine; a romance of improbabilities and a constantly growing web of -poetical extravagance. - -He thought her beautiful, he worshipped her, they would fly, sing on -the stage, and through poverty and privation pass on to fame and -fortune. A feverish rapture at the thought that she would once more see -him diffused a light pink tint over the amber pallor of her features, -her eyes had sparkled in the veiled glow of her languishing glances; -and—They had gone, she had taken her seat, resplendent with a beauty -that had drawn glass after glass towards her, and the first notes of -the symphony sounded in her ears as the soft strains of a hymn, laden -with joyful whisperings of love and happiness. Then—then he appeared, -amid a thunder of applause. - -And just now, whilst Eline was vacantly staring into the mirror in -front of her, she once more pictured him as he appeared on the concert -platform. - -Clumsily, like a stout carpenter, in a dress-coat that seemed too tight -for him, his short crisp hair greasy and slimy with cosmétique, -plastered down upon his cheeks, his face as red as a lobster, in -contrast to the spotless white of his shirt-front, he presented a -coarse and prosy appearance, with a disagreeably sullen expression -about his bearded mouth and in his blinking, half-closed eyes, shaded -by thick, bushy eyebrows. And it seemed to Eline as though it were the -first time she saw him. All the charm with which he, in his talented -vivid acting, in the brilliant dresses which displayed his figure to -the greatest advantage, had exerted over her, was now dispelled as by -one strong gust of wind; and though his voice resounded with the same -splendid metallic ring which had filled her with rapture at the opera, -she was scarcely aware that he was singing, shocked as she was at her -gigantic mistake. - -Had she then had no eyes? What! that prosy carpenter the ideal of her -fantastic brain! In her despair and disappointment she could have -sobbed with chagrin, but not a feature moved, and she remained sitting -immovable, almost stiff; but a light shudder ran through her, as she -drew the cloak about her shoulders. As long as he sang she looked at -him from top to toe, as though she would no longer spare herself, and -her breath came and went quick with agitation now that she plunged into -the depths of her sorrow without being able to give vent to it. Why had -she not seen him thus when she met him in the Bosch, in his cape, with -his muffler and his big felt, that gave him a romantic appearance, -something of an Italian brigand? Had she indeed so far forgotten -herself? Shuddering, she glanced round the room. No one seemed to -notice her, no one suspected the storm of disappointment that raged -within her; Fabrice absorbed the attention of all. Fortunately none -knew, none would know. - -But the thought that she was safe from the eye of the world gave her no -comfort. Before her lay the shattered ruins of the airy, glass edifice -of her tender visions and fancies, which, pillar by pillar, light and -delicate, she had erected for herself, glittering and fair, higher and -higher still, in fantastic crystal splendour, ever higher, higher, -until as with an apotheosis it seemed to reach the very clouds. - -And now, all was shattered, all visions and fancies of the brain were -vanished, dispelled as by one gust of wind, and not even a chaos was -left of it all, only a terrible vacuum, only that man there, with his -red butcher’s face and his white shirt, and his tight-fitting coat and -grease-beplastered hair. - -Never had she suffered as she suffered that evening. - -For three long months that romance of love had caused her heart to beat -each time his name was pronounced in her presence, each time she saw -his name announced on a placard, and now—one glance at that (Vincent’s -words re-echoed in her ears, full of mockery and derision) “stout ugly -customer” tore that romance out of her soul, and all—all was gone. - -She scarcely spoke, and when in the foyer Betsy, noticing her drawn -pallid features, asked her whether she was ill, Eline calmly replied in -the affirmative—yes, she did feel rather faint. They met the Oudendyks -and the van Larens, they laughed and joked, they mentioned Fabrice’s -name, but Eline sank down on a bench, like a wounded dove, and -listened, nearly swooning with grief, understanding nothing, and with a -vacant smile, to something young Hydrecht was saying to her. - -In the second part of the concert Fabrice appeared again, and again he -was received with jubilant applause, and Eline felt faint and giddy. It -was as though the public in their mad admiration were dancing a satanic -dance round about the baritone, sullen, red, and coarse as ever. Cold -drops of perspiration formed on her brow, her hands felt cold and -clammy in their tight-fitting covering of peau de Suède, and her bosom -heaved with long, oppressive gasps of breath. At last—thank Heaven!—the -concert was over. - - - -Now she was alone, and she could allow herself to be swayed as much as -she chose by that storm of grief; she need no longer nerve herself to -appear bright and smiling before the world; and so, with a sob of -anguish, she fell upon her knees before the Persian sofa, and hid her -little throbbing head in the embroidery of the soft cushions. With her -hands she tried to quench the gasping sobs that shook all her delicate -frame, her hair came away from the clasp that held it, and fell about -her, a mass of glossy waves. - -After the first grief and disappointment, a bitter feeling overmastered -her, as though she had, even were it but in her own eyes, rendered -herself up to an ineffaceable ridicule, to something that was unworthy -and ludicrous, the stain of which would for ever cling to her, and of -which the memory would ever continue to haunt her, like a mocking, -grinning phantom. - -Long she remained thus, her head buried in the cushions, her whole -being writhing in the anguish of her despair. First she heard Henk, -then Betsy, retiring to their rooms, and then Gerard bolting the street -door for the night, the sound re-echoing through the silence that -reigned in the house. After that nothing stirred, and Eline felt -herself very lonely, as though forsaken in the midst of an ocean of -sorrow. - -All at once, a thought made her start. Quickly she raised herself up, -while the brown hair whirled about her shoulders, and an expression of -wounded pride came over her tear-stained face. With a firm resolution -and apparent calmness, she approached her writing-desk, and shuddering -placed the key in the lock, opened the drawer once so dear to her, and -took the album out of it. The red velvet seemed to scorch her fingers -like fire. She pushed a chair by the side of the hearth, where the log -of wood was still aglow with fire; she opened the book. That, then, was -the shrine of her love, the temple of her passion, in which she had -worshipped her idol! And as she turned the pages, the procession of -portraits passed along: Ben-Saïd, Hamlet, Tell, Luna, Nelusco, -Alphonse, de Nevers—for the last time. Roughly, the gilt-edged leaves -tearing under her fingers, she removed the photographs, one by one, and -without hesitation tore them up in little pieces, cracking the hard -cardboard in the angry clutch of her delicate fingers. The pieces she -cast into the fire, one by one, and while the flames were curling round -them she continued her work of destruction, and threw more and still -more into the fire, stirring it up with the poker, until it was all -burnt out. That was past, that shame was purged. - -Then she rose, somewhat relieved. But the torn album, which she still -held in her fingers, continued to scorch her hand, and suddenly -grasping the velvet book, so roughly that it split her finger-nails, -she hurled it, with a subdued cry of abhorrence, far away from her, -against the piano, the chords of which gave forth a dull, low sigh. - -Then she picked up her cloak and her lace from the floor, smoothed the -rumpled silk of her dress, and retired to her bedroom, where a small -milk-white night-lamp diffused a soft, sad light around. - -And it seemed to her as if anew she was plunged into that ocean of -sorrow, that abyss of disappointments, whilst all at once a dispute -with Betsy rose to her mind. But a few days ago, in fact, she had -declared that Roberts, her music-master, was growing old and was no -longer any good, that she intended in future to take lessons of an -artiste—of Fabrice, for instance—and Betsy had asked her if she was -mad, and had declared that such a thing should certainly not be done in -her house. - -It need not be now. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -The severity of the winter relaxed, and spring-time drew near, bringing -with it rain and chill mists, which enveloped the leafless trees in -damp cold shrouds. And everybody talked about Otto van Erlevoort, who -was so full of attention for Eline Vere. Oh yes; it would certainly end -in an engagement, thought the Eekhofs, the Hydrechts, the van Larens, -and Madame van der Stoor. Henk had been to Gelderland with Etienne; -they had stayed at the Huis ter Horze, the seat of the Erlevoort -family, where Theodore, the eldest son, lived summer and winter, with -his wife and children; and during that time Otto had been a frequent -visitor at the Nassauplein, being, ’tis true, mostly invited to spend -the evening there, in company with others; but still, was it not very -strange that he who generally led such a quiet life and went out so -little, should all at once visit the van Raats so frequently? However, -should it come to an engagement, it would be a capital match. Otto was -a nice boy, and had a good position; Eline was most charming, elegant, -rich, as was thought; they were cut out for each other; and besides, -Eline would be glad to get a baron for her husband. In fact people -thought them so well matched that they felt rather sorry at finding -nothing much to say against it, and they searched until at last they -found something. It was really Betsy’s doings, you see, for she did not -get along too well with her sister, and would not be sorry to see her -leave the house decently. Betsy encouraged Otto; it was true Eline -seemed willing, but if it had not been for Betsy, neither he nor she -would have thought of it. Oh yes; Betsy, she was all right in company, -but in the house a maîtresse femme? No, no; worse than that—a vixen! -Good stout Henk she had entirely under her slipper, and if Eline were -not so firm, and showed her teeth a little less, she too would have got -under her thumb. On the face of it, it seemed so nice, so kind, to take -a younger sister, an orphan, into the house, but to people who were so -wealthy as the van Raats that meant nothing. Besides that, the Veres -had money too, and nobody believed that it was all couleur de rose in -the house. Therefore, Betsy found it was time that Eline should marry. -She could have had the chance often enough already; but she was pretty -and hard to please, and so forth. Anyhow, it was her business, was it -not? - -Eline was well aware that people talked about her in that way, but in -her calm dignity she troubled herself precious little about it. She -believed so too; Otto would propose to her, and she thought she had -better accept him. She felt no love, ’twas true—in the way that she -understood its meaning—for van Erlevoort, but there was not the -slightest objection to him. It would be a capital match; she might have -liked a larger fortune, but she thought that with her refined frugality -she would have sufficient tact to spread a semblance of luxury about -her. - -But to say that Betsy encouraged Otto was going a little too far. -Betsy, although she looked upon such a marriage as very desirable, felt -no personal sympathy for Otto, who was too formal and precise to please -her; and she was polite and friendly towards him, but never betrayed -the slightest sign that she thought him a desirable brother-in-law. - -At the van Erlevoorts’, too, some rather indiscreet questions had now -and then been put; but Frédérique merely shrugged her shoulders. She -knew of nothing; Eline had been engaged so often already—in the eyes of -her acquaintances at least—why then should she not be engaged for once -to Otto? she asked, so ironically that they could not guess at the -truth. And still she was aware that mysterious interviews sometimes -took place at home between Madame van Erlevoort, Mathilde, and Otto, a -sort of family council that seemed never to come to a decision. She -felt herself a little pushed aside, and she was too proud, now that -they despised her advice, and did not seem to care for her opinion, to -force herself upon them. Once even, when she had mamma, her sister, and -brother together after dinner, and had noticed they had suddenly ceased -speaking when she entered, while her hand was still on the handle of -the door—they had looked at her with some embarrassment—she had -disappeared, without saying a word, softly closing the door behind her, -in silent grief and chagrin. With Otto, too, after their conversation -about the fan, she sought no further confidence, for did he not look -upon her as a mere child? Very well, she would not trouble him with her -childishness. And only to Lili and Marie she gave herself vent about -Eline, that vain coquette, without a spark of feeling in all her smiles -and poses; but when Paul was present she was silent. He took her part, -too, another victim to Eline’s coquetry, just the same as Etienne, who -would not hear a word against her! What did all those boys see in her? -She could not understand it; she thought Eline nothing but -artificiality and affectation, an actress; in short, Eline was acting. -And although Etienne’s pleading for Eline annoyed her, she felt -herself, now that he was away at the Horze, lonely without him, in the -midst of the bustle of the little van Ryssels and the barking of -Hector, betwixt which Miss Frantzen made desperate efforts to restore -peace and quietness. - -It was Sunday, and Paul van Raat sat before his easel, upon which there -lay a half-finished picture, representing some old Delft ware, an old -Bible, an antique Rhine wine-glass, and a silver ewer, that of -Vincent’s, which he had taken after all—the whole loosely arranged on a -broad, crumpled Smyrna table-cover. But the work proceeded very slowly; -the light was and remained faint, however he might raise or drop his -curtains, and he regretted to find that his fingers could with much -more ease arrange the objects tastefully, than they could afterwards -depict them on the canvas. It was all the fault of the weather! with -such a rainy sky there could sparkle no light in the wine-glass, whilst -it gave the silver ewer the appearance of tin. And he laid aside his -brush, and with his hands in his pockets, and whistling to himself, -walked up and down his studio, a little annoyed at his want of energy. -He would so gladly have finished it, but he could not, exert himself -though he might. - -His room was one artistic chaos, even as his amateurish temperament was -a chaos, out of which a creation rarely came forth. Above a carved oak -cupboard hung a trophy of ancient weapons; the walls, up to the -ceiling, were covered with china, paintings, engravings, and etchings, -and female figures in marble and terra-cotta seemed to surround him, as -with a harem of milk-white and amber-coloured beauties. Books were -scattered about everywhere, out of untied portfolios peeped forth -sketches and engravings; on the ground, round about the easel, lay a -medley of brushes, pencils, and tubes. A large ash-tray was full of -ashes, and everywhere there was dust and rubbish. Leentje, the -parlour-maid, was seldom permitted to enter this room. - -And whilst in his disappointment he walked up and down, it seemed to -him as though it would be a relief to clear away all this artistic -rubbish, throw his easel in the lumber-room, and never more think of a -brush. It seemed to him that when once his room were cleared of art, he -himself would have no further longing for art, and therefore suffer no -more disappointments. It was only a waste of time; he could find better -amusement than that eternal dabbling. And he thought how he would -re-arrange his room, simple and comfortable, so that one could move -about without throwing down a statue here, or stumbling over an Eastern -rug there. Still, the thought was tinged with sadness; it was all -illusion, long since shattered and cast down from its pedestal, the -last remnants of which he was now about to clear away. - -All at once he heard Eline’s laughing voice in the hall, and he went -down-stairs into the back sitting-room, and kissed his mother; she had -come with Ben. Betsy invited Madame van Raat to come round that -evening; there would be no one there besides Madame Eekhof and her two -daughters, Ange and Léonie, Frédérique and her two brothers, and -Vincent. - -“Of course, we depend on you also, Paul,” she said, as she gave him her -hand. “Cela s’entend, n’est-ce pas? Come, little madam, you had better -say yes; it won’t be nice at all of you to refuse; you may go at your -usual early hour, if you like. Ce n’est pas à refuser.” - -Well, little madam would consent; but she really did not feel at home -with all that youth about her. - -“That’s just the thing that does you good, a little cheerfulness. Look -at Madame van Erlevoort,” said Eline; “take example by her.” - -The old lady was not proof against the temptation of her darling’s -voice, and gave herself over; Paul, too, promised to come. And Madame -van Raat looked at Eline, who sat beside her on the sofa, with some -curiosity, as though she were revolving something in her mind. - -“I say, Eline, I must ask you something,” commenced Madame van Raat at -length, in a whisper. “Is it true?” - -Eline felt a faint blush tinge her cheeks, but she acted as though she -did not understand the question. - -“What, little madam? how do you mean?” The old lady smiled, but gave no -explanation. She only asked— - -“Frédérique is coming too this evening, is she not?” - -“I think so, at least——” began Eline. - -“Alone?” - -“No; with—as I said just now—with her brothers, Otto and Etienne.” - -“Oh, indeed,” said the old lady indifferently; but she looked at her -askance, whilst something like joy played in her lustreless eyes. - -Eline smiled, a little embarrassed. - -“I think you are a very naughty old lady,” she said, stroking her muff. - -“Oh, people talk so much, you know; don’t they? One hears this one day, -that the next; but still, sometimes one hears the truth too.” - -“And what have you heard?” - -“Something you ought to have told me long ago, if you had placed any -confidence in me. Now I had to learn it from Betsy.” - -Eline started. - -“Did Betsy say——?” she stammered. - -“Yes, deary; and I had much rather have heard it from you first,” -repeated Madame van Raat, feeling hurt, as an old lady who has been -slighted. - -Eline grew impatient. It was true Otto had asked her, but she could not -yet decide, and it annoyed her. How every one seemed to know about it, -and gave her unasked advice! how every one in veiled and open terms -dared to make all sorts of representations to Betsy! others, under the -cloak of intimacy, had even whispered in her sister’s ears that she -should urge Eline to declare herself. She now had had enough of these -indiscretions, and she was on the point of giving Madame van Raat a -sharp answer, but she restrained herself, and gave no sign of her -annoyance, whilst she murmured close to the old lady’s ear— - -“Well, what should I have told you? It is true Erlevoort has proposed -to me; but I could not talk about it before I knew myself what I should -do.” - -And she just glanced at Paul, but quickly turned her head away again, -feeling annoyed too with him, for he looked at her intently, as if he -wanted to catch her words. Anyhow, she was not going to satisfy their -unmannerly curiosity, and she rose and put a stop to Madame van Raat’s -chat—from which it appeared that the old lady liked Otto very much—with -a kiss and a few little words of endearment. - -And the increased lovingness of Madame van Raat’s trembling kiss, no -less than the playfulness that twinkled in Paul’s eyes, annoyed and -irritated her, whilst she was waiting for Ben, as his grandma was still -caressing him in her arms. - - - -No; Eline did not know how to decide. She shuddered at taking a step -that could make her happy or unhappy for life. It seemed to her as -though her future depended only on one single word, which she hesitated -to utter. She shuddered at the very idea of a mariage de raison, -because in her heart she felt a longing for love, much love, although -it was a feeling which she had done her best to repress after her -recent disappointment. And Otto—she had danced with him, had laughed -and joked with him, but never had his image held her thoughts even for -a moment, and she had always forgotten him as soon as she heard or saw -him no longer. When, however, she saw through his earnest simplicity of -character, when she guessed that he loved her, the idea was sweet to -her, and she told herself that it would pain her were she to cause him -grief, or to refuse him anything, even her hand. And whilst she thus -wilfully blinded herself, the rapture of his quiet passion for her -seemed to pour balm into her wounded heart. - -The thought of becoming his wife, under the influence of her -self-deception, filled her with a serene joy; something like a sweet -vision arose to her mind, and—she began to look at the matter from a -financial point of view. - -Yes; the idea was a cheering one. To be quite independent, to leave her -sister’s house, where, notwithstanding her own little private fortune, -she felt as though she were in fetters, something like a troublesome -guest, whose presence was tolerated for the sake of the world’s -opinion. But beneath all these various reasons which allured her to -welcome Otto with a calm pleasure, there lurked, like an adder as it -were, invisible to her own eye, the bitter regret at the ruin of her -shattered fantasies, and if ever she gave herself away to Otto, it -would be in order to be avenged on Fabrice, and on herself. - -In the meantime, as soon as he had proposed, as soon as it became -necessary for her to reflect, and there was no overwhelming wealth of -passion to which she could yield herself up, she had stepped back full -of terror at the ordeal of giving her decision. - -He, Otto, waited; he at least was discreet. For some days past he had -avoided the house of the van Raats, and she wanted to reward him for -his discretion; blushingly she had asked Betsy to send him a personal, -intimate invitation, as she did to Freddie and Etienne. - -He would come, she would speak to him; and it seemed to her as if some -unseen power pushed her forward down a steep path; as if she would act -otherwise than she did, but that she was powerless to escape her fate. -It seemed to her as though, blindfolded, she groped about after her -happiness, stretching forth her hands in anxious, breathless suspense, -and listening to something that seemed like the echo of the happiness -that she was never, never to find. - - - -Betsy poured out the tea. Madame van Raat and Madame Eekhof sat beside -her on a sofa, and conversed with Emilie de Woude. Henk, with his hands -in his pockets, was listening attentively to Vincent, and Eline, Ange, -Léonie, and Paul were turning over some music at the piano, when Otto -and Etienne entered. - -“And Frédérique?” asked Betsy with surprise, as she held out her hand -to Otto. - -“Frédérique felt a little tired; she is very sorry,” he answered -simply. - -“She is often out of sorts lately,” said Etienne, as though to add some -weight to his brother’s words. - -Eline felt her heart beat. She was very nervous, although she -effectually concealed her nervousness under her happy cheerfulness. It -suddenly seemed to her as if every one were looking at her, were -guessing at her thoughts, and she nearly shuddered to raise her eyes, -out of fear at seeing the glance of all directed upon her. But still, -when she looked up, the aspect of the room was quite unchanged; the old -ladies were still chatting with Betsy and Emilie, Vincent was speaking -almost in whispers to Henk, and the girls and Paul were shaking hands -with Etienne. - -But Otto approached her. She scarcely knew how to carry herself, and -fancied she looked very awkward; but it was just that very hesitancy -that lent something coy to her slender little figure, and gave her a -new charm. She heard how he simply bade her good evening, but in his -voice there sounded something full and rich, like the promise of a -great affection. She suddenly felt conscious of a fresh emotion, a -melting tenderness in her heart which she could not understand. - -He remained standing there, by the piano, at her side; but entered into -conversation with Ange, while Léonie was engaged in boisterous fun with -Etienne. Once or twice Otto glanced at Eline to make her participate in -their chat, and she smiled, without hearing what passed. She could no -longer follow her thoughts; they fluttered about in her mind like a -swarm of butterflies, and it seemed to her as though a chorus of voices -was singing in her ears. She understood that she might not allow -herself to be drawn into the luxurious softness which seemed to -encircle her as with velvet arms, that she durst not give herself up to -dreams in the midst of a room full of people. And after a few laughing -words she turned away, wondering at the subdued tone of her voice, -which sounded as though she was speaking through a veil. - -“Vincent, you play too, don’t you?” she heard Betsy ask, and she saw -the old ladies and Emilie rise, and caught sight of Henk seated at the -card-table in the opposite room, and busily picking out the pearl -card-counters from a Japanese box. She seemed to be moving as in a -dream; she saw the cards spread out on the red cloth-covered table in -the form of a big S; she saw the wax candles burning at the corners of -the table, and Madame Eekhof’s bejewelled fingers drawing a card. - -It seemed to her as though she herself was far away from it all. -Vincent sat down opposite Madame van Raat, Henk was to have Madame -Eekhof for a partner. Betsy returned with Emilie, they would join in -later on. - -“Madame van Raat, shall we be disturbing them if we have a little -music; or is it such a terribly serious card-party?” Léonie asked of -Betsy, pointing to the card-table. - -“Oh no, not at all, amusez vous toujours,” answered Betsy, and she led -Otto and Emilie with her to the sofa. To strangers she was always most -amiable. - -“Come, Eline, do let us hear you; deary, we are dying for your -ravishing melodies!” Léonie continued, with unextinguishable vivacity. -“I will accompany you with my fairy fingers.” - -“No, Léo; not this evening, please. I am not in voice.” - -“Not in voice? I don’t believe a word of it! Come! allons, chante ma -belle! what shall it be?” - -“Yes, Eline, do sing!” cried Madame van Raat from the opposite room, -and then in an embarrassed voice asked her partner what were trumps. - -“Really, little madam; really, Léo, I can’t. I can always tell when I -can’t sing. I don’t as a rule refuse, do I? But you have brought some -music with you, have you not?” - -“Yes; but they are not the sort of songs to commence with, they are for -later in the evening. Something serious first; come, Eline, allons!” - -“No, no; positively not,” said Eline, shaking her head; it was really -impossible. She felt as though in a fever, which brought a faint blush -to her cheeks, caused her eyelids to droop languidly, made her pulses -beat, her fingers tremble. - -“Positively not?” she heard softly repeated, and she glanced round. It -was Otto, who, seated beside Betsy and Emilie, asked her, and looked at -her with his honest, expressive eyes. Once more she shook her head, -still, so she thought, awkwardly; but really with unconscious grace. - -“Really, I could not.” - -And she turned away directly, fearing that he would suspect why. -Besides, she felt very embarrassed when her glance met his, although -there was not the slightest reproach in it. And it seemed to her as -though there was something awkward in the bearing of the people who -filled the rooms with their chat and laughter, something that was -unusual and strange; but still, so she thought, only Betsy and Madame -van Raat knew that Otto had proposed to her, and that she would give -him her answer that evening. Whatever the others might suspect, they -would not let a word escape her that could compel her to lift the veil -from her secret before she chose. And this confidence in their -well-bred discreetness reassured her. - -Léonie however pouted, and thought Eline a tiresome girl. Paul and -Etienne cried that Léo must sing, and were going to fetch her music, -which the girl, with an affectation of shyness, had left in the hall. -All three rushed laughing to the door, but Léonie would not permit them -to look for the music, and they caused a sudden, cheerful stir, that -made the whist-players in the next room look up smiling from their -cards. Etienne however triumphed, and soon returned, carrying in his -uplifted arms the score of The Mascotte. The young Eekhofs were -persuaded, and laughing and halting they warbled, with their thin, -shrill little voices, the duet of Pipo and Betinna— - - - “O, mon Pipo, mon Dieu, qu’t’es bien!” - - -whilst Etienne accompanied them, with frequently doubtful chords. - -Still the duet was a success, and with rising gaiety they soon warbled, -all four of them—Ange, Léonie, Etienne, and Paul—with a delightful -disregard both of time and tune, now the languishing - - - “Un baiser est bien douce chose!” - - -then the comic - - - “Le grand singe d’Amérique!” - - -and their music was wafted—a fluttering of airy melody—gaily through -the rooms. Eline had seated herself on a stool next the piano, and she -leaned her feverish little head against it, almost deafened with -Etienne’s noisy voice. Her hand kept time on her knee, thus still -showing some little interest in what was going on. She heard the chords -of the piano drumming in her ears, and the sound of it prevented her -from thinking and coming to a decision. Constantly she swayed from one -resolution to another. Yes, she would accept; his love, though not -requited, would yet be her happiness; it was her destiny. No; she could -not force herself, she could not without a shadow of love allow herself -to be bound in this way. And it seemed to her as though her thoughts -were continually swayed to and fro, as if a clock were constantly -ticking in her ears: yes—no—yes—no. It would be a relief to grasp at -anything, however blindly. No; she must only decide after calm -deliberation. Oh, if that clock would only cease! she could not -struggle thus with herself; she had not the strength. She would reflect -no longer; she would let herself be carried away by the invisible -powers that drove her down the steep path; she would yield herself up -entirely to the stress of circumstances; they must decide for her. And -she felt a cold shiver overtake her when their glances met, and she -rose. - - - -Vincent addressed her. - -“Well, Elly, have you committed any folly yet; anything outrageously -mad?” asked Vincent, mocking her voice. - -Round the piano it was quieter. Léonie was seated beside Emilie, and -was giving her a vivid description of a little dance at the van -Larens’. Etienne had turned himself round on the piano-stool and was -joking with Ange, who had tumbled on the ottoman in a burst of -laughter, and covered her face with both her little hands. Paul joined -in the laughter and turned over the pages of music. - -“How? what? how do you mean?” stammered Eline, who did not understand. - -“Did you not tell me, a little while ago, that you were about to do -something desperately absurd? now I ask you whether you have hit upon -anything yet? I should like to join you.” - -His banter grated on her ears. In her present unusually serious mood, -the remembrance of that period of frivolity seemed to her like an echo -of vanished wishes. No; she no longer had any desire to give herself -over to equivocal absurdities; she would be sensible and practical, as -Otto was. Equivocally absurd, her disappointed passion—if she might -give that name to her folly—had been more than enough; in future she -would not let herself be carried away. And she crushed the feeling of -bitter remorse that rose in her heart with the sharp sting of an adder. - -While she was searching for some light phrase in answer to Vincent’s -question, a sudden alarm seized her. A new thought struck her. No, it -was no longer possible; she could not go back. Otto, Betsy, all -expected her to accept; they could not help doing so. If she did not -intend to accept him, why then did she have an express invitation sent -him? It was settled. It could not be otherwise, and after her sudden -alarm a great calm came over her whole being. - -“But, my dear girl, I believe you suffer from absent-mindedness,” cried -Vincent laughing. He had asked her why Georges de Woude was not there, -and she had languidly replied— - -“Oh, yes; that is true.” - -Now she laughed in her turn; she was coming to in the blissfulness of -that calm. - -“I beg your pardon, I have a little—” and she placed her hand on her -forehead. - -“Oh! headache, I suppose? Yes; I know the disease,” he interrupted -ironically, and gave her a searching glance. “That headache is a family -complaint with us; we suffer a great deal from headache.” - -In some alarm she looked at him; surely he could not suspect anything. - -“I too got a headache whilst playing, under the hammering of the piano. -It was as though I saw all kinds of colours—green, yellow, orange. When -that little lively girl there—Léonie—sings, I always see orange -colour.” - -“And when I sing?” she asked coquettishly. - -“Oh, then it is quite different,” he resumed, more seriously. “Then I -always see before me a harmonious climax, from faintest pink to purple, -until the whole is fused together in one delightful coalescence. Your -low notes are pink, your high ones purple and brilliant. When Paul -sings ’tis all gray, with a tinge of violet sometimes.” - -She laughed gaily, and Paul—who had heard him—also. - -“But, Vincent, these are visions of an over-excited imagination.” - -“Perhaps so; but sometimes ’tis very pretty. Have you never experienced -it?” - -She reflected for a moment, while Ange and Etienne, who had heard the -latter part of their conversation, came nearer and listened, as did -Paul. - -“No; I don’t think I have.” - -“And have you never felt that some notes remind you of some particular -odour—for instance, opoponax or mignonette? The tones of an organ are -like incense. When you sing that scena of Beethoven, ‘Ah, Perfido!’ I -always smell the scent of verbena, especially in one of the concluding -high passages. When you sing it again, I shall show you.” - -Ange roared with laughter. - -“But, Mr. Vere, how lovely to be perfumed like that!” - -All joined in the laugh, and Vincent too seemed in a good humour. - -“’Tis true, parole d’honneur.” - -“No; but I tell you what, some people remind me of different animals,” -whispered Etienne. “Henk, for instance, reminds me of a big dog, Betsy -of a hen, Madame van der Stoor of a crab.” - -They screamed with laughter. Otto, Emilie, and Léonie rose from their -seats and approached nearer. - -“What is all this about?” asked Emilie inquisitively. - -“Madame van der Stoor is a crab!” yelled Ange, with tears in her eyes -through laughing. - -“And tell me, Eetje, of what do I remind you?” asked Léonie with -glistening eyes. - -“Oh, you and Ange are just like two little pups,” cried Etienne. “Miss -de Woude, with her double chin, is a turkey!” he whispered, wild with -his success, in Ange’s ear, who nearly choked with laughter. “Miss -Frantzen is also a turkey, of another kind. Willem the servant is a -stately stork, and Dien, the cook at the Verstraetens’, a cockatoo.” - -“’Tis a menagerie, a Noah’s ark!” screamed Léonie. - -“And Eline?” Paul asked at last. - -“Oh, Eline,” repeated Etienne, and reflected. “Sometimes a -peacock—sometimes a serpent—at this moment a little dove.” - -They shook their head at his extravagant fancies, but still they -laughed gaily. - - - -“Etienne is always jolly,” said Eline to Otto, when the little groups -were broken up, and she nodded smilingly at Madame van Raat, who had -given her seat at the card-table to Emilie. Vincent in the meantime -became the butt of the little Eekhofs, who asked him if he were going -to open a perfumery store. - -“Yes,” answered Otto. “He has no reason to be otherwise, has he? He has -all that he desires.” - -There was something sad in his words, as if that was not the case with -himself, and Eline could find nothing to reply. For a while they stood -close together, in silence, whilst her trembling hand clasped the fan -at her side, and again her thoughts began to stray. - -“Have you nothing to say to me?” he whispered softly, but without a -tinge of reproach. - -She took a deep breath. - -“Really, oh—I—I cannot yet; forgive me, but really—later, later.” - -“All right, later; I will be patient—as long as I may be,” he said, and -his calm tone brought a little peace to her whirling brain. No; refuse -she could no longer—but still, she could not yet decide. - -And she could not help admiring his quiet tact, as he conversed with -her on subjects in which neither of them took the slightest interest. -That simple, quiet tact constituted his greatest charm; he was so -entirely himself that it seemed as if his manly frankness concealed -nothing that the eyes of the world might not see. Whilst he spoke, he -attempted to cajole neither himself nor her that there was anything -interesting in the conversation; he seemed only to continue it because -he liked to be near her and speak with her. It was so evident in the -full tones of his voice. His thoughts were not in his conversation, and -he made no attempt to conceal the fact. And for the first time she felt -something like pity for him; she felt that she was cruel, and that he -was suffering, and this feeling again aroused within her that melting -tenderness which she could not understand. Refreshments were handed -round. - -“Will you take a lemonade, madam, and a cake?” Eline asked Madame van -Raat, who was sitting somewhat deserted on the sofa, now and again -smiling at the joyous group of young people who were engaged telling -each other’s fortunes. - -“Wait a moment,” she continued to Otto; “the old lady is all alone; I -shall go and keep her company.” - -He gave her a friendly nod and went to listen to Paul’s horoscope, -which Ange was drawing for him. - -Eline took a lemonade, laid a cake on a dish, and offered it to Madame -van Raat. Then she sat down next to the old lady, and took her hand. - -Madame van Raat, however, never touched the refreshments, but looked -Eline straight in the eyes. - -“Well, how is it?” she asked. - -In her present mood of melting tenderness, Eline could not feel annoyed -at the indiscreet question. And she answered, very softly, almost -inaudibly— - -“I—I shall accept.” - -She sighed, and the tears rose in her eyes, when for the first time she -made that resolution. She would accept. And she could find nothing more -to say to the old lady; that one word filled her mind so completely, -that it absorbed every other thought. For a moment, therefore, they sat -next each other in silence, a little turned away from the joyous group -round the cards. And Eline could hear Ange’s shrill, laughing voice, as -she laid down the cards, one by one, on the table. - -“Now just listen, Mr. Erlevoort. I am much cleverer than Madame -Lenormand. Here is yours, king of diamonds. You are surrounded by much -tears, but they are turned into smiles; you will have much money, and -will go and live in a château in the Pyrenees. Or would you rather buy -a villa near Nice? Ah, there she is! queen of hearts, you see. You are -rather wide apart, but all the intermediate cards are favourable. You -will have to struggle against many obstacles before you can reach her, -for she is rather sought after, you see; but—the king of clubs, king of -diamonds, a plebeian even, a social democrat; knave of spades!” - -“Black Jack!” cried Léonie. “Ah, fi donc!” - -Eline smiled, a little frightened, and wiped away a tear from her -lashes; and Madame van Raat, who had also been listening, smiled too. - -“There, just see how beautiful those aces lie,” Ange went on. “No fear, -Mr. Erlevoort, no fear; ’tis all clearing up nicely.” - -“The cards seem favourable,” whispered Madame van Raat. - -Eline gave a little smile of contempt, but she felt a little upset; -Black Jack had reminded her of Fabrice. - - - -The company had risen from the whist-table, and the conversation became -lively and general. The fortune-telling had given an impetus to the -gaiety all round, and Etienne was loud in his protestations to Ange, -who prophesied that he would be an old bachelor. Not he; he declined -with thanks. - -Ange and Léonie persuaded Paul to sing something else, and Léonie -accompanied him in one of Massenet’s songs. In the meantime Betsy -looked attentively at her sister and Otto, and thought she could see -that nothing had yet transpired between them. How Eline did -dilly-dally, to be sure! No; she had managed it better herself. She had -quietly accepted van Raat when he in his clumsiness had proposed to -her. What was Eline thinking about? why in Heaven’s name shouldn’t she -accept Erlevoort? They were quite cut out for one another. And she -worried herself about that sentimental hesitation on the part of her -sister, when she had the chance of marrying into a good family, and a -man in a fair position. Her eye glanced coldly on Eline’s slender form, -to which that hesitating coyness lent an additional charm, and she -remarked it, as she also remarked the unwonted earnestness that seemed -to be diffused over her beauty. What a lot of to-do about such a simple -matter! But when she caught sight of her husband, who was talking to -Otto, she felt even more annoyed; how stupid he was, to be sure! Had he -really no notion as yet why Otto was there that evening? - -Madame van Raat left later than she usually did, still feeling -uncertain in her mind about Eline’s decision. She had to some extent -anticipated a sort of family evening, and she felt decidedly -disappointed. - -It was now long past twelve, and Madame Eekhof and her daughters, -together with Emilie, Vincent, and Paul, prepared to go, the girls, -amid much laughing banter, being conducted by Henk and Etienne through -the hall to their carriage. Betsy, Eline, and Otto remained behind in -the little boudoir, and the silence somewhat embarrassed them. But -Betsy purposely rose and walked into the drawing-room towards the -card-table, as though to gather up the scattered counters. To Eline it -seemed as if the ground was giving way under her. She could not hide -her confusion from Otto’s eyes, and he, although he had had no -intention that evening of reverting to his request, did not feel -himself strong enough to resist the temptation of the moment, now that -they were alone together. - -“Eline,” he whispered, in a broken voice; “oh, must I leave you like -this?” - -Almost in terror she gasped forth her pent-up breath in a trembling -sigh. - -“Otto—really, truly—I—I cannot, not yet.” - -“Adieu then; forgive me, pray, for having worried you a second time,” -he said, and with that he lightly pressed her fingers and went. - -As for her, however, she felt herself suddenly relenting into a melting -tenderness. Trembling and shaking all over, she all but fell to the -floor, but she saved herself by rushing towards the door, where she -clung to the heavy draperies, and altogether yielding herself up to her -emotions, she cried— - -“Otto! Otto!” - -He could not repress a light cry. He quickly turned back and caught her -in his arms, and with his face all aglow with pleasure he led her back -into the boudoir. - -“Eline, Eline!” he cried: “is it true?” - -She made no reply, but flung herself sobbing on his bosom, her spirit -utterly broken with her inward struggles. - -“You will—you will be my little wife, then?” - -She just ventured to lift up her face, whilst she lay trembling in his -arms, her only reply being her tearful glance and her faint smile. - -“Oh—Eline—my darling!” he whispered, and his lips pressed her forehead. - -Voices were heard in the drawing-room. Henk and Etienne were coming out -of the hall, Etienne carrying his overcoat and hat in his hand. - -“But where is Otto all this time?” Eline heard him exclaim, and she -could at the same time distinguish Betsy’s voice, who whispered -something. - -Otto looked smilingly down upon the little weeping head, which, -suddenly alarmed, was pressed against his bosom. - -“Come, shall we go, then?” he asked, and in his simplicity he beamed -with joy. - -Slowly, very slowly, she let him lead her away, still sobbing in his -arms, her head hid on his shoulder. Betsy met them with a laugh, and -pressed Otto’s hand with a significant glance. Henk and Etienne were -somewhat surprised. - -“Van Raat, may I—may I introduce you to my intended?” said Otto. - -It was Henk’s turn to smile now, and Etienne’s, who opened his eyes -wide with amazement. - -“There’s a sly old customer!” he cried, and held his finger up -threateningly. “Who would have expected that this evening, now? what do -you think of that?” - -Eline, however, still sobbing, relieved herself of Otto’s arm, and -clasped Henk round his neck. He kissed her, and his big voice muttered -kindly— - -“Well, I will congratulate you, sissy, with all my heart. But the -deuce! come, don’t cry like that—what’s the idea of that now? Come, -give us a laugh now, for a change.” - -In confusion she covered her face with her hands, and now Betsy thought -that it was her turn to give her a kiss, and she just touched the -dishevelled little locks. - -“I am very satisfied with my little soirée, very satisfied!” she said -significantly. - - - -Henk wanted Otto to stay a little longer, Etienne was discreet enough -to take himself off, but Eline whispered beseechingly that she was very -tired, and Otto did not insist. He was too happy to wish for anything -more; he would go, brimful of joy. And she thought it very nice of him -that he took leave only with a shake of the hand, as she feared he -would have kissed her before all of them. - -The two brothers left, and Eline fled to her room, where she found -Mina, who was just lighting the lamp. The servant-maids had heard the -news from Gerard, who had come into the drawing-room at a very -inopportune moment, and Mina congratulated her, and looked at her with -an inquisitive smile about her lips. - -“Thank you—thank you, Mina,” stammered Eline. - -At last she was alone. She glanced in the mirror, and she started when -she saw the tearful pallor of her face. Yet it seemed to her as though -her soul glided away in a still, blue lake, that noiselessly covered -her with its waters, a spot where an eternal peace seemed to reign, a -Nirvana, the calm rapture of which was to her a new happiness. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -It was a fresh, bright May day, after a week of rain and chill mists. -Jeanne had sent her children—Dora, Wim, and Fritsje—for a walk with -their nurse, to the Schevening Boschjes. She herself, however, had -stayed at home, as she was always much occupied, and she felt lonely in -her apartments, sitting there by herself, doing her knitting and -darning in a pale sunbeam which she, regardless of her carpet and her -curtains, allowed to stream freely into the room. Frans was away in -Amsterdam, where he had gone to consult a physician. It was now -half-past one, thought Jeanne, as she glanced at the timepiece, the -tick of which was heard very distinctly in the quiet room. About -half-past five Frans would return, and the time which she had yet to -wait seemed so many ages to her, although she thought it splendid for -once to be able to do such a lot of work undisturbed. - -The pale sunbeam fell right over her, but it did not trouble her; on -the contrary she basked in its faint warmth. The light shimmered about -her light-brown hair, and imparted to her sunken white cheeks an -alabaster transparency; it shimmered too over her thin, delicate -fingers, as with a steady, rhythmical motion she plied her needle. And -how she longed for the summer! oh, that May, with its damp misty -weather and its rare bright days, might soon be passed! how could she -have cherished any illusion of May being a month of spring beauty, as -the poets falsely said? - -She smiled a little sadly as she bent over the chemisette she was -making, to press down a seam with her fingers; she smiled when she -reflected that every illusion, the smallest even, vanished into air, -while her life rolled on, and the future, which she feared with a -great, mysterious, unspeakable terror, continually faded away, to make -room for that gloomy, monotonous reality. And now—now she shuddered, -now once more that fearful presentiment rose up in her soul, like a -veiled spectre; something would happen to them, some inevitable -disaster would crush them. She took a deep breath, shuddering, her hand -pressed on her bosom; shuddering, not for herself, not for him—but for -the children. - -She rose, it was impossible for her to continue her work, and yet she -must not be idle on the rare day when the children left her -undisturbed. Oh, why was she not stronger? And leaning against the -window-sill she let herself be entirely covered by the ray of sunshine, -like a pale hot-house flower longing for light and air, and she gazed, -absorbed in her thoughts of what was to be, into the little square -patch of garden behind the grocery shop below. A lilac was just budding -into leaf, but in the centre or side beds nothing as yet was growing, -and before Jeanne’s eyes there suddenly arose a vision of Persian -roses, such as those that bloomed on their property at Temanggoeng, -big, like pink beakers, full of sweet odour. It was as though she smelt -that odour; it was as though the blushing tint of those flowers -dispelled the dull gray thoughts, and left in their place merely a -longing for warmth and love. - -Thus she felt when the bell rang, and Mathilde van Ryssel entered. They -had met each other once or twice at the van Raats’, and they were aware -of a certain sympathy between them. - - - -“I have really come with the evil intention of tempting you out for a -walk,” said Mathilde smiling. “It is glorious weather, and it will do -you good.” - -“But, Tilly, the children are out, and Frans as well. Really I can’t, I -have work to do.” - -“What insurmountable objects, to be sure!” laughed Mathilde. “You need -not take care of the house.” - -“No; but when the children come home, and find me out——” - -“Really, Jeanne, that is spoiling them; surely they can manage to do -without you for a moment. I should get my hat and jacket, if I were -you, and come out with me like a sensible girl. What! sewing, are you? -That’s work for a rainy day.” - -Jeanne felt a gentle delight at having the law laid her by that soft -voice, which even in its banter was pervaded with a tone of sadness. -And she yielded, feeling so happy, and ascended the stairs to dress, -almost humming the while. - -She was soon ready, and after numberless admonitions to Mietje, left -the house with Mathilde. The cool wind seemed to lift a mist from her -mind, while her pale checks became cold and almost got a colour. She -listened to her friend, who told her that she had just taken Tina and -Jo to the van Raats’; Betsy and Eline had asked them to go for a walk -with them and Ben. - -“And the others?” - -“Oh! Lientje and Nico had absolutely to go out with mamma; mamma was -already in despair that she could not have the other two. I should not -have dared to take them with me,” she said laughing. “Dear, kind -mamma!” - -They had passed through the Laan van Meerdervoort and reached the -Schevening road, which they followed. There were but few people about. -Mathilde let herself be carried away by her feelings, and revived by -the clear, fresh air, little talkative though she might be generally in -her reserve, and her silent grief. - -“You don’t know how—how good mamma is,” she said. “She lives only for -her dear ones—for her children and her grandchildren. She never has the -slightest want of her own; whatever she thinks or does, ’tis all for -us. And I believe if you asked her which of us she liked best, she -could not tell you. Yes; she is mad with Etienne; Etienne is always -jolly, like a child, and because she too is cheerful and likes a good -laugh, his jokes do her good; but that she cares equally for Frédérique -or Otto, or for my children, I have no doubt. When mamma writes to -London, or Zwolle, or to the Horze, it is one long complaint that she -never sees those stray sheep. You can understand how unhappy she was -when Cathérine and Suzanne married and left her. I believe she would -like to build a sort of hotel, where she could stow the lot of -us—Théodore and Howard and Stralenburg, and all the rest. Dear, dear -mamma!” - -They both were silent for a time. The Schevening road twisted itself -like a long gray ribbon before them, with a distant perspective of tree -stems under a network of budding twigs. The sunshine glistened on the -fresh young foliage waving bright under the clear blue sky, and on the -old stems there appeared a new layer of fresh green moss, soft as -velvet. The chirping of birds vibrated through the clear atmosphere in -tones of crystal. - -“How glorious it is here!” said Mathilde; “one lives anew. But let us -get into this little lane. The people tire me; I dare say we tire them -too; we are out of harmony with nature’s surroundings. I always think -people so ugly amid green foliage, especially in the early spring. You -see, I am beginning to philosophize.” - -Jeanne laughed, brimful of happiness. The world appeared to her -beautiful and good, full of love. And she thought of Frans! - - - -They had seated themselves on a bench, and Jeanne ventured to ask— - -“But how about yourself, Mathilde? You are always talking about your -mamma, but never about yourself.” - -Mathilde looked up with something like a shiver. - -“About myself? I do my best to forget about myself. ’Tis only to the -children that I am still of any use; for them I live and think. If they -were not here, I should be dead.” - -In her words there resounded the memory of a dull grief, faded away -long ago into a placid resignation. - -“If you have imagined yourself very happy, happy through and with one, -for whose sake you would have sacrificed body and soul, and you -observe—But ah! why speak about that?” - -“Does the thought of that cause you such suffering then?” - -“Oh no; I have suffered. There was a time when I thought I should have -gone mad, and I cursed the name of God; but that bitter sorrow has been -transformed into a lethargy that is past. I never think of it, I only -think of my four little darlings. And that thought fills my mind -sufficiently, so that I need not become a living mummy. You know, until -now I have been teaching them myself; but ’tis getting time for Tina -and Jo to go to school. Otto says so at least; but I should miss them -very much, and mamma, of course, sides with me there. Darlings!” - -Perhaps she only fancied it, but Jeanne thought that in that dull -resignation she could detect a tone of suppressed bitterness, and she -could not help taking Mathilde’s hand in hers and whispering pityingly— - -“Poor girl!” - -“Yes; you—you are richer than I, you have your children and you have -your husband,” answered Mathilde with a sad smile, whilst her eyes -filled with tears; “and though you have your troubles and vexations, -you have more—more than I. Let that be your comfort when you have a fit -of melancholy. Just think of me, think that I could yet envy you, if—if -everything were not dead within me, everything except that one thing -alone.” - -“Mathilde! Oh, how can you speak like that? it pains me!” - -“It should not do so, for me it pains no longer. ’Tis only just a faint -memory of what has been, you know; nothing more. But still, ’tis better -to be silent about it; the raking up of these memories does me no good, -but hurts me, though I am almost a mummy.” - -“Oh, Mathilde, how is it possible that you can always keep it pent up -within you? I—I could not do so; I should have to give it vent, that -which made me so——” - -“No, no, Jeanne; oh, truly no, never more! Do not speak any more about -it, or—I—I shall feel myself brought back to life again. No, don’t; -never again—I beg of you.” - -She leaned back against the seat, and tears dropped from her lashes, -whilst with her waxen pallor, and in her sombre black dress, she seemed -a picture of an infinite, unspeakable sorrow. She would not be brought -back to life, she wanted to be dead! - - - -Jeanne did not want to get home too late, so that she might be there -before the children and Frans. So they turned back. - -“And now I dare say I have made you sad, when I wanted to refresh you -with a pleasant walk?” asked Mathilde smiling. “Yes; that comes of all -that philosophy; forgive me, do!” - -Jeanne could find nothing to say, and shook her head smilingly, to -signify that she was really not sad. And in her inmost soul she had to -acknowledge deeply—though Mathilde’s silent despair had at first -grieved her—now that she herself had once more assumed her ordinary -semblance of resignation, that pity for her friend became fused into a -feeling of peace and rest, as far as her own small troubles were -concerned. By the side of that one great ever-reviving sorrow the -latter seemed to her small and insignificant, the easily-borne troubles -of life, whilst had she been doomed to bear Mathilde’s sorrows, she -would have been crushed beneath them. She felt a remorse that she was -ungrateful for all the good that was bestowed on her, and which still -was hers—a remorse that sometimes she dared to feel herself wretched at -her fate, and yet she had been spared so much sorrow! Frans, he might -have his faults, he might be hasty and disagreeable when he was ill; -still he loved her, a and after a moment’s reflection, he was always -ready to own himself in the wrong; still he prized her. And in that -sweet thought, which made her feel proudly contented, she could no -longer feel sad in sympathy, though she considered herself an egotist -on account of it; but oh! it was so rarely that she felt such a -delicious sweetness pervade her little soul; was it wrong then for a -brief moment to feel an egotist’s pleasure? - -Mathilde took her home again, and Jeanne left to herself longed, full -of renewed animation, for her children. Soon they came, refreshed with -their bout in the open, and she embraced them almost impetuously, and -let them tell her where they had been, what they had done. And when -Dora was a little peevish, she joked and played with the little -weakling until she laughed. Life did not seem quite so sombre now; why -not be a bit cheerful? - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -Lili sat reading in the small drawing-room, when Frédérique entered. -She had been paying some visits and came to finish her afternoon at the -Verstraetens’. - -“Is Marie out?” asked Freddie. - -“No,” answered Lili; “we have been out. Marie is still up-stairs.” - -“What is Marie doing there?” resumed Frédérique, in some surprise. -“What in Heaven’s name is she always doing up-stairs lately? Whenever I -come here, she is up-stairs. You haven’t fallen out, have you?” - -“Oh no; not at all,” replied Lili. “Marie is doing some drawing, I -believe; or perhaps she has some writing to do, as she often has.” - -“Writing what—a letter?” - -“Oh, no—a novel, or something of the sort; but you had better not say -anything about it; perhaps she does not like us to know.” - -Frédérique was silent for a moment. - -“Don’t you find Marie rather changed?” she resumed. - -“Changed? Marie? No; I have noticed nothing. Why do you ask?” - -“Oh! for no special reason; I was only thinking. Marie is always so -busy just now, with one thing or another.” - -“But so she has always been; she always tries to find something to do. -Papa says I am the only lazy one in the family.” - -Frédérique was silent; but inwardly she wondered that Lili had not -remarked how lately there was something unusual about Marie, something -excitable and nervous, so very different from her former healthy -cheerfulness. However, she thought, perhaps it was only her fancy after -all. - -“You know we are going to the Oudendyks’ this evening,” she said, to -turn the conversation. - -“Oh yes; you told me some time ago that you were invited. So you are -going out again, eh? You have been a little blasé for a time, haven’t -you? at least you were always taken ill after an invitation,” laughed -Lili. - -“Oh, I felt very ill at ease,” Frédérique answered frankly. “It was, -you know, on account of that folly of Otto’s. But now that there is -nothing more to do in the affair, I wash my hands of it. He ought to -know best, eh? Anyhow, I don’t see the use of fretting because——” - -She did not finish the sentence, and her eyes became moist, as an -expression of haughty disdain formed about her mouth. - -“But, Freddie,” Lili gently remonstrated, “he has known her so long; -all the time she has been living at the van Raats’; and if he really -cares for her——” - -“Oh, there’s nothing I should desire more, than that all may go well, -and they may be happy. But I can’t help it. Eline I cannot bear. Of -course now I force myself to be nice and friendly to her; but you know -it is so difficult for me to make myself appear different from what I -am. But come, let us talk about something else; it can’t be helped now, -and the less I think of it the better. Shall we go up-stairs to Marie?” - -Lili agreed, and they went. In the girls’ sitting-room Marie was seated -at a little writing-table; a few sheets of writing lay before her, but -her head was resting on her hand, and with her pen she was, as if lost -in thought, drawing some strokes across a blank sheet of paper. When -Freddie and Lili entered, she gave a sudden start. - -“We have come to disturb you in your busy occupations,” commenced -Freddie, laughing; “that is, unless you would rather have us go.” - -“Certainly not; you know better, don’t you? So unsociable too of Lili, -to sit down all by herself, down-stairs.” - -Lili did not answer; neither of them was in the habit of staying in her -room in the afternoon, and it was Marie herself who was unsociable. - -“What is it you are writing? is it a secret?” asked Freddie, with a -glance at the scribbled sheets. - -“Oh no,” answered Marie, with seeming indifference. “’Tis something I -started long ago—a sort of diary, a description of our trip in -Thuringia and the Black Forest last year. I wanted to make up a little -sketch about it, something romantic if possible, but ’tis getting -tiresome. I really don’t know what made me start it,” she added softly; -“I’m not cut out for writing, eh?” - -“I can’t say,” said Freddie encouragingly. “Just read us a little of -it.” - -“Yes; fancy boring you with my school-girl scribble. Pas si bête,” -cried Marie laughing. “You see, a person must do something; I felt -bored, so I started writing. I’ll tell you what it is, Frédérique,” she -continued, with a tragic-comic glance at her friend, “I think we are -growing so old. Yes, downright old; we are getting tiresome. Do you -know, ’tis months since we had a good laugh together, as we used to so -often.” - -“With Paul or Etienne?” added Lili, smiling at the recollection. - -“With or without them. We used to amuse ourselves without the boys just -as well. But now—I don’t know what you think, but I think we are all of -us awful bores. We are each of us getting our worries—you have for some -time suffered from an antipathy towards Eline. Lili does not speak a -word; she is either in dreamland all day, or overwhelms me with her -romantic musings; and as for myself, out of sheer ennui I start writing -about blue mountains and misty horizons.” - -“What will it all end in?” laughed Freddie. “The future looks very -dismal, especially in your case. Behind those blue mountains and the -misty horizon there is something hidden, I know.” - -“Something hidden?” repeated Marie. “Oh no, not at all; nothing.” - -Frédérique fancied she could see a tear glide through Marie’s fingers, -which she held in front of her eyes. Lili kept herself occupied -arranging a few books in a bookcase. - -“Marie,” whispered Freddie softly, “come, tell me. Is anything the -matter? can I do anything for you? I wish you would tell me if there -is. I can see there is something that troubles you.” - -Marie rose, and turned her face away. - -“Oh dear, no, Freddie; don’t you fancy anything of the sort. You are -getting just as romantic as Lili. There is nothing, really. ’Tis only -that I feel wretchedly bored, that is all; I want some cheerfulness. -Hallo, old chappie!” - -Her brother entered, somewhat surprised. - -“Eh! what are you three doing here? Talking about your gentleman -friends, I’ll bet!” he cried noisily. - -“What a wise remark,” answered Marie. “Just like the men. ’Tis your -natural vanity that makes you say such a thing, though you are but a -boy yourself. Wait a bit, I’ll teach you.” - -She ran after him round the table, whilst he, mocking her, deftly -skipped over a chair, which he quickly placed in her way. Freddie and -Lili roared with laughter at their antics. All at once he rushed out of -the room, and Marie after him. - -“What a girl that Marie is!” cried Freddie wonderingly. It passed her -understanding. After a while Marie returned, all out of breath. - -“Did you catch him?” asked Lili. - -“Of course not,” she answered. “That boy is like a goat, so nimble, he -skips over everything. Ah, ’tis a treat, a run like that. I wish I were -a boy.” - -Freddie left, and Lili accompanied her down-stairs; Marie was coming -down directly. But she stayed at the window for a while, and looked -out. In the falling twilight, which was wrapping everything in a -transparent ashen-hued mist, lay the canal, green and still, -overshadowed by the leafy boughs of the bordering trees. Beyond it lay -the Maliebaan, dim in the gathering shadows, with a moist thin veil of -grayish dew rising upward from its surface. - -Marie looked out and sighed. Yes; she would always laugh away that -feeling, that cruel, gnawing bitterness, out of her heart, as she had -done just now. She was growing old, downright old, and tiresome. -Without mercy for herself she would wrench away that blossom from her -soul, she would again and again blot out that vision. It was torture, -but still she must do it. - -And as she stared away into that melancholy mist, ascending in gray -layers over the valley yonder, a beloved face rose up before her moist -eyes—a manly face, with an expression of frankness and sincerity in its -eyes, and beaming with a winning smile; but it was not upon her, but -upon Eline, that that smile threw its brightness. - - - -The tramcars running between the Ouden Schevening road and the Kurhaus -were thronged. At the junction of the Anna Paulownastraat and the Laan -Copes van Cattenburgh they were stormed by waiting crowds, and in a -moment they were filled to overflowing—inside, outside, and on the -platforms. There was a vast amount of pushing to obtain even the merest -standing-room, among the numbers of ladies, who, nervous and excited, -fluttered about in their gay toilets, peering through the windows in -the hope of finding a vacant spot. The conductors pulled the bells, and -shouted to those who were left behind, who turned away and began to -watch for the next car to arrive. The horses started, and the faces of -those who had managed to wedge their way in, and were seated packed -close as herrings, now beamed with happiness after the successful -struggle. - -“What a crowd! It’s fearful,” said Eline, looking down upon the surging -mass with a placid smile. - -She sat beside Betsy in the open landau, with Henk and Otto facing her. -Dirk, the coachman, had been compelled to halt a moment, but now again -the long file of carriages began to move. Herman, the little footman, -sat on the box with crossed arms, motionless and straight in his light -gray livery with its bright buttons. - -“There will be a terrible crowd,” said Betsy. “But it’s in the open -air, so we need not fear we shall get no seat.” - -Not a breath of wind stirred through the dense foliage, and after a day -of intense heat and glaring sun, with the gathering twilight a leaden -heaviness seemed to descend over everything. Eline, rather faint with -the heat, leaned back with pale cheeks and spoke little; only now and -then glancing at Otto through her drooping lashes, with an archness -that was full of happiness. Betsy kept up a lively conversation with -van Erlevoort, for Henk was not very talkative either, reflecting as he -was whether it would not have been wiser to have stayed at home -drinking a cup of tea in the garden, rather than rush away directly -after dinner to Scheveningen. - -Betsy, however, robust and cheerful, enjoyed the fragrant air, of which -she took deep breaths. She enjoyed the soft, padded cushions of her -luxurious, well-appointed carriage, contrasting so brightly with the -other vehicles; she enjoyed even the sight of Herman’s dignified -attitude, and of the silver initials worked on the hangings of the box. -She was contented with herself, with the luxury that she displayed, and -contented with her company. Eline was so charmingly pretty, just like a -little doll; her dress of light gray étamine was almost striking in its -simplicity, while the coquettish little hat enclosed her face in a -framework of silk. Erlevoort was such a fine-looking fellow, and so -distingué; Henk looked so comfortable and stout, so well-fed—her -husband was really not so bad; she might have fared worse. And she -nodded to her acquaintances as their carriage passed by with her most -captivating smile; no, she must not seem proud, though her fine bay -mares ran never so fast. - -“Oh, glorious! the air is getting fresher, I am beginning to revive!” -murmured Eline, raising herself up, with a deep breath, when they had -passed the Promenade. “I feel I want some fresh air, after the -temperature of this afternoon.” - -“Come, child, it was delicious!” declared Betsy. “The sort of weather I -should always like to have.” - -“Well, all I can say is, I should be dead after a month of it. I say, -Otto, you are laughing; tell me honestly now—do you think it’s -affectation, or do you really believe that I cannot bear such heat?” - -“Of course I believe you, Elly.” - -She looked at him with feigned anger, and shook her little head -reproachfully. - -“Elly again,” she whispered. - -“Oh yes; how stupid of me. Well, I do believe I know something!” he -whispered back delightedly. - -“What are you two planning together?” asked Henk, with curiosity. - -“Nothing at all; eh, Otto? A little secret between us; hush!” and she -held her finger to her mouth, enjoying their mystification. - -The fact was she did not wish Otto to call her by the familiar -diminutive every one else gave her. She wanted him to invent one for -himself alone, one that was not worn and stale, something new and -fresh. He did not think it very childish of her, eh? And he had -exhausted himself trying to think of one, but whatever he said she was -not satisfied; he had better try again. Well, had he found something at -last? - -“I am really anxious to know what it is,” she whispered once more, -smiling. - -“Afterwards,” he whispered back, and then both smiled. - -“Look here, until now I have found you less tiresome than most engaged -couples, so don’t you, too, start these intolerable inanities,” cried -Betsy indignantly, but without much anger. - -“Well; and how about you and Henk then, at one time!” laughed Eline. -“Eh, Henk?” - -“Ah, I should think so!” answered Henk laughing, whilst she, at the -thought of her sister’s betrothal, now years ago, felt a faint -recollection of her feelings in those days rise to her mind, like -something very far away and strange. - -But they had long passed by the villas along the Badhuis road, and by -the Galeries at the rear of the Kurhaus, and they drew up at the steps -of the terrace, by the sea. - - - -The Eekhofs and the Hydrechts were seated at a little table close to -the band-stand, when Betsy, Eline, Otto, and Henk passed one by one -through the turnstile. They never saw them, however, and walked on, -Otto’s hand resting on Eline’s arm. - -“Look, there are the van Raats, and Miss Vere, with Erlevoort!” said -young Hydrecht. “They are here every evening lately.” - -“How ridiculously plain Eline dresses just now!” remarked Léonie. “What -is the meaning of that, I wonder? Nothing but affectation. And just -fancy—a bonnet and veil! Every engaged girl thinks she must wear a -bonnet and veil. Ridiculous!” - -“But they are a nice pair,” said Madame Eekhof. “There are less -suitable matches.” - -“Anyhow, they walk decently,” said Ange. “Sometimes those engaged -couples make themselves ridiculous—Marguerite van Laren, for instance, -who is always brushing the dust off her intended’s coat.” - -Betsy meanwhile, bowing and smiling right and left, thought they had -better not walk about any more, but look for a table somewhere. - -Fortunately it was pleasant everywhere; it was even desirable to sit at -some distance from the band-stand, otherwise the noise would have been -too great. So they sat down at a little distance, at the side of the -Conversatie-zaal, where there were still several tables unoccupied, but -from where they could see and be seen. - -It was a constant interchange of nods and smiles, and Betsy and Eline -now and again whispered amusedly when they caught sight of some absurd -toilette or ridiculous hat. Eline herself was very satisfied at the -simplicity with which, ever since her engagement, she had dressed -herself; a simplicity which, elegant though it still was, was in too -great contrast with her former luxurious toilettes not to be much -remarked. That simplicity, she thought, brought out her captivating -beauty in a sort of plastic relief, and modelled her slender form as -though it were a marble statue. In her eyes it veiled her former -frivolousness as with a film of graceful seriousness, a seriousness -which to Otto, with his native simplicity, must be most attractive. - -She could not help being as she was; she felt it difficult to be -nothing but herself; but, on the other hand, it was easy for her to -imagine herself playing one or another part: this time it was that of -the somewhat affected but ever-charming and happy fiancée of a manly -young fellow, one of her own circle, who was liked everywhere for his -unaffected pleasantness. Yes; she was happy—she felt it, with all the -delight of a satisfied longing in her heart, which had so long craved -for happiness; she was happy in the peace and calm which his great, -silent love—which she guessed at rather than understood—had given her; -she was happy in the blue stillness of that limpid lake, that Nirvana -into which her fantasy-burdened soul had glided as into a bed of down. -So happy was she, even to her very nerves, which were as loosened -chords after their long-continued tension, that often she felt a tear -of intense gratefulness rise to her eye. The stream of people passed by -her incessantly, and began to whirl a little before her eyes, so that -once or twice she did not return their greetings. - -“Eline, why don’t you bow? Can’t you see Madame van der Stoor and -little Cateau?” whispered Betsy reproachingly. - -Eline looked round, and gave her friendliest nod, when Vincent Vere and -Paul van Raat approached them. They remained standing, as there were no -vacant chairs to be seen. - -“Would you two like to sit down for a moment; that is, if Eline cares -to walk?” asked Otto, half rising. - -Eline thought it was a capital idea, and whilst Vincent and Paul took -their seats, she and Otto slowly followed the stream of promenaders. -They approached the band-stand, and the high violin movements in the -overture to Lohengrin were swelling out fuller and fuller, like rays of -crystal. - -A group of attentive music-lovers was ranged about the band in a -semi-circle. Otto wanted to let Eline pass through the narrow gangway -between the rows of chairs and the standing group, but she turned -round, and whispered— - -“Listen for a moment; shall we?” - -He nodded his head, and they stood still. How she enjoyed the stately -swell of melody. It seemed to her as though it were not notes of music, -but the blue waters of her lake that flowed by, limpid and clear as the -stream along whose bosom Lohengrin’s bark had glided, and she beheld -the swans, stately and beautiful. - -At the loud fortissimo she took a deep breath, and while the brittle -threads of harmony brought forth by the violins spun themselves out, -thinner and thinner in texture, the swans, stately and beautiful, also -floated away. - -The applause resounded on all sides; the semi-circle broke. - -“Beautiful—oh, how beautiful!” murmured Eline as in a dream. And -delightedly she felt Otto’s hand searching for her arm; life was sweet -indeed! - -“Don’t you think it foolish? I always feel myself so—so much better -than at other times, when I hear beautiful music; it is then that I get -a feeling as though I am not quite unworthy of you,” she lisped at his -ear, so that none overheard her. “Perhaps it is childish, but I really -cannot help it.” - -She looked at him smiling, but almost anxiously, in suspense at what he -would answer. She often felt some fear at what he might think of her, -as though by one thoughtless word she might lose him; for she did not -yet understand how and why he loved her. - -“Oh, don’t for heaven’s sake place me on such a lofty pedestal,” he -answered kindly. “I feel myself so very commonplace, so little raised -above others; you must not put yourself so far beneath me. You not -quite unworthy of me! What puts that idea into your head? Little silly! -Shall I tell you something? I really don’t think that you know -yourself.” - -Could he be right? she wondered; did she not know herself? A glad -surprise filled her; she thought she knew herself so well. Maybe there -was yet something in her soul of which she knew nothing, something -perhaps from which her love for him flowed? Was it left for him to -disclose to her her own inward nature? - -“Oh, Otto——” she began. - -“What?” he asked softly. - -“Nothing. I like you so much when you say anything about yourself and -me,” she murmured, full of a blissful feeling to which she could give -no utterance. His hand gently pressed her arm, and a tremor passed -through her, as they walked on amid the laughing, pushing throng -between the tables, stared at by all who knew them. - -“Look at Erlevoort and Eline there, walking blissfully side by side, -perdus dans le même rêve. They don’t see us again!” cried Léonie, -almost regretfully, as she passed by them with Hydrecht. - - - -Eline and Otto all at once heard their names softly mentioned. They -looked round and saw Madame Verstraeten with Marie, Lili, and -Frédérique seated at a little table. Georges de Woude had already risen -and nodded to them, smiling. They came nearer and shook hands. - -“Hallo, Freddie!” said Otto, surprised. - -“Madame Verstraeten was kind enough to ask me to come,” she answered, -by way of explanation. “Otto, we have just received a letter from the -Horze: they are all quite well, and they want to be remembered to you. -To you too, Eline.” - -“Thanks, very much!” replied Eline cordially, while for a moment she -sat down in Georges’ chair beside Madame Verstraeten. Marie had turned -very pale, but it was not noticeable under her white veil. - -“Théodore writes that Suzanne and van Stralenburg, with the baby, are -coming to stay with them next week, and mamma is all excitement about -it.” - -“What, was mamma going to the Horze? And Howard is coming here?” - -“Yes; that’s just the dilemma.” - -“Dear old Madame Erlevoort!” said Madame Verstraeten. - -“Percy wrote he was coming towards the latter part of July. Well, van -Stralenburg cannot stay longer than the twentieth, writes Théodore. So -you can understand”—and she forced herself to look kindly at Eline—“you -can understand how mamma feels about it. To journey to Zwolle, that she -will not be able to manage; and to leave the Hague before the -twentieth, while Howard and Cathérine are coming—that of course she -cannot do.” - -“But Howard is also going to the Horze later on, is he not?” asked -Otto. - -“Yes; but he will want to stay a little in the Hague first, and take -advantage of Scheveningen,” answered Frédérique. “Mamma is thinking of -all sorts of plans; she would be in despair if she did not see her new -grandchild this summer, you can understand that.” - -“Well, then, I shall prevail on mamma to go to Zwolle with me, one of -these days; that will be the best way out of it,” answered Otto. “The -journey to the Horze is still more troublesome.” - -“You might try,” said Frédérique. “That would certainly solve the -problem.” - -Meanwhile Lili told Madame Verstraeten that she would take a walk round -with de Woude, and the old lady asked Otto to sit down for a moment -until they returned. - -“How pretty Eline is, is she not, de Woude?” asked Lili. Since she had -been skating with him she allowed him to call her by her name, and she -called him simply de Woude. “I can’t help remarking it whenever I see -her.” - -“Yes; she looks very nice,” answered Georges indifferently. - -“No; I think she is downright pretty,” persisted Lili. “How is it -possible that you don’t think her pretty? What a curious taste you -have, to be sure!” - -He laughed gaily, in the enjoyment of a secret thought. - -“I can’t help it—can I?—if she leaves me entirely indifferent; I have -another ideal of beauty. But if you absolutely want me to think her -pretty, why then I’ll take another look.” - -“Oh no, no; I don’t care a bit,” she answered, also laughing; “only all -the gentlemen think her pretty, that’s why I can’t understand that you -don’t. And I can’t make out either why Frédérique does not like her. If -I were a man, I should fall madly in love with her.” - -“And fight a duel with Erlevoort, I suppose.” - -The first part of the programme was at an end, and the throng of -promenaders grew denser. Georges and Lili found themselves hemmed in on -all sides, and they could proceed no farther. - -“’Tis awful,” said Lili. “I don’t see any pleasure in it when there are -so many.” - -“Shall we make our way to the sands?” he asked softly. - -“If we can,” said Lili, glad at the idea. “Mamma will not mind, I -suppose?” - -“Oh, of course not, under my care,” he said reassuringly, and with -evident pride. - -They quickly passed through the turnstile. With a feeling of relief -they descended the steps of the terrace, crossed over the road, and -hastened down the broad flight of steps that led to the sands. Here and -there a Scheveninger was strolling along with a slow, measured, heavy -step, keeping time with the swaying of his companion’s thick mass of -petticoats. - -And straight in front of the Kurhaus, bathed in the yellow glow of the -gas-light, the waves were washing with refreshingly cool sound. - -“Ah!” cried Lili, “how much nicer it is here!” - -The sea, calm and unruffled, was flowing on in tints of green, azure, -and violet, here and there capped with glistening white foam all along -the beach. In the sky above myriads of stars sparkled, and the Milky -Way seemed like a cloth of pearls in the midst of the mysterious -infinity of faint blue. From out of the sea there seemed to rise an -indefinable murmur, like that produced by a gigantic sea-shell. - -“How beautiful and quiet it is here, after the noise yonder; it’s quite -entrancing!” murmured Lili in ecstasy. - -“Yes,” answered Georges. - -She nearly stumbled over something; thereupon he asked her to take his -arm, and she did so. It seemed to him as though he had very much to say -to her, and as though he would never be able to express himself without -appearing ridiculous. She too felt a delicious longing to open her -mind, to speak about the sea and sky which seemed to her so beautiful; -but she felt a little ashamed at the poesy that was in her heart, which -contrasted too drolly with the prosy commonplace circles in which they -generally moved. She feared to appear affected, and she said nothing. -They both kept silent as they slowly walked along, with the roar of the -sea in their ears, and with a soft soothing feeling in their hearts -that seemed to them more expressive than words. - -They went slowly on, wrapt in their solitude, with the calm of the sea -before them. And he felt that he must say something. - -“I could go on walking like that with you for ever,” said he, and his -bantering tone somewhat concealed the meaning of his words. - -She laughed; it was only fun after all. - -“Then perhaps I might get tired.” - -“Then I should carry you.” - -“You couldn’t; my weight would crush you.” - -“Do you think so little of my strength then? Come, I’ll just show you.” - -“But, Georges, how dare you? I shall end by getting angry with you, at -least if you don’t beg my pardon at once.” - -“How shall I set about that?” he asked, with mock humility. - -She let him spin out a long rigmarole— - -“I, Georges de Woude van Bergh, humbly apologize to —— for having—” and -he repeated every word, while their echo vibrated pleasingly upon her -ear. - -For she was not quite so angry as she wanted to appear. It seemed to -her as though their walk would never end, as if they would continue -strolling along that light surging strand until they should come within -sight of a fresh horizon. - -“Come, we must return,” she said suddenly; “we are going too far.” - -They turned back, and were quite frightened when they saw how far away -the Kurhaus lay, bathed in a ruddy glow of light; but to her that alarm -suddenly melted into a tenderness, a soft indifference; what cared she -for the others over there? they were together by the sea. - -“Lili, really we must hurry,” said he laughing, somewhat confused. -“Your mother will wonder where we have got to.” - -This time she felt quite hurt at his hurrying; he could not be -sensible, then, of that tender indifference; he did not feel as she -did, that they were together by the sea, and that all the rest was -nothing, nothing! - -“I really cannot trudge at such a pace through the sand,” she said, a -little vexed, and she clung closer to his arm. But he was inexorable; -she had better lean on his support if she could not get along fast -enough. He certainly could be surprisingly obstinate under the veil of -his gentle affability. - -“But, Georges, I cannot really, I am tired out!” she panted peevishly, -although the would-be anger in her voice melted away in a coaxing tone. -He, however, laughingly rushed up the broad steps, nearly dragging her -after him, with her arm clasped fast in his own, and really she could -not help laughing. It was very funny, certainly, rushing along in that -way in the darkness. - -Somewhat more slowly they ascended the little steps leading to the -terrace, and while Georges was searching for the enclosure tickets, -Lili shook the sand from her dress. - -The second part of the programme had commenced, and the band was -blaring out the metallic fanfares of the march in the Reine de Saba; a -few promenaders were still about, but there was no longer a crowd. They -hurried with apparent indifference, although Lili’s cheeks were red as -fire, to their little table. Madame Verstraeten was seated alone with -Marie and Frédérique; Otto and Eline were gone. - -“Good gracious, where have you two been hiding?” cried Marie, while -Georges and Lili sat down on the chairs, across which a cloak had been -thrown to reserve them. “I have been walking with Paul, and Eline and -Otto could not really keep your seats for you any longer.” - -“We made almost superhuman efforts to reserve them, did we not, madam?” -added Frédérique. - -“But where have you been, then?” asked Madame Verstraeten wonderingly. -“In the Conversazione Room, looking at the dancing?” - -Georges told them of their walk by the sea, and Lili inwardly admired -him for the tact with which he replied to her mother’s questioning. - - - -Henk and Vincent were seated by themselves at a table near the -Conversazione Room, while Betsy and young Hydrecht were strolling about -in a somewhat too boisterous flirtation, and Eline and Otto had sat -down for a moment next to Madame Eekhof, whom they had passed by four -times without any greeting, as Ange declared. - -“I was nearly dead with this terrible heat to-day,” muttered Vincent. - -“Yes; Eline can’t bear it either,” answered Henk, emptying his glass of -Pilsener. - -Vincent drank nothing; he felt rather giddy at the incessant surging -round and round of all these people. He rarely went to Scheveningen; in -the morning the heat was unbearable on the scorching sand, and at night -it tired him too much. Once or twice he went, just for the sake of -saying he had been. - -A question to Henk was on his lips, one which he scarcely dared to -put—a request for money. The second time that Henk had advanced him -money, he had not done so with his usual brusque bonhomie. Vere’s -eternal impecuniosity was beginning to tire him—it was always the same -tune! This had not escaped Vincent; but still he could not help it, and -he began with an introduction, with an assumed lightness of manner. - -“I think I shall be able to repay you part of my debt this week, van -Raat. I am expecting money. Only for the moment I am awfully short. If -I had not taken advantage of your kindness so often already, I would -ask your assistance once more; but I am afraid I’m getting indiscreet -now. I shall see and get along just for this week.” - -Henk did not answer. With his stick he sat slowly beating time to the -music. - -“It’s a nuisance that I did not come to an arrangement with that -quinine affair,” resumed Vincent. “But you see I have just received a -letter from a friend in America; he is rich and is well connected, and -will get me an introduction to a business house in New York. But for -the moment, you know—I say, van Raat, you would be rendering me an -immense service—lend me another fifty florins.” - -Henk turned round to face Vincent, with a passionate movement. - -“Look here, Vere, is there never going to be an end of that bother? I -must frankly admit that it is beginning to sicken me. One day ’tis -fifteen hundred florins, then a hundred, then fifty. What—what in -Heaven’s name are you waiting for then? What is it you intend to do? -why do you laze about so, if you haven’t a cent in the world? why don’t -you try and get something to do? I can’t keep you, can I?” - -Vincent had felt a vague presentiment of a coming storm, and let the -curt disjointed sentences which Henk in his clumsy passion grunted out, -pass over him without contradiction. But his silence made Henk feel -almost embarrassed, and the sound of his own voice reverberated roughly -in his ears. Still he proceeded— - -“Then again you talk a lot of nonsense about money from Brussels—or -from Malaga; another time it is to come from New York. When is it -coming, I should like to know? You understand, it won’t ruin me if you -don’t pay me what you owe me, neither shall I ever trouble you about -it; but taken altogether it’s now not far short of two thousand -florins, and I am getting sick of it. Don’t in Heaven’s name keep -loafing about in the Hague here; look for something to do.” - -Henk’s passionate tone was already giving way to a kindlier one, but -Vincent remained silent, his eyes fixed on the points of his boots, -which he was gently tapping with his stick, and Henk was at a loss what -to say next. And it was a relief to him when Vincent at length lifted -up his head and whispered— - -“It’s quite true—you are right—but it’s not my fault—circumstances. -Anyhow I shall see what I can do—excuse my troubling you.” - -He slowly rose from his seat, while Henk, whom that placid resignation -greatly embarrassed, sought in vain for some appropriate phrase. - -“Well, good-night, au revoir!” Vincent said with a faint smile, and he -nodded to Henk without offering him his hand. “Good-night; I must be -off.” - -Henk wanted to give him his hand, but Vincent had already turned his -back on him, and Henk saw him slowly picking out his way through the -throng, now and then raising his hat with a languid movement. - -Very dissatisfied with himself, Henk remained seated alone at his -table. After a while, however, Eline and Otto returned and laughingly -expressed their sympathy for his loneliness. Betsy too was soon after -brought back by Hydrecht, whose hand she cordially pressed. It was -late; many people had already left before the last number, and now that -the concert was at an end, the crowds slowly moved away through the -Kurhaus. Gradually the noise of the music and laughter-laden atmosphere -subsided into a restful calm, whilst here and there the gas-lamps were -already being extinguished, and only a stray group or two were still -sitting down, enjoying the balmy air, which was growing fresher and -purer at every moment. - -“It’s glorious here; shall we sit a little longer?” asked Betsy. - -“Let us rather have a drive round,” said Eline; “at least unless you -think it will be getting too late, and the horses are not tired, Henk.” - -Betsy thought Eline rather eccentric to want to drive so late at night, -but still the idea pleased her. And they walked to the rear of the -Kurhaus, where the carriage was waiting. - -Eline thought the wind had risen, and preferred to sit forward under -the half-closed hood, next to Otto. Betsy told Dirk to drive home -through the Van Stolkpark. - -The outlines of the villas looked dim and shadowy between the vague, -dark masses of foliage, through which now and then a gentle gust of -wind rustled with a lulling sound. But the clatter of the horses and -the light rumbling of the wheels along the road drowned the sighing of -the wind with a noise that remained unbroken by words. - -Betsy lay back comfortably, and enjoyed the cool night air. Henk was -still under the uncomfortable influence of his conversation with -Vincent, whom he thought he had hurt, and Eline let her thoughts wander -away in a delicious reverie. She had removed her hat, and she bent a -little towards Otto, and listened to his regular breathing. He, -effectually hidden in the shadow of the raised hood, had his arm round -her waist, and had drawn her a little towards him, so that her cheek -nearly lay on his shoulder. And she was very happy, she wished nothing -more than thus, in his arm, to be driven along in the evening breeze, -beneath the gently rustling foliage. She could conceive of nothing -sweeter, than thus to lean against him, to feel the passage of his -breath through her hair, and his arm about her waist like a girdle of -love. - -And yielding to the delicious influences of the moment, she let her -head fall on his shoulder. - -“What name have you thought of for me?” she whispered in his ear. - -“Nily,” he whispered back, and whilst she felt his arm clasp her waist -more closely, her lips inaudibly repeated the name, the echo of which -resounded through her being like a caress of jubilant love. - - - -Mathilde van Ryssel had taken a tent by the sea, and told Jeanne -Ferelyn to come and sit there with her children as often as she chose. -At first, out of diffidence, Jeanne had only occasionally availed -herself of the invitation; but Mathilde was pressing, and Jeanne now -came very frequently. Sometimes they both arranged that they should -start in the morning early, and take some sandwiches—the children could -get plenty of milk to drink at the milk stall; and so they would sit -down, both of them under the awning of the tent, chatting over their -work, whilst their children were delving with their little spades in a -big sand-pit in front of them, or were busy along the beach, -constructing the most wonderful aqueducts. And Jeanne fancied that her -children were getting more robust and less peevish, now that they were -in company with the noisy, playful little van Ryssels, and she and -Mathilde gazed delightedly at the boisterous little band. Jeanne -especially felt the influence of that frequent intercourse with -Mathilde, in whom she had found a friend who understood her troubles, -and who, with her sad experience and placid resignation, was ever ready -to advise and aid her. They spoke frequently about their children and -their domestic affairs, and Jeanne thought Mathilde, used though she -was to the cosiest of surroundings, exceedingly practical and frugal. - -But those pleasant days by the sunny seaside did not last long, for the -Ferelyns had to leave. They were going to Boppard, where Frans was to -undergo the cold-water cure, and Jeanne racked her brains trying to -calculate the probable expenses of the trip. How could they afford to -stay at Boppard perhaps for six weeks, with their three children, while -at the same time they could not give up their rooms in the Hugo de -Grootstraat? - -Madame van Erlevoort, with Otto and Eline, who wanted to make the -acquaintance of her fiancé’s relatives, had been to Zwolle for a day or -two, and the old lady was in raptures about the little van Stralenburg, -a baby plump and firm as any she had seen, with such a head of curly -dark hair. She was grateful to Otto for having pressed her to make the -journey to Zwolle; to the Horze she went every summer, and the trip to -her country seat was such an ordinary occurrence that she saw no -inconvenience in it at all; but any other removal from her home circle -pained her, as though she were tearing herself away from her dear ones -for ever. It was a luxury to her to be back once more in her roomy -house on the Voorhout, with its somewhat faded, old-fashioned -furniture, but full of comfort and ease. Eline thought the van -Stralenburgs most charming people: Suzanne, a darling little mother, -not pretty, at times rather careless in her dress, but so unaffected -and genial, so mad with her little boy, that it was a treat to behold -her; her husband, a good-natured, kindly fellow, but thoroughly spoilt -by his wife, who was constantly at his beck and call, and who ran up -and down the stairs for him, in a way that made Eline sometimes roar -with laughter. No, she would never be like that to Otto; he had better -be sure of that. But although she thus spoke laughingly to Otto, at the -bottom of her heart she felt it would be bliss indeed thus to devote -oneself entirely to one’s husband, as Suzanne devoted herself to van -Stralenburg; to exist but for him and be his faithful slave. - -And then a charming picture of home life with Otto, of the life that -would be hers, would arise to her imagination, ever active, and ever in -want of vivid imagery, which even in the happiness of to-day could not -refrain from calling into being a yet happier future. - -In this mood, which filled her soul with idylls, she saw in everything -but a reflection of that happiness, and the people with whom she -mingled all seemed to her genial and kindly, never giving themselves up -to bitter quarrelling, and living for each other, without a semblance -of egotism. Scenes with Betsy appeared never destined to recur, now -that she answered her sister’s sharp tone in a voice full of -gentleness, as though she was loth to desecrate her happiness by a -single discordant sound. A great calm came over her nerves, and she -herself could not refrain from wondering at her equable, cheerful -good-humour, quite undisturbed by the usual periodic attacks of -listless melancholy. No gray and black mists surrounded her; it was as -though she breathed a light atmosphere, full of brilliancy, fragrance, -and sparkle. - -For a day or two after his talk with Vincent, Henk felt very ill at -ease. In his native kindliness he did not like to hurt any one’s -feelings, and he thought he had wounded Vere’s pride. After all, the -poor devil could not help it, that everything he undertook failed. So -Henk had called on Vincent, and four times he wanted to put the sum he -had asked of him in his hands; but Vincent refused to accept it, and -instead, in fact, had repaid Henk a considerable portion of what he -owed him. How he had managed to procure the money remained a puzzle to -Henk, as everything else about Vincent was a puzzle to him. At home, -Betsy reproached her husband with his want of tact in dealing with -Vere, and she, in her vague fear of that cousin, in whom she suspected -a latent power, which could at will crush her with all her strength of -mind, resolved at any price to make him forget her husband’s -brusquerie. Théodore had invited Eline to come and stay at the Horze, -and she was to go there towards the end of July together with the -Erlevoorts and the Howards, who were just now in the Hague, and remain -in Gelderland all through August. It would therefore, so Betsy thought, -be lonely in her big house on the Nassauplein; the idea of going out of -town with Henk did not much fascinate her; she would rather make a trip -to the South at the commencement of the winter, when Eline should be -married; and it was therefore as much from a longing after change, as -from diplomatic cordiality, that she invited Vincent to pitch his tent -with them during Eline’s absence. She made her request with the most -charming manner possible. She would miss Eline so terribly, she would -be so lonely, and Vincent could be so sociable, and chat so pleasantly -about his wanderings; so he must not refuse, he would be doing her an -immense favour. Vincent was overjoyed at the request, opening to him as -it did a prospect of peace and placid luxury. He would lead a life of -luxury without having to spend a cent, a month long! and a month of -rest seemed to him, in his wretched hand-to-mouth existence, a period -of bliss without end, an eternity of happiness. He therefore accepted -Betsy’s invitation with a secret gladness, outwardly however with a -certain condescension, as though wanting to show that he still felt -hurt at Henk’s refusal, and as though he were happy to give Betsy an -opportunity to make up for van Raat’s unfriendliness. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -Lili was cross, very cross, her lips trembled, and the tears nearly -stood in her eyes. - -“I really don’t see why he cannot be asked,” she answered Marie -pettishly. “He is a regular visitor here.” - -“But, Lili, how can you be so foolish? Mamma asked him once or twice -this winter, and surely we are not quite so intimate with him that we -should invite him to accompany us into the country. When you begin to -ask strangers, there is always a sort of constraint.” - -“But he is very sociable.” - -“That’s true. He improves on further acquaintance, I must admit; but -still we don’t know him as we do Paul and Etienne.” - -“Oh, they are nice boys! They do nothing all day long but lounge about -from the Witte to Linke, and from the Bordelaise to the Bodega, and -always with that wretched Vere. We don’t see them at all just now; Paul -occasionally condescends to call, and Etienne has now become quite a -myth. Ask Vere, if you like,” she concluded pettishly; “then you will -have the trio complete.” - -Marie shrugged her shoulders. - -“Now don’t be angry with me, Lili, because mamma won’t ask de Woude. -’Tis not my fault,” she answered softly. - -“Oh no, not at all! But ’tis always so when I—when I have an idea. It’s -always pooh-pooh’d. I won’t bother about it any more. I don’t care a -rap for the whole party.” - -She left the room, with difficulty repressing her tears, while Marie -took up her book with a sigh. - -Madame Verstraeten had gone to sit down beside her husband in the -conservatory. She had overheard something of Lili’s short passionate -sentences, and a thought filled her that brought a reflection of -hesitation over her kindly face. - -“What troubles you?” asked the old gentleman. - -“Oh! it is about de Woude,” whispered Madame Verstraeten hesitatingly, -so as not to be understood by Marie. “Lili wants me to ask him for the -party, but——” - -“Well, why not? I don’t dislike de Woude, although he is rather -foppish. He can be jolly enough with the girls——” - -“But, Charles, really we must not encourage that. When I see him I am -always as polite as possible to him, but there’s no occasion for us to -encourage him, is there? of what use can that be? Lili is almost a -child yet, and gets her head full of fancies; but what—what can come of -this now?” - -“But why must you all at once think they want to marry? For the present -it is only a question of inviting him.” - -“Yes, yes, I know; but you never see them when they are together, as I -do. I wish you would come to Scheveningen once or twice.” - -“No, thanks; I’m much obliged to you.” - -“Then you would see for yourself. You can’t get him away from our -table. He is discreet enough not always to accept when I ask him to -come and have an ice; but he stays till we go, and scarcely says a word -to any of his acquaintances. With Marie he’ll just take a little walk, -pour acquit de conscience, and after that ’tis Lili here, and Lili -everywhere. So you understand I don’t see much good in it.” - -“Do you think then that Lili——?” - -“Of course, without question! Everybody talks about it too, and they -know it; but they don’t care, bless you! I don’t know—I really -don’t—what will come of it all,” said the old lady, and once more that -hesitating shadow stole over her face. - -Mr. Verstraeten sat for a moment in contemplation: then he whispered -something to his wife, and for a long time they talked together in an -undertone. - -Marie however could not get along with her reading, so she went -up-stairs to Lili. She found her sobbing, with her little head buried -in the pillows. - -“Lili!” she cried softly. - -Lili started when she heard Marie’s voice. - -“Oh, leave me alone, do!” she cried impatiently. - -But Marie took her hands and forced her to look up. - -“Lili, how can you be so foolish?” she said, in her gently penetrating -tones. “You are making yourself miserable about nothing. In this way we -won’t be able to get along at all together, if you sit and brood like -that at every word that is said. Lili, come now.” - -“Oh, do let me alone!” - -“Do you think it so nice, then, to make yourself unhappy, and lie here -alone, crying? Why don’t you speak to me frankly? Isn’t it much better -to trust one another, and be open and straightforward?” - -How gladly would she herself have spoken, and unbosomed herself to Lili -or to her mother! But no, she could not, there were some feelings that -were best hidden. - -Lili raised herself a little, and from her tear-stained face she -brushed away the dishevelled hair with her hands. - -“What would you have me say, then? You know all. There is nothing that -Georges can do finds any more favour in mamma’s eyes.” - -“Come, you exaggerate. Both papa and mamma like him very much.” - -“Oh yes; I know. But if it comes to showing him a little courtesy—And -you too——” - -“What then?” - -“Didn’t you say he was a stranger, who could not be asked?” - -“If I had known that that would have caused you pain, I should have -said something else. Only I can’t bear to see you agitating yourself -about nothing, Lili. Why, you carry on as though your life were for -ever ruined, and all that because mamma thinks it better not to ask de -Woude.” - -“Well, it isn’t very pleasant for me. I have—I have already spoken to -him about the picnic, and—of course he expects to be invited.” - -“But why are you so hasty, then? ’Tisn’t very nice for mamma either, -when people begin to talk about you two. Only yesterday Madame Eekhof -asked——” - -“What do we care about Madame Eekhof, if we like each other? If you -were to trouble yourself about everybody——” - -An almost mocking smile formed about Marie’s mouth. - -“Yes, Lili,” she answered with an underlying sadness, which however was -lost upon Lili, who heard only the laughing banter of her tone, “it’s -very terrible! You care for Georges, and Georges cares for you, and all -the world is against you—mamma, and Madame Eekhof, and everybody, eh? -’Tis sad, very sad, isn’t it? And I can quite understand how little -hope you have that it will ever be otherwise! How sad, how unfortunate -it is, to be sure!” - -“Oh, Marie! how can you talk like that when you know—when you know it -pains me?” - -“Yes; I am cruel, eh?” Marie resumed, but her smile grew gentler. -“Come, Lili, do cease crying now, and give me a kiss; forgive me for -what I said. Shall I have another try, and see if I can induce mamma to -change her mind?” - -“Oh, do, there’s a good soul! Mamma will consent if you ask her.” - -“Yes; no one refuses me, eh? With me all goes smoothly. ’Tis only -against you that everybody’s hand is raised. Poor, poor child!” - -Lili laughed between her tears as she looked at Marie. - -“Marie, how droll you are when you sermonize like that! It makes me -laugh, really.” - -“All right, sissy, you laugh away; let us laugh as long as we may. -Well, good-bye; put your hair straight a little; I am going to mamma.” - -She nodded to Lili and left the room, envying her sister who could -freely express what she felt, and as she was going down the stairs she -smiled a little sad smile when she thought of Lili’s grief and despair -about Georges. Her sister seemed to her as a child crying for its toys; -she could already see Lili’s little face, now so bitterly sorrowful, -beam with gladness, as it would do when she, Marie, should return to -her in half an hour. - -Happy Lili! that she might weep so freely—that she might exclaim with -such exultation—“What do we care for Madame Eekhof, if we like each -other?” - -They were bound for a farm-house, kept by a farmer with whom the -Verstraetens were well acquainted. The road taken lay along the -Loosduinschen Weg, and the passengers by the brake felt far from -comfortable in the sweltering rays of the mid-day sun, which poured its -fierce rays mercilessly down upon their heads. Madame Verstraeten and -Mathilde sat on a back seat, with Nico between them; Marie, Lili and -Frédérique, Paul, Etienne and Georges were their vis-à-vis, the front -bench being occupied by Tine and Lientje, and the little cousins -Verstraeten; Johan and little Cateau van der Stoor sat on the box. It -would be a cosy little party, entirely among themselves, without the -presence of strangers, who would only have interfered with their -freedom. Marie was taking handfuls of cherries from a big basket and -distributing them all round, and Etienne, between his mouthfuls, was -relating how Marguerite van Laren had declared that a brake was a -plebeian conveyance. - -“When the van Larens go to a picnic they always go in court carriages, -I suppose, with powdered footmen!” said Georges. - -“In toilettes à la Watteau, and leading little lambs attached to pink -ribbons,” added Lili, and they smiled at each other. - -Every one laughed, and they felt in a very good humour, the girls in -their simple cotton frocks, the young men in their light summer suits -and straw hats. - -“Cateau, will you have some cherries?” asked Marie, and a handful went -across to Cateau. “There you are, divide with Jan.” - -“Oh, I shall get my share,” cried Jan, in his loud voice. “Toos, shall -I show you a little trick?” - -“What sort of trick?” asked Toos. - -“Look, you see those two cherries, don’t you? Now then, put that one in -your mouth; that’s right.” - -“Well, and what then?” asked Toos, doing as she was asked. - -“Then I shall take the other, do you see? There!” continued the rascal, -and opened his mouth for the second cherry with a smacking kiss on -Cateau’s lips. - -“I say, Jan!” said Madame Verstraeten indignantly. - -“That Cateau! what a stupid girl!” cried Freddie laughing. - -“I didn’t know what he was going to do,” declared Cateau; “that -wretched boy!” - -“Come, Toos, nonsense, you knew all about it!” teased Paul. - -Cateau was in despair because Paul refused to believe her. - -And the brake rattled on along meadows full of fat grazing cattle, -their hides of black and white glossy as satin, while the willows along -the edges of the ditches waved their fans of silver-gray foliage from -the summits of their gnarled stems. - -“I think a willow is such a melancholy tree, don’t you, Georges?” asked -Lili. - -“Oh, Lili is getting poetic!” cried Etienne. “Come, Lili, an ode to the -willow.” - -“It seems I can’t say a thing but you must all laugh at me,” answered -Lili pouting. “I must be very ridiculous?” - -And they continued to tease her, whilst the cherries rained thick and -fast in everybody’s lap, amid general laughter. The road grew hilly, -whilst in the distance the duny heights arose. Here and there was a -villa, hidden amid the foliage, or a farm-house, with fields of turnips -and cauliflowers, and rows of climbing beans, or a little garden full -of sunflowers, geraniums, and tuberoses. A washerwoman busily wringing -clothes by the side of a ditch raised herself up and smiled, and two -peasant children ran behind the carriage to catch the cherries which -Jan and Cateau threw to them. - -The road undulated between yellow fields of oats and flax, bespeckled -with the blue and red of corn-flowers and wild peas, until at length -the farm-house was reached. The farmer’s wife appeared at the gate with -a kindly smile, and from all sides they sprang from the brake, while -Madame Verstraeten and Mathilde lifted down an array of boxes, baskets, -and hampers. The driver got down from the box and led his steaming -horses to the stable. Jan Verstraeten, little Cateau, and the young van -Ryssels soon took possession of the two swings. Jan had promised Madame -van Ryssel that he would be careful, and Cateau would look after Nico. - -“They are just like a married couple with their offspring!” laughed -Marie, as she followed them with her eyes. - -“I’ll drive them all away from the swing in a moment; I want to swing -as well,” cried Etienne noisily, intoxicated with the sun and the fresh -air. “Lili, will you have a swing with me presently?—at least, if de -Woude does not mind,” he whispered, with longing eyes. - -“De Woude has nothing to say about me. But I don’t care for swinging, -it gives me a headache, thanks.” - -“I am madly fond of it, Eetje,” cried Marie; “I shall be ready in a -moment; but high, very high, do you hear? Up to the clouds.” - -“Come, let us go and look for a nice little spot, a little further on -the dunes,” said Paul. - -“Oh, of course; Paul is thinking of his comfort again. But the dunes -are very hot, Paully,” said Freddie. - -“No; there are trees, oaks I think, the other side of the pavilion.” - -“Right away, then. It really is too hot to bustle about much. I am of -Paul’s opinion; I like a lazy picnic: lounging in the shade and -watching the clouds overhead,” lisped Lili. - -“Lili always manages to unite the languorous with the poetical,” -laughed her sister. “In Heaven’s name, de Woude, propose something. We -are all chattering at once, and you—you say nothing.” - -Georges laughed, and they went, picking their way through the -overhanging foliage, and pushing back the leafy branches, which again -closed behind them with a rustling sound. Lili started, frightened at a -spider which hovered over her attached to its silvery thread, and when -de Woude brushed away the insect they became the objects of general -teasing: she, as the timid maiden; he, as a brave knight, slaying the -dragons that surrounded her. - -“But what have we done, that you are always down upon us?” cried -Georges. - -“Oh, Georges, don’t you trouble yourself about it,” said Lili. “They -think they are very witty. Oh, Paul, how you let us clamber along in -this heat. ’Tis quite a journey to that pretty spot of yours. And those -tiresome branches too. Ooh!” - -She glanced, pouting, at her finger, which had received a scratch from -a thorn. - -“Let me walk in front of you,” whispered Georges, and he said it so -softly and glided so deftly in front of her that the others, amid their -laughter at Lili’s mishap, did not notice it. The two dropped behind a -little, and Lili smilingly followed after him, while Georges held back -the branches until they could no longer touch her face. - -“Let them laugh! You don’t care, do you?” he asked, entirely absorbed -in his happiness. - -“Not a bit,” she answered calmly, shaking her little fair head under -the big hat, while a mocking smile formed about her mouth. “We can -laugh at them now. Who is that shrieking?” - -“Etienne, of course,” said Georges. - -Paul and Etienne had come upon a grassy spot beneath the chestnut -trees, from which a small panorama could be seen: some meadow-land, -interspersed by the straight lines of the ditches, sparkling under the -bright sky, and here and there a cow. In the distance a little -windmill, and beyond it a border of poplars, stately and slender. - -Lili and Georges approached, and found the others in rapture. - -“It’s glorious here,” said Paul. “Cool moss to lie on, and a fine -view.” - -They all agreed that it was a pleasant spot, and sat down on the -ground, tired with their reconnoitring. They removed their hats, which, -together with the lace or red parasols of the girls, soon covered the -dark greensward with glowing colour, whilst here and there a stray -sunbeam, penetrating through the foliage, threw a myriad of glittering, -dancing dust-particles across the light cotton of their frocks, and the -yellow and brown shades of their hair. - -“It isn’t so very shady here, after all. At all events I am quite in -the sun,” said Lili, hiding herself in the rosy shade of her -en-tout-cas, and she cast an indignant glance on Paul, who had a very -shady place, and was lying full length on the ground, his head cosily -hidden in a handkerchief. - -“Hush, Lili, don’t talk; go to sleep,” he whispered, with closed eyes. - -“You are very entertaining; you sleep on then. But I am scorching -here.” - -“Shall we go and look for a better spot, Lili?” said Georges. - -“Yes, do; that’s a good idea,” thought Paul. - -“And just whistle when you have found one,” said Etienne. - -Georges promised he would. They rose, after which Lili, leaning on him, -descended the dune. - -“That Lili is always so fussy,” yawned Paul, in his handkerchief. - -But his laziness was too much for Etienne, who pulled him down the -hillock by his legs, to the great amusement of the girls. - -It was very warm, however, and they could not help it—they too began to -feel lazy. They would walk about after lunch. When peace had been -restored between Paul and Etienne, Frédérique laid her head on Eetje’s -knees, whilst he tickled her ears with a straw; Paul was half asleep, -languid with heat and comfort, and Marie sat staring contemplatively, -with a suggestion of sadness about her mouth, at the meadows and the -ditches and the grazing cattle. - -The path along which Georges and Lili descended was a very easy one. -She floated down, as it were, her hands clasping his shoulder, and he -hurried at a quick pace. Quicker and quicker he went; and she laughed -lightly; it was as though she were endowed with wings. - -“How stupid of them to stay there under that burning sun! Look, over -yonder, under those trees.” - -“Those chestnuts?” - -“Yes; shall we try?” - -“Yes.” - -They clambered up, he assisting her, and penetrated through on to the -wooded hillocks. It was delightfully cool and shady there, whilst just -a few paces off the sun was scorching. - -“Oh! isn’t it pretty here?” cried Lili. “And look, violets!” - -She sat down on the mossy sand, and picked the flowers. And he lay down -at her feet, too happy to say much, and played with the red tassels of -her parasol. - -“Come, now, you must whistle, Georges, as a signal for the others to -come,” she said archly, knowing full well that he would not. - -“I can’t whistle, I never could,” he answered, and looked at her -laughing. - -She laughed too, and threw her violets in his face. He gathered them -up, and placed them in his button-hole. Then he took her hand, and -looked in her face. - -“Do you like me?” he asked, his eyes fixed on hers. She laid her little -white hands on his shoulders, and looking him straight in the face, -slowly bent her head. - -“What?” he asked, full of tenderness. “Do you like me?” he repeated, -and she bent down, so that his lips touched the little locks on her -forehead, and kissed them. - -“Yes,” she said, and she let her head rest against his face. “Yes, I -like you.” - -Thus they remained for a while, whilst he, in his uncomfortable -posture, enjoyed the weight of the little head on his face. But when -she raised herself, and once more smilingly looked at him, he -approached closer to her side, and laid her arm round his neck. - -“Do you know, Emilie——” he commenced. - -“What?” she asked. - -“Emilie has been speaking to my father; mightn’t she come and speak -with your parents?” - -“Yes,” she answered, with a beaming smile. “But I don’t know—I don’t -think——” - -“Emilie knows how to talk.” - -“You are very fond of her, eh?” - -“Yes—and of you too.” - -She pressed his head closer in the soft bend of her arm and gave him a -kiss on his forehead—her first! - -And the odour of the moss and the violets became mingled together into -a fragrant sigh, whose sweetness made her feel faint, whilst her little -hand closed caressingly, and disarranged his light-brown hair. She -listened, still with that same happy smile, to his soft voice, as he -was telling her of the conversation he had had with his sister, before -he knew whether Lili would ever care for him. For a time he had -certainly felt anxious; now, however, the whole world seemed to him one -smiling landscape. - -“Emilie thought you would not have a poor husband. Won’t you have a -poor husband?” - -“Are you poor?” - -“Well, I am not rich.” - -“All right, then I will have a poor husband. I can be so economical. -Sometimes I make a month’s dress money last me for three months. And -don’t I always look neat?” - -“Charming.” - -“But I don’t believe you are very economical. I think you have a great -many more wants than I.” - -“I shall have no wants, when I have you. You will be all to me.” - -“Does Emilie care for me?” - -“Rather! she shall be our little mother. And you will accompany me -everywhere? To Cairo? To Constantinople? To the Cape?” - -“To Lapland if you like—everywhere.” - -“My own little woman.” - -He clasped her close to his bosom and kissed her. It was as though the -world vanished from them and left them alone in paradise. It seemed to -them as though no other couple had ever loved so fondly, as though -there had never been any love but theirs. - - - -“Mamma wants to know if you are coming to lunch?” cried Johan van -Ryssel to the four, lying sunning themselves yonder. “You lazy people! -hallo! you are all asleep, I believe.” - -And he clambered towards them and fought with Paul, whose big limbs, -stretched at their full length, irritated him. Frédérique and Etienne -raised themselves up, and admitted being hungry. - -“Through doing nothing, I suppose?” cried Jan, who came to call them -too. “We have been swinging and riding in the donkey-cart and climbing -a haystack, and you—you can do nothing but doze.” - -“Hush! more respect for age, please,” said Marie with dignity. - -They all descended the path along which they had come, again struggling -with the overhanging branches that barred their passage, when they -heard a whistling behind them. On turning round they caught sight of -Georges and Lili, full of mysterious gaiety. - -“We have found a nice little spot, very cool!” said Georges ironically. - -“Oh, so cool!” repeated Lili. - -At that they became the butt of indignant glances, and so they wisely -lagged behind a little; still they took good care to be in time to join -the others at the lunch-table. - -Madame Verstraeten and Mathilde had been very busy, notwithstanding the -heat. On the coarse white table-cloth there arose heaps of little -rolls, together with dishes full of cherries and strawberries, and a -big basin of cream between two golden tulbands. [2] Sixteen chairs were -ranged around the table, and the little van Ryssels, flushed with the -heat, tired after running, with sparkling eyes and moist hair, looked -at it all with longing. Nico was already seated at table rattling his -fork against his glass, and all now sat down, and Madame Verstraeten -and Mathilde were soon busy handing round the different things. - -“De Woude, take what you like,” said Madame Verstraeten, and soon the -spot resounded with noisy laughter, whilst the rolls and the tulbands -disappeared as if by magic, and the fowls were running about nervously -round the table, keeping close to Nico, who to Mathilde’s despair -offered them immense slices of bread. Jan in the meantime found a fresh -cause to reproach the three young men with their laziness. - -Behind the farmhouse there was a broad stream, and a little boat lay -moored alongside. Jan and Cateau wanted to disport themselves in it, -but Madame Verstraeten would not permit them, unless some one older -than they accompanied them. So after lunch they stormed up to Paul and -Etienne, who were to row them; Jan promised to be a good steersman. - -“Do you think Georges and Lili are safe together?” asked Paul, as he -pushed off the boat from the shore with his scull. “Come, Etienne, keep -time.” - -“Where are they? Oh, look, there they go, behind that hedge!” cried -Frédérique. “Marie, fancy you as elder sister allowing such a thing.” - -Marie laughed kindly. - -“Oh, let them be happy,” she answered simply. - -Etienne made himself very busy, just to hide his want of skill as an -oarsman, whilst he made the strongest possible movements with his oar. -Paul grew more desperate every moment. - -“I say, Etienne, you don’t know anything about it; for heaven’s sake -don’t splash like that.” - -A shower of spray fell upon them. - -“You are soaking me,” said Frédérique indignantly. - -“Go along, do you think I can’t row?” - -Cateau and Jan laughed at Etienne, and he carried on in such a -ridiculous way, that Toosje at last summed up courage to ask Paul to -let her have a row; for she looked upon Mr. van Raat as the captain. -Etienne, in spite of his boisterous remonstrances, which nearly caused -the boat to capsize, was removed from his seat, and Cateau set herself -down triumphantly beside Paul, full of eagerness to keep time with him -in the lifting and dropping of her oar, which she clasped, without fear -of blisters, closely in her hands. And she enjoyed it when their -sculls, as if moved by one power, feathered in light and measured -stroke over the greenish water. - -“Splendid, Cateau; you understand it!” said Marie. “Jan, just steer -across to those lilies.” - -Jan steered, and the little boat glided slowly to a pool coated with -duckweed, upon which the white cups of the water-lilies floated amid a -wealth of flat, glossy green leaves. Marie bent forward, grasped a lily -by its tough slimy stalk, and tugged and tugged until she pulled the -flower out of the duckweed. - -“Over there, look, there are a lot,” cried Jan, pointing to the other -side. - -And they glided on between overhanging willows, their silver-leafed -branches bending over the water, and a long line of meadow-land, and -Marie mechanically pulled the muddy flowers out of the water. She no -longer heard the laughter of the others; how little Cateau and Etienne -were having a lively dispute as to in what fashion an oar was to be -handled. She continued, without fear of soiling herself with the mud, -wrenching out the flowers, whose stalks she cast at her feet, like so -many slippery eels; she wrenched and wrenched so hard that the stalks -nearly bruised her hands. Thus too one could wrench a thought from -one’s mind, though the heart bled from it. - - - -The young van Ryssels, whom Mathilde did not trust in the boat while -Etienne was in it, again consoled themselves with their swing. Tina -pushed Nico, who was sitting very dignified, to and fro, whilst Johan, -with Lientje sitting between his legs, disported himself on the second -swing. But now approached Marie and Etienne, and when Nico was tired of -his dignified attitude they both clambered on to the plank. - -“High, Eetje, very high!” cried Marie. - -Etienne, with his feet firmly placed against the plank, soon sent the -swing forward. - -“Ah! I see you are a better hand at swinging than at rowing,” cried -Marie. - -She too pushed the swing forward, and it swung higher and higher, -whilst her dress fluttered in the wind, her hat blew off, and a few -hairs dangled about her face. She took a deep breath, as high up in the -air she hung over Etienne almost horizontally, and swayed up and down. -She felt a sensation as if an unfathomable abyss yawned beneath her, -and as if she rose higher and higher into the blue sky, borne upward on -the wings of a great bird. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, and -she fain would have let go the ropes, and in a desperate flight plunged -herself into space. - -Then she caught sight of the four children below, who were staring in -open-mouthed and envious wonder at the “big folk” who were allowed to -swing so high, and she wanted to call them, but her tongue refused to -utter a sound. Etienne was as if intoxicated, and higher, still higher, -swung the plank. - -“Etienne—enough—enough, Etienne!” murmured Marie, and she closed her -eyes. - -And she felt quite dazed when the great bird slowly slackened the speed -of its flight, and at last ceased altogether. She tottered when she was -on terra firma once more. - -Etienne picked up her hat. - -“A glorious swing, wasn’t it, eh?” he cried, out of breath. - -Marie nodded smilingly, and with a gasp and a sigh brushed the -dishevelled hair from her face. And when Etienne took to his legs and -ran, shouting to his little cousins that they could not catch him, and -when the young van Ryssels ran after him, Nico last of all, waddling -along on his fat little legs—then Marie, on the grass by the side of -the swing, burst into tears. She thought of Lili and Georges, how happy -those two had been, whilst she, Marie, had sat gazing at the meadows -and the cows until stars shimmered before her eyes; and how happy they, -Georges and Lili, had been, while she had been wrenching the lilies out -of the water—hard, very hard, with all her might. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -“Eline, Eline!” was shouted from the garden. Eline sprang out of bed in -a fright, on finding it was half-past seven. At the Horze the breakfast -hour was eight, and so she hurried with her toilette. Half dressed she -walked to the open window, and looked out. There were Théodore’s two -eldest girls, Marianne and Henriette, sixteen and fourteen years old. - -“Good morning!” Eline said cheerily. - -“What, are you up already? Well, that’s quick, I am sure! Are you -coming down soon?” - -“Yes; I shall be ready in a moment.” - -“Morning, Eline!” she heard a new voice shouting. Eline looked out and -caught sight of Gustave, a good-looking little fellow of ten, with a -pair of saucy blue eyes, a regular street arab, with ever-dirty hands, -and comical as a young clown. - -“Morning, Gus,” she cried. - -“I say, Eline, you know what you promised me?” - -“No.” - -“You will marry me, and not Uncle Otto, eh? You have promised me, you -know.” - -“Yes; all right, Gus. But I must make haste and dress, or I shall never -be ready!” cried Eline, again busy with her hair in front of the glass. - -She could hear the bustle in the garden increase every moment, and it -made her nervous. Her fine eyes were still rather small, her fringy -curls did not fall as she wanted them. Again from out of the garden, -full of sunlight and shadow, a cheery hum of voices ascended, among -which she could distinguish Théodore’s big voice, as well as the lusty -shouts of the little van Ryssels. - -“Eline, Eline!” again came from many, many voices. - -“Yes, yes; I am coming!” Eline shouted back almost impatiently, and she -buckled her belt and rushed out of her room, through the long corridor, -sombre in its brown oak panelling, down the broad stairs, and out of -the hall. - -In the garden Cathérine Howard was walking with Otto, her brother. She -was not pretty, but she had a pleasant cheerful face, and she was -almost as lively in her movements as Etienne. - -“Oh, Otto, I can well understand it,” she said affectionately, as she -hung on his arm. “I think she is a dot of a girl. From Freddie’s and -Mathilde’s letters I expected to see something of a coquette, because I -really didn’t much remember, it’s so long since I saw her, and then it -was only for a moment or two at a time, when she was living with that -old aunt—a widow, a Madame Vere, I believe, was it not?” - -“Yes,” said Otto. - -“But now, on closer acquaintance, I think she is a darling. There is -something so winning and frank about her way of speaking, something -very simple and unaffected, and yet distingué. And she is a little -doll, really very pretty.” - -“Do you think so?” said Otto. - -“I should think so. You may well be proud of her; it isn’t every one -who can get such a wifie as that. Ah, there goes the bell! they are -always early birds here.” - -They walked towards the open room, which looked on to the garden, and -entered. Old Madame van Erlevoort was already seated at the long -breakfast-table, and gave a smiling nod to her son and daughter. Eline -stood talking to Théodore, who reminded her neither of Otto nor of -Etienne, as he stood there sturdy and broad-shouldered before her, with -his well-set powerful frame, and his short full beard; but in his loud -cheery heavy voice there sounded the native, healthy good-nature of the -Erlevoorts. - -His wife, the young Madame van Erlevoort, or Truus as he called her, -was still occupied, with the assistance of Mathilde and Frédérique, in -making a few more preparations for the meal. Miss Frantzen set the -little van Ryssels on their chairs, and fastened their napkins about -their throats. Etienne came in from the garden with Cor, Théodore’s -eighteen-year-old son, who was a midshipman, and was now staying at the -Horze on furlough. They were followed by the girls and the boys, Willy -and Gustave, full of jokes and fun at the expense of their English -uncle Howard, whom they did not understand, and whom they were to teach -Dutch. - -“Good morning, Nily!” said Otto, approaching Eline. - -“Good morning, Otto!” answered Eline, and she offered him her hand, and -they whispered something together. She felt herself very happy in the -new charm which a busy family life had opened up to her. To her, who as -a child had had no one but her sister for a playmate, and whose early -girlhood was half dreamed away in the depressing surroundings of her -aged aunt’s home, it was a newly-revealed happiness to be in the midst -of such a joyous stir, and she began to view life from another -standpoint than she had done while she was yet under the glamour of -soirées and balls at the Hague. Every one was cheerful and pleasant, -even Frédérique; the children she allowed to clamber on to her shoulder -at their sweet will, freely letting them caress and fondle her with -their greasy little fingers, without the least fear for her dress or -her head-gear. She was in love with Tina, the dainty little miss, whom -Eline’s charm of manner irresistibly attracted, as it had once -attracted Cateau van der Stoor, and at table Eline’s seat was always -between Otto and Tina. Old Madame van Erlevoort sat between her two -youngest grandchildren, Edmée and Kitty Howard, the only child of her -English son-in-law, and when she glanced along the table beaming with -youthful gaiety, it seemed to her as though there could be no one in -the wide world happier than she, with her gray hair and her youthful -heart. - -After breakfast Théodore proposed a trip to the so-called “big tree,” -for he declared that of the many big trees of Gelderland the one at the -Horze was the biggest. Howard, Etienne, and Cor were to accompany him; -Eline and Otto with the children joined them; even Edmée and Kitty, -under the care of the three girls, stormed the covered cart that was -ready to convey them. - -In the breakfast-room an Atlantic gale seemed to have raged. The table -was a chaos of plates and glasses, the floor was bestrewn with -serviettes, in the midst of which lay Tina’s hat, a spade of Nico’s, -and a ball of Edmée’s. - -“Isn’t it rather too noisy for you, mamma?” asked Truus, taking the -hand of Madame van Erlevoort—who was still seated at the disordered -breakfast-table—in hers. “Really the children make such a fearful din, -that it seems quite a relief when they are gone.” - -“Come,” said the old lady, “you ought to be ashamed to talk like that.” - -“My four youngsters often nearly drive me to despair too,” remarked -Mathilde; “but with the exception of Cor, who is gradually growing a -little more staid, yours seem to take the palm for noisy young -scapegraces.” - -“Don’t you trouble yourself about me, Truus,” said the old lady. “All -through the winter I long for the summer to come, when I can go to the -Horze, and it does me good to be with you all. And I think it very nice -of you that you have asked Eline.” - -“Next year, when they are married, I have already asked them to come to -London during the season,” remarked Cathérine. “I like her very much.” - -Young Madame van Erlevoort looked rather thoughtful as she folded up a -serviette. - -“And you, Truus,” asked her mother-in-law, who observed it, “you like -her too, don’t you?” - -“What shall I say, mamma? I know so little of her. I think it very nice -of her that she adapts herself so entirely to our ways and habits, so -that I have no occasion to stand upon ceremony, as with a stranger; I -haven’t the time for that. So I do think it nice of her. But you are -aware I don’t at once go into raptures about people.” - -“That sounds too diplomatic to please me, child. As for me, I either -like a person or I don’t.” - -“Oh, you must not think I mean more than I say. I have only known Eline -a week; she has made a favourable impression upon me, I think her very -charming, but I don’t yet quite know whether I actually feel for her or -not.” - -It was on Mathilde’s lips to say that she, who had known Eline for -years, was not quite certain of that either, but she said nothing. - -“And then again—but you must not be vexed, mamma, will you, now that we -are on the subject?” - -“No, no, child.” - -“You see, I can’t help thinking there’s something in Eline as if she -will never feel herself at home among our family. She adapts herself to -us, as I said, but I am not so sure that it comes quite from her heart. -I don’t cause you pain with what I say, do I? There is nothing I should -like better than to find that I was mistaken in Eline, and when I know -a little more of her—eh, mamma?” - -She hesitated to say it right out; she did not care for Eline. She was -a sturdy sensible woman and a good mother, ruling over her little -kingdom with loving care and prudence, who, whilst ever friendly and -cheerful, was also determined and firm, and made her will pass as law. -In the firmness of her character she generally came forward straight -with her meaning, but this time she knew that, as Otto’s intended wife, -mamma already looked upon Eline as one of the family; she had noticed -that Eline could with a single loving word or a single caress touch the -old lady, and she did not like to pain mamma in her son’s intended. But -in their rural atmosphere—that she could not deny—Eline introduced a -discord, as of something artificial, something unreal, and this -irritated Truus. She could not know that Eline was perhaps more herself -at the Horze than she had ever been elsewhere, that indeed she felt -happy there in the simple family life, that she felt as though a new, a -purer, and a fresher life had fallen to her share; she could not -penetrate Eline’s inner thoughts, she could but see on the surface; she -saw not the sweet calm of those nerves, so long overstrung in a life of -excessive culture and luxury; she saw only the native worldliness -glimmering through a veil of affected simplicity, and this irritated -her, as the big blue silk sash on Eline’s print dress irritated her. - -Cathérine Howard was all indignation. How was it possible that Truus -could say such a thing? it was certainly not very becoming to an -intended sister. And she galloped along about Eline with almost -childish ecstasy, in such affectionate words, that the old lady, -disconcerted at her daughter-in-law’s ideas, soon again beamed with -pleasure. - -“No; really, Truus, I can’t make you out. I on the contrary admire -Eline, because, stranger as she is among our family, she so quickly -made herself at home. I can assure you that when I came to London with -Howard—I did not know his family at all, that’s true—but I must say I -felt a little bit like a fish out of water among them, cordial though -they all were. But Eline—dear me! why ’tis as if I have always known -her; she is so easy, so accommodating, you have no trouble with her -whatever. No; I really can’t understand that you can even imagine that -she will not feel herself at home amongst us; I can’t say it’s very -nice of you, I am sure.” - -Truus laughed at Cathérine’s indignation, and excused herself as well -as she could, and as the servant was coming in to clear the table, the -old lady with Mathilde and Cathérine went up-stairs, and sat down in -the roomy, well-shaded balcony, while Truus remained invisible for the -rest of the morning, absorbed in her domestic duties. - - - -The cart was already long out of sight. Théodore, Howard, Etienne, and -Cor walked in front, and Otto and Eline followed, under the shadow of -her big lace parasol. - -The conversation of the four men was a mixture of English and Dutch; -Howard declared he could understand the latter, and was even able to -speak a word or two, while Théodore was continually coming to grief -with his English in his explanations about tenants and lands. Some -labourers in their Sunday clothes passed by with a respectful salute. - -The road lay bathed in sunshine between the glowing gold of rye and -oats, and not a breath of wind stirred the stalks. Beyond, white and -red, gleamed the blossoming buckwheat. In the distance arose a -farm-house from between a group of trees, with a line of smoke rising -like a faint gray plume against the blue of the sky. - -“I suppose you feel yourself here like a king in your own country?” -said Howard. - -“Oh no!” answered Théodore. “I feel myself more peasant than king. But -look round a moment; there, right across the garden, there’s our -palace.” - -They turned round and stood still, so that Otto and Eline soon overtook -them. Through a break in the dense foliage the Horze could be seen in -the distance, white as milk, with its little shutters and slender white -turrets, the big vine-clad balconies relieving the white monotony with -leafy intervals. The lake lay as a round mirror in the midst of the -fresh greensward, bespeckled with a white fluttering flight of pigeons. - -“What a very pretty view!” said Eline, enraptured. “But see, who is -that waving to us?” - -“Oh, I suppose it’s grandma and the aunts,” cried Cor. - -They noticed in the shadow of a balcony a number of dark outlined -figures, who appeared to be waving handkerchiefs, and they all returned -the signal, whilst Etienne shouted “Hurrah.” - -“Come, let us make haste now,” said Théodore, “or we shall never get as -far as the big tree.” - -Eline spoke English fairly well, and with her Howard got on the best. -He engaged her in a lively conversation, whilst Eline on Otto’s arm, in -the shade of her parasol, which he held, laughingly replied to him. And -Eline herself wondered how it was that without the least effort she -made an agreeable impression upon every man with whom she came in -contact, whilst the sympathies of those of her own sex she could only -succeed in enlisting by dint of exercising all the arts of her loving -affection. - -Through her conversation, full of cheerful banter, the thought flashed -like lightning—Madame van Erlevoort cared for her only on account of -Otto; Cathérine liked her out of light-heartedness, but their sympathy -was not firmly rooted in affection; with old Madame van Raat, with -little Cateau, with Tina, it was otherwise. And with a smile she leant -heavier on Otto; what cared she for all of them? his love well repaid -her for what she missed in others, his love was her wealth, and for the -sympathy of others she cared nothing. - -To the big tree it was a good half-hour’s walk. The road bent through -the golden corn-fields, along hedges pink with blossom, by the side of -hilly pine-copses, fragrant with pungent odours, whose dark, sombre -foliage afforded a grateful shade from the brilliant sun-rays. - -Suddenly, at a bend of the road, the little village of Horze was -revealed as a surprise to the eyes of the party; a few cottages, a -baker’s shop, a minister’s house, an inn, some stables, all scattered -around a little church; and Eline glanced round wonderingly—she did not -see the village, she said. - -“But here it is—there—that is the village,” said Otto. - -“What! That house and a half?” asked Eline, her eyes big with surprise. - -They all laughed, and Etienne asked her if she had expected to find a -sort of Nice or Biarritz. - -“At least something like Scheveningen, with a Kurhaus—eh, Elly? I say, -Elly, do you know the difference yet between rye and oats?” - -“Not quite. Buckwheat I know when I see it—flax I know, very light -yellow—and potato-fields I know. But rye and oats and barley, no; of -them I know nothing whatever. Don’t worry me about them, Etienne! But, -Théodore, is this indeed Horze? Are you really lord and master of -these—one, two, three, four barns?” - -And she roared with laughter under the broad brim of her big straw hat; -and they all laughed at Eline’s innocent surprise, although Théodore -felt a little hurt. - -Eline, however, quickly regretted her jest, which she felt was not -quite in harmony, and she declared that it was full of picturesque -spots, a little house like that with a cluster of trees, very pretty, -really. - -“And the big tree, where is the big tree?” asked Eline. - -They passed through the village, between the pecking fowls, which -scampered away frightened, while the blacksmith and a couple of -farmers, to each of whom Théodore addressed a few words, heartily -greeted their landlord, remaining for a while staring after his guests. -They crossed over a meadow, and Théodore shouted to a boy to hold a cow -close by them, as Eline was afraid of the huge, fat beast, with its -big, staring eyes and chewing mouth. - -“Etienne, Cor—do leave off, Cor!” she cried, on Otto’s arm, to Etienne -and Cor, who, to frighten the cow, set up a melancholy boo! boo! - -“You see, Eline, that’s because you laughed at Horze,” cried Théodore -in his big bass, but she looked at him laughingly and so softly between -her half-closed lashes, that he was quite disarmed, and asked Etienne -and Cor to stop their silly noise. At the end of the meadow stood the -big tree, an oak with a colossal stem, tall and powerful as a giant. -Frédérique, Marianne, Henriette, and the children had already ensconced -themselves between its spreading roots. Howard and Eline were urged on -all sides to give vent to their admiration for the tree. Eline mustered -forth a few words, such as colossal, immense; but Théodore noticed from -the mocking little smile that played on her features, that the oak had -made no impression whatever upon her, and he held up his finger to her -threateningly, until she burst out in a peal of laughter, which was -renewed when Howard, in a very serious tone, declared— - -“A big tree, indeed! I never saw such a big one! Quite interesting!” - -“Wait, I shall give it to you!” cried Théodore, and he ran after Eline, -who fled shrieking with laughter until she fell down panting for breath -on the grass, and holding out her hands, cried— - -“Théodore, leave off, do you hear? I shall call Otto!” - -“I’ll show you! you naughty girl! Call Otto if you like. I’ll show -you!” and he grasped her wrists and shook her in fun, whilst she acted -as if he hurt her terribly. Then he assisted her to rise, and she -promised, still laughing, not again to show so little appreciation of -the beauties of nature. - -The children with their English uncle were standing hand in hand, and -trying to measure the tree. - -“Absurd of Théodore to run after Eline like that,” muttered Frédérique, -and Etienne overheard her. - -“I say, you are getting tiresome,” he cried. “Why, you can’t bear a -joke any longer.” - -By the side of the little church there was a hilly pine wood. There -Eline sat down on the moss, and rested her head on her hand. Otto sat -beside her. They could just hear the faint tinkling of a distant bell. -It was church time. Some country people in glossy broadcloth and -shining silk aprons were walking, prayer-book in hand, along the road, -and Eline with her eyes followed them, themselves scarcely visible -behind the close-standing stems. The scattered church-goers were few in -number; a few—late-comers—followed hurriedly, and all was quiet under -the peaceful influence of a rustic Sunday rest. In the distance was -heard the bleating of a goat. - -It is true Eline had imagined the Horze more grandiose and luxurious, -and the very simple life that was led at the country house made her -smile at times when she called to mind Ouida’s English castles, full of -dukes and princes, such as those in which she had her abode during her -watch at Aunt Vere’s sick-bed. It was certainly very different, that -splendour of an ideal aristocracy, and this simplicity of a well-to-do -but necessarily frugal aristocracy, and yet she would not have -exchanged her present circumstances for anything, and she talked -smilingly to Otto about Ouida and the English castles, and declared she -gave the preference to the Horze, as she preferred him, her poor -country squire, to the wealthy Scotch duke, after the type of an -Erceldoune or a Strathmore, such as she used to dream about formerly. - -Yes; Eline felt her happiness growing greater and greater in that -peaceful solitude beneath the dark pine leaves, whilst Otto’s voice, -deep and full, sounded in her ears. He told her how he could not yet -understand that she was his for ever, and that ere long they should be -as one; and he told her that she had but one fault—that she misjudged -herself. He, yes, he knew her as she really was; he told her that there -were latent treasures hidden within her, and that it would be his -privilege to try and bring them to light. In the fullness of her -happiness she became frank and outspoken, even to herself, as she never -had been; she looked at him almost pityingly, and answered that he -would yet discover in her much that was bad, when he knew her better. -No, indeed, he did not thoroughly know her, although he thought so. -There was so much going on in one’s heart that one could not always -disclose; at least, so it was in her case, and she must confess that -her thoughts were not always of the best, neither was she always so -even-tempered as she appeared to be whenever he saw her. She could be -peevish, and nervous, and melancholy without real cause; but certainly -for his sake she would endeavour to transform herself into something -like the image he had formed of her for himself; but what an idealist -he was! She felt herself pure and good in that confession; she knew now -that she could freely reveal to him thoughts which she would not always -have confessed to herself; neither was she any more in fear of losing -him through some careless word; she saw how he loved her, and how she -must be dearest to him in the moments when she spoke to him about -herself in that simple way, and often it seemed to her as though he was -her conscience, to which she could say all that a girl might say. And -the more she depreciated herself in those moments of sincerity, the -more he adored her, the more he thought he could read her very soul -beneath that glamour of beauty and grace. - -They heard the hymns of the peasantry proceeding from the church, like -a deep, broad stream of simple piety, and in their present mood that -unskilled flood of song seemed full of a poetry that mingled with the -poetry of the dark tints of the foliage, with the fragrance of the pine -wood, with the love that was in their hearts. And Eline felt her heart -swell, and she raised herself up a little, and resting her curly little -head on his bosom, she could not keep herself from twining her arms -around his neck, and when she felt herself thus leaning against him -with her bosom on his heart a sudden sob shook her. - -“Eline, dearest, what—what is the matter?” he softly asked. - -“Nothing,” she answered, nearly dying in the exquisite ecstasy of her -love and her great happiness; “nothing; let me be—I am so—so happy!” - -And she lay weeping in his arms. - - - -At the Horze the hours of rising and bedtime were early, and the days -fled by. The life there, with the exception of a few rainy days, was -almost exclusively an open-air life. Their cheeks and their little -hands were sunburnt, and they began to look like little negroes, the -young van Ryssels, the two boys, Willy and Gustave, and Edmée and Kitty -Howard. Among the pigeons which fluttered from their house over the -lake they fluttered round, sometimes anxiously followed by Miss -Frantzen, Truus’ governess, and Cathérine’s English nurse; especially -by Miss Frantzen, who was in constant fear at the thought of Nico and -the water. They inspected the aviary and the stables, and were on the -best of terms with the gardener and his men, with the coachman and the -stable-boy. They fed the birds and the fowls and ducks, and rode round, -firmly held by the good-natured stableman, on Théodore’s unsaddled -riding-horse, or went swimming, or visited the gymnasium, where they -watched the feats of Théodore, who was very powerfully made, and of -Howard, who was more lithe and supple, whilst Otto declared he had lost -the art, and Etienne swung wildly from ring to ring and jumped over the -vaulting-horse. But it was at Cor that the little van Ryssels stared in -open-mouthed wonder, as they saw him, with a rather conceited -expression, very calmly and deliberately go through the most difficult -evolutions, in all the youthful strength of his long, slender limbs. -After coffee the boys played cricket with Howard, or in the shade of -the lofty trees in the park joined in lawn-tennis with the girls, or -lay lazily under a tree with a book doing nothing at all, their hands -folded behind their heads. After dinner they walked or floated about a -little in the little boat on the lake, and the evening came, and it was -ten o’clock ere they thought of it. - -And her happiness, and the luxury of that sunny country life, made -Eline feel so entirely herself, that she wondered whether she really -were the same girl of some months before. She felt quite another being; -it seemed to her as if her soul had escaped from its glossy draperies, -and now was before her in all its simplicity, in the nude whiteness of -a statue. She no longer veiled herself in her affectation, she no -longer played a part; she was her own self, her Otto’s darling, and -this sincerity lent such a new charm to her movements, to the slightest -word she uttered, that Truus, to the triumph of Cathérine, admitted she -had been mistaken in her; that Frédérique would sometimes sit talking -to her for hours, with sisterly frankness; that Madame van Erlevoort -called her an angel. When she was alone and for a while revelled in her -fresh train of thoughts and emotions, the tears started to her eyes, in -gratitude for all the good bestowed on her, and she only wished that -time would not fly by, that the present moment might remain for ever. -Beyond that she desired nothing, and around her there hovered an -infinite rest, an ethereal calm, an ecstasy of bliss. - - - -They retired early at the Horze; at half-past ten every one was at -rest. Eline had been chatting for an hour in Frédérique’s room, and she -felt happy at Frédérique’s ever-growing sympathy. She had been sitting -on the edge of the bed, whilst Freddie was already inside it, and they -had talked to each other about all kinds of matters. At times they -laughed much, but subdued their laughter, for it was very quiet in the -house. At length Eline softly slipped out on the tips of her toes, and -once more found herself alone in her own little room. She lit her -candle and slowly proceeded to undress, with an unconscious and happy -smile about her lips. For a moment she remained seated, and mused, with -her thick hair hanging down, and her bare arms and throat, and the same -smile still on her lips. She wished for nothing, nothing more, she had -all that her heart desired. - -And she opened her window and looked out. The rain had ceased, and an -odour of damp foliage was wafted towards her. The sky was clear, except -for a few filmy cloudlets, and the brilliant crescent of the moon -seemed as though placed in relief against the deep blue heavens; the -fields lay silently spread out before her; a single little windmill -lifted its black wings motionless in the pale moonlight; the ditches -gleamed like streaks of silver, and a fragrant freshness arose from the -slumbering landscape, like a soft faint sigh. Eline leaned against the -window, and folded her arms across her bare throat. To her it seemed as -though that fragrant freshness, that faint sigh, refreshed and -sweetened all her thoughts as with an odour of field flowers, that -chased away the unhealthy, enervating miasma of her former emotions, -like an overpowering perfume of musk and opoponax. She felt herself so -young, as she had never felt before, and oh! of that she was -certain—never had she loved as she loved now—never, never! Her Otto! -When she thought of him, she did not feel it necessary to call to her -mind some idealized image; she thought of him as he actually was, so -manly and frank in his genial simplicity, and with one single thought -that ruled his whole being, the thought of her. His love was so rich, -so full, his love filled him completely. And hers grew every day, she -thought—no, it could grow no more! No further wish was hers, no more -brooding over the future. In due course it would unfurl itself before -her, a perspective glowing with brightness and gold! Nothing more -remained than the stillness of that lake into which her soul had -glided, nothing besides the rest and the love of that blue ecstasy, -full of bliss! Only that, nothing else, nothing more! What indeed could -human soul yet wish for? - -Only one little darkening streak amid all that blue. Only the fear—the -fear that it would ever be different. It was so long since she had -prayed, she did not even know how to pray; but now, now she would -gladly have done so, have prayed that it would ever be thus, that it -might never change, always that soft happiness, always that restfulness -and peace, that blue ether. - -“Never, never again as once! God—ever thus, ever as now! Were it to -change, I should die,” she whispered inaudibly, and as she folded her -hands a tear trembled on her lashes. But it was a tear of joy, for in -her happiness that vague fear was dissolved like a drop in the ocean. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -At the Hague, August passed by glowing hot, but the nights were cool on -the terrace at Scheveningen, or in the tent of the Bosch. It was Sunday -evening, and Betsy stayed at home; old Madame van Raat had not been to -see her for so long, that she asked her mother-in-law to come around; -Sunday was not much of a day at Scheveningen. They were to drink tea in -the conservatory, the glass doors of which were already open. Henk -walked with Madame van Raat through the garden, and the old lady -admired his splendid roses. Betsy and Vincent sat alone. - -“I have had a letter from Eline: she is coming back with the Erlevoorts -on Wednesday. The Howards will remain a little longer at the Horze,” -she said. - -“Indeed?” answered Vincent. “And when Eline returns I must go, I -suppose?” he asked bluntly. - -Betsy felt alarmed, but she smiled very pleasantly. - -“The idea! Not at all. You know, our house is always open to you, until -you have found something for yourself. Don’t you hear anything -from—what is the name of that friend in New York?” - -“Lawrence St. Clare. No; I have not heard anything from him for some -time. You see one forgets one’s friends when they are so far away. I -can’t blame him.” - -He leaned back in his cane chair with an air of something like -resignation. In the meantime he felt himself very well at ease, and -agreeably soothed by the luxury which surrounded him. The garden was -well kept, rich in flowers and statuary. And in those surroundings, in -the presence of Betsy, very elegant in her light summer dress, by the -soft glitter of the silver and the Japanese porcelain, he felt himself -safe against the many unpleasantnesses of life. It was rest, monotonous -if you like, but soothing and refreshing. Betsy he knew how to master, -but it was unnecessary to make his power felt; besides, he was too lazy -for it. Was not his present life an easy one? what should he trouble -himself about? - -“What would you say if I were to seek a wife?” he suddenly asked, -inwardly thinking of the pleasures a wealthy marriage might provide -him. - -“A wife! oh, a splendid idea! Shall I try and find one for you? What -sort of one do you wish?” - -“Handsome she need not be, only elegant. Not too unsophisticated or -idealistic. Money of course.” - -“Of course. A foolish love-affair I certainly don’t look for in you. -What do you think of the Eekhofs?” - -“Are you mad? two giggling ninnies—and no money, is there?” - -“Some say there is, others declare that they live too extravagantly; -any way you might try and find out. But were you in earnest, Vincent, -or was it only by way of saying something?” - -“Not at all. I think I should do well if I married. Don’t you think I’m -right?” - -Betsy looked at him searchingly, and her glance was full of secret -contempt. With his lack-lustre eyes, his languid movements, his -indolent voice, he did not much impress her as an ideal husband for a -young girl. - -“Not quite. I think you are a terrible egotist; neither do I believe -that a wife would find much support in you. You are weak—I mean -morally, of course.” - -She soon regretted her words and felt irritated at her own imprudence. -She nearly shuddered when he looked at her with that mysterious smile, -with those soft, dull, snake-like eyes. - -“And a wife has always need of support, eh?” he said in measured tones. -“You too, don’t you—you find your support in Henk? you depend entirely -upon him, and he is strong enough—I mean physically, of course?” - -Every word he uttered he emphasized as with a spiteful meaning, and -every word pierced sharp as a needle into her domineering nature; but -she dared not answer him, she shrank back in fear and only smiled, as -if he had merely made a jest. He too laughed, a kindly gentle laugh -like hers, but full of veiled revengefulness. - -They were both silent for a while, conscious of the struggle under that -outward show of good-nature, until Betsy began gently to murmur some -complaints about old Madame van Raat, who always misunderstood her, and -with whom she could never agree; and whilst he sat indifferently -listening to her, she felt how she abhorred him, how glad she would -have been, after having him in the house for a month, to give him his -congé; but she knew that she could never do it without risking a -terrible scene; he would continue hanging about till the end of time, -and she could not think of any means to get him away. It was all Henk’s -fault; if he’d only given him that wretched little sum the idea would -never have entered her mind to ask him into the house. She detested -Vincent, and she detested herself for her fear of him. She was rich and -happy; what harm could he do her? But the more she argued, the more the -fear clung to her, like an enervating idiosyncrasy, of which she could -not free herself. - -Madame van Raat and Henk were slowly returning from the garden, and -they sat down in the conservatory at one of the open glass doors. But -after a few words about the roses, the old lady grew quiet and pensive. -Amid the luxury of her son’s house a certain chill, a vacuum, seemed to -seize her and make her melancholy, even more melancholy than she was in -her own lonely house. She had never had that feeling before when she -was with Henk; but now it seemed as if her love for her son did not -yield sufficient warmth to dispel that chill vacuum. And suddenly the -truth struck her. She missed Eline—Eline who, wherever she went, beamed -forth the light of her fascination; she missed her dear child, so -different from Betsy, so loving and sympathetic. And she could not help -saying in her sad voice— - -“Your house seems deserted without Elly. What will it be when she is -married and gone away for good? Dear Elly!” - -She did not hear what Betsy and Vincent answered; she did not hear what -Henk said; she let her gray head fall upon her bosom and sat staring in -front of her, the bony hands folded in her lap. Life seemed hollow to -her, a gray existence full of grief, full of partings and tears, in -which men hovered round, sombre and sad, like so many tragic phantoms. -And she shuddered when Betsy asked her whether she was cold. - - - -Betsy, though she had never confessed it, had, just like her -mother-in-law, in spite of Vincent, who “was so sociable,” also found -it lonely and miserable in the house. There was so little change in the -summer; it was eternally the tent and eternally Scheveningen; she was -really getting sick of it. And now that Eline was back, beaming in her -fresh happiness, which seemed to diffuse a rustic odour through Betsy’s -drawing-room; now that Eline was full of tales about the Horze, about -Théodore and Truus and the children, about the Howards and the little -van Ryssels, Betsy perceived that Madame van Raat was right—that Eline -was the charm of her house. Now Betsy herself commenced to look forward -with some misgiving to the time when Eline would leave her, and that -misgiving greatly softened her ordinary acerbity. Otto, whom she -formerly thought too formal and affected, she thought charming, now -that she frequently saw him, for she had insisted that he should often -come to dinner. - -At table the conversation once more grew lively and cheerful, quite -different from the slow, dragging discourse between herself, her -husband, and Vincent. To Eline her manner became gentle, out of -gratitude for the old pleasantness which she had brought back with her, -and they held endless consultations about Eline’s trousseau, which it -was now time to see about, if she wanted to marry in the coming winter. -Their afternoons they spent together with dressmakers and in shops; -they travelled together with Otto to Brussels, where Eline wanted to -order her wedding-dress, rich but simple, nothing but white satin, -without lace or furbelows. - -Eline in the meantime, in all this stir and bustle, had little time -left her for thinking, and only in the evening did she get any rest. In -the evening they often stayed at home. It was September. Scheveningen -gradually lost its attractions, and now that Otto came to dinner it -generally grew late without their noticing it. She sat with him in the -garden, or in the violet boudoir, and she became quite used to her calm -happiness; it seemed in fact as if she had never known anything -different. Everything was so restful and contented within her, that she -almost longed for some emotion. But no, she loved Otto; that single -emotion sufficed for her. Never anything but that; always that calm, -always that blue ether! - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -Georges de Woude van Bergh studied hard for his examination for -Vice-Consul, and one day Emilie had betaken herself to the -Verstraetens’ and had a long talk with Mr. and Madame Verstraeten, -whilst Lili, very nervous and unhappy, had found much comfort in -Emilie. Emilie had laughingly apologized for her unceremonious visit; -but really her aged father was ailing and never went out, and she -managed everything for him, took everything off his hands, even to a -request for access for his son. No; she was certainly not of Georges’ -thinking, that one could live without money, and quite understood that -Mr. and Madame Verstraeten also could not harbour such an idea; but -after all the boy had a prospect, had he not? and the pair of them -seemed to have so much set their minds upon that folly, that one could -not talk them out of it. The question really was, had Mr. and Madame -Verstraeten any personal objection to him, or would they permit the two -to wait until they could begin life together without too great a risk -of starvation? Would Mr. and Madame Verstraeten be able, at a given -moment, to part with Lili? And if they did not quite refuse, how would -they decide? A regular engagement, or only a—well, a union of hearts, -nothing more? It was a pity, certainly, that the two had made -themselves somewhat conspicuous, and that the whole town knew of it, -but they were a pair of unsophisticated children, and in time they -would be more prudent. The question now was—and Emilie summarized her -questions once more with her genial hearty manner, but inwardly a -little anxious about the reply. - -And Madame Verstraeten sighed and shook her head thoughtfully; but the -old gentleman, to Emilie’s joy, did not make any insurmountable -objections. But still he had his objections. Lili was so young, such a -child; would it not be better if she did not bind herself yet, and took -time to make sure that he was Mr. Right? He liked de Woude very much; -he had noticed too that the boy had something in him; but still, were -not his optimistic financial ideas based rather too much on his love? -Had he really no more wants than now in the blindness of his affection -he imagined? He was used to a certain degree of luxury. Emilie listened -attentively, fully convinced of all those difficulties, about which she -had once spoken to him herself. But now—now she had allowed herself to -be persuaded into the folly of this visit, and she did not want to be -faithless to her boy; now she wanted to make it appear as if all those -difficulties merely existed in Mr. Verstraeten’s mind, and so she would -endeavour to remove them. Thus it was ever. When one had committed one -absurdity, one fell from one folly into another, and now she would be -compelled to argue against her own convictions. It was a difficult -task, talk as she might, and it was perhaps to her Georges’ misfortune -that she could plead so well; but dear me, the boy was so smitten, and -perhaps after all he was right! There were other little households that -were not rich—small officials, sub-lieutenants. No, no; at bottom she -was really committing an absurdity; but it could not be helped, it was -too late. - -And while she pleaded for Georges, she was inwardly angry that he had -brought her to do such a thing. Could she, then, refuse that boy -nothing, and must she herself be a party to bring about his ruin? - -But she kept her word, and pleaded so well that Madame Verstraeten went -to fetch Lili, who wept bitterly and kissed Emilie fondly. But an -engagement was out of the question for the present. Madame Verstraeten -did not care about these poor folks’ engagements, which sometimes -lasted for years, and Emilie declared to Lili that a union of hearts, -sanctioned by her parents, meant much already, under the existing -circumstances. It was better so, after all, was it not? If on further -acquaintance they did not suit each other, there would be no harm done; -and if they grew to like each other more and more—well, so much the -better. Come; she should not look at it too gloomily, the victory -gained over the steel-clad hearts of her parents was not an unimportant -one. And what more did she really want? To marry at once—reception -to-morrow—in a day or two to the Stadhuis and the church, and then make -their entry in a little attic somewhere! Yes; that would be very nice! - -Lili laughed between her tears, and kissed her parents; whatever papa -and mamma thought fit, she was satisfied. - -That afternoon Georges was asked to dinner, and after the meal a -splendid September night was spent in the garden. It was late when -Georges left; late when Marie and Lili retired to their room and -undressed. Marie listened kindly and patiently to Lili’s chattering -about hundreds of plans for the future. She would love to travel, and -Georges’ employment gave promise of that. Snugly she crept into the -cool sheets, smiling at the rosy visions of her fancy, her arms bent -over the little head encircled by its dishevelled mass of fair hair. -Marie too crept into bed, and for a moment all was quiet in the dark -room, when there was a gentle knocking at the door, which the next -moment was opened. The girls started in alarm. - -“Hush, hush! ’tis only me,” whispered a soft, subdued voice, and they -saw a small, bent figure in white night-gown and cap, with a lighted -candle in hand, enter the room. “Hush! I was only coming for a little -chat.” - -It was old Dien, the ancient servant of the Verstraetens’, the -good-natured old body who was always so handy when they had parties or -tableaux-vivants. She approached, treading softly in her stockings, -while the candle-light reflected a yellow glow on her shrivelled, -white-capped face. - -“But, Dien, you frighten me! You look like a ghost!” cried Marie. - -“Hush, quiet! They are all in bed; but I thought you wouldn’t be asleep -yet. I want to have a little chat—may I?” - -“Certainly, Dien; certainly you may,” said Lili with animation. “What -have you got to say?” - -Dien seated herself on the edge of Lili’s bed. - -“You can understand, old Dien is not so old but she can tell when -there’s something stirring. And you see, when she does notice it, she -can’t keep it to herself; she must out with it. You little rascal!” She -held up her finger to Lili threateningly. - -“What is it, Dien?” asked Lili. - -“Come, deary, now don’t you keep yourself so innocent! Do you think I -don’t know why you cried as you did this afternoon, and why Miss Emilie -made such a long stay in the conservatory? You see I thought there was -something then,” she continued, winking her sunken eye, “and I began -thinking to myself, and there you are—at half-past five in he marches, -and stops nicely to dinner, eh?” - -“Get along, Dien; what are you prattling about?” - -“No, no; Dien doesn’t prattle. Dien knows what she knows well enough. -And you too, you know what you’re about.” - -“What is it then?” - -“Well, child, you are quite right. There’s a steady boy he is. Such a -nice, gentle little face, with a neat little fair moustache. A proper -little hubby for you. You are rather dainty yourself. They are well -matched—eh, Miss Marie?” - -“Cut out for each other,” yawned Marie from between her sheets. - -“You like him then?” - -“Rather!” answered Dien. “And he is always so polite to me and Bet. He -always says it so nicely when I open the door to him: ‘Ah, Dien, how -are you?’ Always a word or two to say, you know. Not a bit proud, and -he never forgets to wipe his feet.” - -Lili roared. - -“You aren’t angry because I say so?” - -“No, not at all, Dien; I am very glad he is in your good books.” - -“Sleep you won’t for yet awhile, eh? You see, in the daytime I am -always too busy, and now it’s just a nice time for a snug chat. And -Dien may give you a bit of advice, eh? You see, I have been married -too, and it isn’t all honey, child. Yes; at first you think ’tis very -nice to play the wifie, but later on come the youngsters, and the cares -come with them; I have had three of them you see. And what a bother it -is to bring them up! And you know I haven’t had much pleasure of them. -One died, a boy, when he was fourteen, and the other wasn’t quite what -he ought to be, and went to the Indies. Only my girl—yes, she’s a good -girl; you know, she’s in Rotterdam, married to a tailor.” - -“Yes, Dien.” - -“And, I say, when do you think you will marry?” - -“Oh, Dien! really I don’t know yet. We won’t get married for a long -while yet, and you mustn’t chatter about it; do you hear?” - -“No, no; don’t you fear. You see, Bet too, she isn’t blind either. Do -you think it will be a twelvemonth yet?” - -“Oh, quite. But come, Dien, go to bed now.” - -“Yes, deary. But you see, when the youngsters come, those little -fair-haired dots—you are both of you so fair—I shall leave your ma, and -come to stay with you. What do you say to that?” - -“What, as nursemaid? No, thank you, you will be much too old for that -then.” - -“Oh! I should wash and scrub them nicely, don’t you fear!” - -“Dien, I think you are saying improper things!” cried Marie. “Fie!” - -“What is there improper in that? But come, I must be off; why, it’s -half-past twelve. And do you hear, Miss Marie, you must make haste and -have your turn—that little dot has stolen a march on you; don’t you lag -behind now, do you hear? Will you see to it?” - -“Yes, Dien; I shall do my best,” said Marie. - -“Then dream about it nicely. And you too, deary, you dream about him. -And tell him that Dien thinks him a nice boy, with his little -moustache—will you, eh? Will you, you little rascal?” - -She grasped Lili, who again roared with laughter, jestingly by the -shoulders. - -“Yes, yes, Dien, I shall. But you need not shake me like that—ooh! -Good-night, Dien.” - -“Good-night, little pets. Hush, child, don’t laugh like that. You will -wake the old folks. Hush, hush! I am going—quiet now!” - -Dien left, looking yellowish-white in the glow of the candle, with a -final wink, full of mystery, her footsteps quite muffled by her woollen -stockings. - -“That silly Dien!” lisped Lili, still laughing, and half asleep. - -The room was once more in darkness, and it was quiet, very quiet, and -Marie lay with her head on her pillow, her wide-open eyes fixed on the -dark ceiling. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -Vincent felt very ill and weak, and his condition became so serious -that Dr. Reyer forbade him to leave his room. - -He followed the doctor’s advice, drinking little, abstaining from -smoking, and giving himself over completely to the soothing influence -of the restful atmosphere that surrounded him. - -His days he passed in Eline’s boudoir, as Betsy could not spare him a -sitting-room to himself. There he would lie down on the Persian divan, -an Eastern dressing-gown snugly wrapped about him—a memento of his days -of luxury in Smyrna—his bloodless fingers clasping a book in which he -did not read a line. It seemed to him as though all ideas had vanished -from his brain, as if, in fact, his whole being was fading away in a -languid calm, in a sense of weariness like that induced by prolonged -and severe bodily exertion. His mind was filled with petty, childish -thoughts, rising up like bubbles, to burst asunder the next moment. His -pleasures were as petty as his thoughts, and he felt gratified when Dr. -Reyer praised him for his obedience, while he suffered acutely whenever -he had to wait a few moments for Eline to bring him his breakfast. And -beyond that he felt nothing; he simply lay down, gazing round Eline’s -room, and counting the pictures, the ferns, and all the smaller objects -of luxury that were scattered about. - -In the morning Eline sat down beside him and read to him or sang a -snatch or two from a favourite opera; and Vincent would lie and listen -as in a dream, lost in a strange vision full of faint odours and -subdued tints, all wreathed and entwined one with another as in a -kaleidoscope of colour and perfume. He did not speak, and Eline too -said little, penetrated as she was with a feeling of romantic -joyfulness, a joyfulness such as she had known when keeping her nightly -vigil at Aunt Vere’s bedside—the pleasure of devoting herself to the -care of an invalid. She became more and more interested in Vincent, and -the loving care with which she tended him gradually had the effect of -deeply endearing him to her. - -In the afternoon she usually stayed at home until after four, when Otto -came to fetch her for a walk; and then, when he gently rebuked her for -not taking sufficient care of her own health, and for sacrificing -herself too much for Vincent, she would look at him almost tearfully -and ask how he could possibly fail to feel the deepest sympathy for -Vincent, who was so forsaken, so unhappy, and so weak. The busy -negotiations about her trousseau with Betsy were somewhat interrupted -by these cares, and on one occasion even she remarked to her sister -that she thought it a terrible thing to have to marry in November, when -Vincent would perhaps be dying. She could not help fancying that -Vincent’s illness was caused by a secret passion for her, a passion the -secret of which he had until now most jealously kept. For he had never -before made such a long stay in the Hague; he had now been in the city -for nearly a year, whilst he never used to remain longer than a week or -two. Poor Vincent—for the present her watchful care of him brought him -solace and comfort—only, would not all that careful solicitude, those -constant attentions on her part towards him, feed the flame of that -passion that was for ever destined to be so helpless, as it was only -her Otto she might care for, no one else? She would have been glad -could she have confessed those thoughts to another; but to whom could -she do so? To speak to Otto about it, that seemed to her scarcely -proper; whilst if she made Betsy her confidante, she was certain to ask -her why she must always fill her head with such nonsense. How about -Madame van Raat though? - -Yes, she was the person to consult; she would call on Madame van Raat -one morning alone, without Otto. But when she did see the old lady, she -found it such a difficult matter to shape her suspicions about Vincent -in words, that when her visit came to an end she had not uttered a -syllable of her confession. And she comforted herself with the sad -reflection that Vincent would probably die before they were married, -and that in that case her ministering care would have somewhat -sweetened his last days. - -The days passed by, and in the meantime the suspicion that Vincent -cherished a secret passion for her grew more and more into a certainty, -until she began as it were, involuntarily, to yield herself up to an -absorbing pity for her poor ailing cousin. Her happiness, that had -seemed so placid that it could not be broken, glided more and more from -the vain grasp of her fingers, and a sense of nervousness and unrest -became daily more diffused over her being, while in the meantime she -lacked the courage to unbosom herself to Otto; for when she thought of -Vincent, a mist appeared to come between herself and Otto, a mist that -grew denser and denser and threatened to part them from each other. She -shuddered at the thought, and after having passed half the day in her -nervous unrest by Vincent’s side, she would long to be again with Otto, -in whose placid temperament she hoped to find a healing balm for her -perturbed spirit. Soon after four he came, they went for a walk -together, he returned with her to dinner, in the evening they often -stayed at home, they were much alone together, and when at night he was -gone and she had retired to her room, she had to do her utmost to -restrain herself from bursting into tears, for she found that she no -longer drew from his presence that restfulness and peace which once it -had brought her. On the contrary, now and then his calmness even -irritated her, as something indifferent and phlegmatic, which, in her -present mood, brimming over as it was with unrest, repelled her, -especially when she contrasted him with Vincent, in whom she suspected -a world of still, agonizing grief was hidden. Even Otto’s simple ease, -beneath which only so recently she had seen such a wealth of love, -irritated her now. - -Would he never then burst forth in a storm of passion, in a tempestuous -torrent about—about anything, whatever it was? Would he ever remain so -calm, so placid, so eternally equable? did he then never feel conscious -of something struggling with something else within his heart, something -that boiled and seethed within him, and which must pour itself forth in -a torrent of words? Could nothing move him, nor rouse him from that -rest which seemed all but lethargy? Kind and affectionate, yes, that he -was, but he was incapable of deep feeling; perhaps his calmness was -nothing but egoism after all, an egoism which another’s grief was -powerless to move! - -Thoughts such as these made Eline feel wretched and unhappy. Oh, great -heavens! they were the spectres, the grim spectres, that were fast -crowding in around her. No, no, they should not drag her along with -them, she would scare them away, away; but in vain, still they rose up, -one after another, chilling her with their icy breaths of gruesome -doubts, and she struggled against them—a fearful struggle! She forced -herself to think again those sweet thoughts which had filled her with -an idyllic happiness during her stay at the Horze; she forced herself -once more to find back her placid peacefulness, her ethereal -ecstasy—but alas, it was in vain! And when she began to feel conscious -of that one sleepless night, when a deep silence prevailed throughout -the house, and when she, with great staring eyes, was lying so lonely -on her bed; when for the first time she felt conscious of that, in all -its cruel truth, and felt that those days had passed away for ever, -that they would never more smile upon her with their golden glory of -light and joy, then at last she burst out in a wild, tempestuous -sobbing, so tempestuous and wild as she had never sobbed before, and in -her passionate outburst she flung herself upon her pillow as though -that were her happiness, as though that were the bird that slipped -through her fingers. She shook her head—no, no, she would, she must be -happy again as before, she would, she would love her Otto, as she did -before in the pine wood—love him! No, it was impossible, it must not, -it should not be—she would, would force herself, with all the strength -and energy of her will, to continue to love him, as she had done -hitherto; she would still cling close to him, as she now clung to her -pillow and the gruesome, grinning spectres should not be able to tear -him from her arms. All remained silent in the house; only, there she -heard the big clock in the kitchen down-stairs, tick, tick, -unceasingly, and an intense terror seized her as she listened to that -hard, metallic, rhythmic sound. A terror lest her happiness should not -allow itself to be forced back into her soul; a terror lest some -invisible power should push her down, down along some steep sloping -path, while she would fain ascend upward, ever upward. And then -followed a fury, a tempestuous fury, because she felt it so plainly, -and yet would not feel, and because she remained too weak to make a -strong, decided effort to resist the encroachment of the unseen powers -that ever seemed to mock and taunt her. - - - -The next morning Eline went early to see Vincent; she wanted to hand -him a big letter that had come for him. He was lying as usual in his -Turkish dressing-gown on the divan. Still, slowly and gradually, he was -recovering; Dr. Reyer had even told him that he might take a little -walk, but the rest had become dear to him, and he answered that he did -not yet feel equal to walking. When Eline entered he gave her a -friendly nod; he had grown used to her thousand little cares, and he -felt grateful to her for them, and this gratitude brought a kindly glow -into his eyes which Eline mistook for love. She handed him the letter -and asked how he felt. - -“Pretty well. I am getting on gradually,” he said wearily, but suddenly -he raised himself up and quickly tore open the envelope. Eline was -about to sit down at the piano. - -“Ah, at last!” she heard Vincent exclaim almost joyfully. - -“It is from New York, from Lawrence St. Clare!” said Vincent, quickly -reading through the letter. “He has found something for me—a place at a -good business house.” - -Eline felt suddenly alarmed. - -“And what do you think of doing?” she asked. “What do you mean?” - -“To go as soon as I am better, but—but I am not, and I am afraid I -shall not be yet awhile,” he concluded languidly. - -“To go where—to America?” - -“Yes—certainly.” - -“Are you glad you can go, then?” - -“Of course; why should I hang about here any longer now that I can get -a situation?” - -He scarcely thought of what he said. He fell back in the Persian -cushions, and a maze of bright-hued visions rose before his mind. He -remembered his former life of endless change, of ever-changing -perspective and glimmering horizon—change was life, change it was that -would cure, that would rejuvenate him. - -Eline, however, felt deep pity for Vincent. Yes, indeed, he was very -pleased that he could go, before her wedding most likely, so that he -need not be witness of what to him was probably a very painful sight. -Yes, indeed he loved her—and suffered accordingly. - -“Vincent,” she said at last. - -“Well?” - -“Vincent, really—just think about it, don’t be too rash—you are still -so weak. Suppose you should have a relapse? Ask Reyer’s advice first.” - -“But, Elly, haven’t I always been as I am now? I never was robust, -and—and you don’t want to keep me; besides, and what if I do stay -here?” he asked with a smile. - -To her that smile seemed sad and forced, and she reproached herself for -endeavouring to keep him there. No, he must go; only, maybe perhaps -things would change—change so that he need not go at all. She felt -giddy, and it all began to dance and shimmer before her eyes—the -thought that rose to her mind, she dared not think. It would be too -terrible. Too terrible for Otto, too terrible also for herself. That -day, when Otto came, Eline felt, instead of the usually so grateful -warmth which his presence had at one time called forth in her heart, -nothing but an icy indifference. Oh, God, how did that come about, how -did that warmth chill down like that? She did not know, but so it was, -and she had not the power to change it. She gave him a friendly nod, -and held out her hand to him. She could not look him in the face, but -her heart was deeply moved with pity. There he stood, Otto, by her -side, his gentle, kindly glance fixed upon her, her hand in his, as he -leaned against the back of her chair. Yes, there he stood by her side, -he full of love, and she—she felt nothing but cold, chilly -indifference! No, a thousand times no! it might not, it should not be, -she would force herself, she pitied him too much. - -“Nily—what is the matter, child?” he asked softly, as he felt the -nervous, pressure of her fingers on his hand. - -“Oh—nothing—nothing, only a headache, I think,” she answered faltering, -and she looked at him for the first time that afternoon. His eyes -looked deep into hers, and she was on the point of flinging herself in -wild remorse on his bosom, to cling to him and never to release her -hold. But again that unseen power withheld her. - -“Is it no longer to be forced back? Will it never come?” she thought -hopelessly. They remained alone, and it was some little time yet before -dinner should be ready. - -“Nily—little woman, tell me, aren’t you well?” he asked anxiously. -“Your hand is cold.” - -“I am a little feverish—we have been out driving in an open carriage -with Vincent.” - -“I hope you are not going to be ill.” - -“Oh, no; it will pass over.” - -She looked at him smilingly, and all at once, in a rush of despair, she -flung both her arms round his neck. - -“You are so kind, so loving,” she whispered in a broken voice. “You are -so kind, and—I am so fond, so very fond of you.” - -Vincent did not yet feel strong enough to join them at dinner that day. -At table Betsy was telling Otto of the letter from America; Vincent was -about to get a situation in New York. - -“And when does he intend to go?” - -“As soon as he is better. I shall be thankful enough when he is gone.” - -Eline could no longer contain herself. - -“Reyer says he must not think of such a thing for some weeks yet!” she -said sharply, with an angry glance at Betsy. “But of course——” - -“Of course what?” - -“If it were not for the sake of decency, you would, ill as he is, turn -him out of doors.” - -“If I could—yes, I should certainly. And once for all, this I tell you, -he shall never come here again. Fancy hanging about here like this!” - -“But, Betsy—he is nearly dying!” cried Eline, trembling with rage. - -“Oh, nonsense!” - -“What’s nonsense? If you saw him as I do,” she screamed. - -“Never mind, Eline, don’t let us fall out about Vincent. The fellow -isn’t worth it. Why, you make a melodrama of it. Don’t make such an -exhibition of yourself, for goodness’ sake.” - -“Yes, I know; ‘Don’t make an exhibition of yourself.’ That’s what I -always get treated to when I show a little feeling. But you—you have no -heart—you——” - -“Eline,” said Otto softly. - -Gerard was coming in with the joint. The silence was painful. - -“You have forgotten the gravy, Gerard,” said Betsy. - -Gerard left the room. - -“Yes, you—why you would tread a person underfoot if he were only ever -so little in your way, if he upset you in the least in your brutal -egoism! You think of no one but yourself, and you can’t even understand -that everybody else is not equally despicable, and——” - -“Eline!” said Otto again, as Gerard was coming in once more, this time -with a gravy tureen. - -“Oh, hold your tongue, do, with your ‘Eline! Eline!’ Qu’est-ce que me -fait cet homme! Betsy ne veut pas le voir—mais je t’assure, que Vincent -se meurt. Il s’est endormi dans ma chambre, pâle comme un linge, -essoufflé par la fatigue, que lui a causé cette stupide promenade -recommandée par Reyer. Et c’est pour cela, que je ne veux pas souffrir, -qu’on l’accuse d’indiscrétion et de tout cela. S’il ne fut pas si -malade, il ne resterait pas longtemps chez nous—j’en suis sure...!” - -She spoke passionately, with eyes aflame with rage, and the French -words fell from her lips sharp and cutting as needles, haughty and -savage. - -Betsy, too, was boiling with rage. Gerard left the room, but she made -no reply and restrained herself. - -“Nily, dear,” said Otto, “I bear Vincent no ill-will, although I don’t -feel much sympathy with him, but still I shall be glad too when he is -gone.” - -“Indeed—you too, eh?” she hissed. - -“May I finish?” he resumed, clasping her icy hand in his. “Yes, I shall -be glad when he goes, at least if his presence in the house is able to -excite you like this. You are quite beside yourself. You don’t know -what you are saying, Nily; at least not with what force you are -speaking.” - -His quiet words drove her frantic. - -“And you—you—with your eternal calmness, your eternal phlegmatic -calmness!” she burst, nearly shrieking, as she rose from the table and -flung down her serviette. “It drives me mad—that calmness! Great -heavens, it drives me mad! Betsy crushes me with her egoism, and you -with your calmness—with your calmness, yes, your calmness! I—I—I can’t -bear it any longer—it suffocates me!” - -“Eline!” cried Otto. - -He rose and grasped her wrists, and looked her straight in the eyes. -She expected something very terrible, that he would fling her down, -strike her. But while he continued to hold her hands he only shook his -head slowly, and his voice sounded full of sorrow, as he simply said— - -“Eline!—for shame!” - -“Great God! I—I am going mad!” she screamed in a fit of sobbing, and -she tore herself away from his grasp, and rushed out of the room, as -she went, dragging some glasses from the table, which fell with a -tinkling noise in shatters on the ground. - -Betsy trembled with rage, and wanted to run after Eline. Otto, however, -stayed her. - -“Let her be, I beg of you!” he entreated. - -Henk too had risen, and when Gerard came in they all three felt very -much confused before the servant, about the abruptly interrupted -dinner, and about the shattered glass. - -“Never mind—never mind, Gerard!” said Betsy almost humbly, “never mind. -Clear the table.” - -It was impossible for them to assume a nonchalant air. Gerard must have -noticed that there was something wrong, though his face remained ever -so calm and dignified. - -Eline in the meantime had rushed up-stairs into her bedroom and thrown -herself on her bed. Then she began to sob—but Vincent must not hear it. -She sobbed and sobbed until it grew dark; then she heard Vincent -walking in the adjoining room, but she lay still and wrung her hands -and choked the sobs in her bosom. - - - -Otto had sat down in the drawing-room, and was staring with moist eyes -on the ground when Henk entered. He noticed a tear in Otto’s eye, and -Henk was roused from his wonted quiet kindliness, and began to boil -within him. - -“Erlevoort!” said he, and laid his hand on Otto’s shoulder. - -Otto lifted up his head. - -“Erlevoort! come, old chap, be a man! Sissy is sometimes an awkward -little craft to manage, but she is not bad at heart! You must not take -notice of what she said to you, do you hear? She was only angry with -Betsy, because she rather likes Vincent, and so by accident you got -your share of it. But you must take no notice of it. That’s the best -way to punish her.” - -Otto did not answer; his mind was too much filled with doubt that -Henk’s kindliness could have cheered him. He recollected how he had -once told Eline that she had but one single fault, that she did not -know herself, that there were hidden treasures within her, that he -would arouse those latent gifts, but now he saw but too well that he -had not the power to do so, that he only irritated her, and—that he -drove her mad! - -“She can be confoundedly hasty at times!” resumed Henk, as he walked -inwardly enraged up and down the room. “But any one whom she likes, and -whom she can look up to, can lead her easily enough, and then—Shall I -go and have a talk to her?” - -“I should—let—her be!” replied Otto, speaking with difficulty. “I dare -say she will herself——” - -He tried to think himself in her place, and to guess how she now felt. -But it was in vain, he could not think, he still smarted too much under -the blow she had given him. Never had he heard her utter such words -before, in that strident, shrieking voice; never before had he seen her -features so distorted—even to ugliness—by her passions; and try as he -might, he could not collect his thoughts under that great torturing -grief that cut him to the quick. - -It pained Henk to see his weary, hopeless attitude. And suddenly he -felt himself nerved to action. No, he would not permit it, that Eline -should thus treat Otto with contempt, he would not permit it. With a -firm and elastic step he left the room. Henk went up-stairs and entered -Eline’s boudoir. He found no one there, for Vincent, tired as he was -after his first trip, had already gone into his bedroom, quite -unconscious of the storm that had been raging down-stairs. Henk knocked -at Eline’s door. - -“Eline!” he called. - -There was no answer, and he quietly opened the door. On the floor lay -Eline, her slight form quivering with inaudible sobs, her face hidden -in her hands. He waited for a moment, but she did not move. - -“Eline, get up!” he said curtly, almost commandingly. - -Savagely she lifted herself up, and savagely she shrieked— - -“What is it? What do you want here? Go away.” - -“Get up.” - -“I won’t; go away, go away! I tell you, go away!” - -He bent over her and grasped her wrists, full of a passion that made -the blood rush to his face. He hurt her, and she gave a cry of pain. - -“Confound it! Will you get up?” he hissed between his teeth, almost -beside himself with rage, while he drew her up savagely. His flushed -face, his flaming eyes, and hissing voice terrified her. Falteringly -she let him pull her from the floor. - -“What do you want?” she asked once more, but calmer this time, and with -apparent haughtiness. - -“I shall tell you what I want. I want you to go at once—at once, do you -hear—to Erlevoort and ask his pardon. Perhaps you don’t remember what -you have been saying in your mad passion, but you have offended him -deeply, you have insulted him. Go, and at once!” - -She looked at him in much alarm. His determined, commanding tones made -her tremble, and she was speechless with terror as she saw him, with -his big powerful form, pointing to the door. - -“You will find him down-stairs in the drawing-room. Are you going now?” - -She trembled all over, but she would not let him triumph. - -“I won’t.” - -“If you won’t, I shall drag you down the stairs until you lie at his -feet. I swear I shall do it, I swear I shall!” he hissed syllable by -syllable into her face. - -She stepped back in alarm. - -“Henk!” she cried, shocked that he durst say such a thing to her. - -“Are you going?” - -“Yes—yes, I will go, but—Henk! Oh, don’t, don’t speak like that to me! -Why should you? Great heavens! am I not unhappy enough already?” - -“That is your own fault, your own doing, but that is no reason why you -should make another unhappy too, especially Erlevoort.” - -“Yes, yes, you are right,” she sobbed, quite broken at last. “I will -go, but come with me, come with me, Henk.” - -He supported her as he took her from the room and led her down the -stairs. But when she entered the drawing-room she felt frightened. -There was no one there but Otto, who was seated on the sofa, leaning -his head in his hands. For a moment she stood still, undecided what to -do, but Henk looked at her, and his glance and also the sight of Otto’s -silent despair caused her to hesitate no longer. She fell on her knees -before him and wanted to say something, but she was unable to utter a -single word for violent sobbing, which at length seemed to melt away in -a copious stream of tears. She laid her throbbing, glowing head on his -knees, and took his hand, and sobbed and sobbed until her heart nearly -broke. He did not speak either, and looked her deep in the eyes. - -At last, with a great effort, she could just say, while Henk remained -standing like her judge behind her— - -“Forgive me, Otto, forgive me, forgive me.” - -He nodded his head, slowly and softly, not quite satisfied with her -remorse, feeling, so to speak, disappointed with something in her -manner, which was not what he had expected, but he bent over her, drew -her towards him, and kissed her forehead. - -“Forgive me, Otto, do forgive me.” - -He softly clasped his arm around her, and pressed her for a moment to -his bosom, while she still continued her sobbing, and he closed his -eyes in order to prevent the tears from penetrating through his -eyelashes. For he knew it, he felt it—it was all over. - -The evening passed by somewhat gloomily, although Henk, in his frank, -kindly tones, assured him that it was all right again. Of Eline he took -his leave with a sad smile. Eline then begged Betsy’s pardon in -presence of Henk. Betsy gave her a little nod of approval and said -nothing. And afterwards when Henk told her how he had forced her to go -to Erlevoort, she looked at him almost with admiration—for she would -never have thought that in a struggle with Eline her husband would -prove the stronger of the two. - - - -Some weeks sped by, and day by day Eline found herself more and more -unhappy, for she felt that all was over, that she could not force -herself to love Otto, and she nearly died with grief under the reproach -of his sad smile. And one afternoon she kept her room, and told Mina to -say that she was ill, and was not coming down-stairs. Otto asked if he -might come and see her in her room, but she sent word that she was -tired and needed rest. And gradually, but distinctly, a determination -became fixed in her mind: she must do it, she owed it to his happiness -and her own. The next day she would not receive him either, much as -Henk urged her to do so. She only shook her head slowly; she could not -do it. She was ill. Reyer? No, she did not want him. And she kept to -her room, while Otto dined down-stairs with Betsy, Vincent, and Henk, -and left early. - -That evening she remained for a long time lying on her sofa, staring -into the darkness. At last she lit the gas, closed the curtains, and -sat down at her writing-table. It must be. Calmly and determinedly she -commenced to write, stopping every now and then, and reading every word -to herself— - - - “My dearest Otto, - - “Forgive me, I beg of you, but it cannot be otherwise. Ask yourself - the question if I can make you happy, or if I would not make your - life a burden to you. I thought I could have made you happy, and - that thought I shall always cherish, for it has comprised my - greatest happiness in the past. But now——” - - -As she wrote the words the tears started to her eyes, and suddenly she -burst into a violent sobbing and tore up the paper. She did not feel -capable of giving him such pain. Great God, she could not do it! But -what then should she do? Let matters rest where they were until perhaps -in the end some catastrophe occurred to compel a parting? No, no, a -thousand times better to part in friendship with a last sad farewell! -But already she had caused him so much pain against her will, she -wished in future to give him as little pain as possible, and now—oh! to -be swayed thus to and fro in such a struggle as that, alone and -forsaken, without any one to support her, without really knowing what -she wanted or what was her duty! She was too weak for it, for such a -struggle as that. She took up a fresh sheet of paper, however, and once -more began to write— - - - “My dearest Otto.” - - -A few lines followed easily enough, very similar to the first letter -which she had torn up. But how should she tell him further, how? Still, -all at once her pen rushed along over the paper, savagely forming as it -went letters that were all but illegible, but still she wrote on page -after page of wild, almost incoherent sentences, in which she over and -over again bitterly reproached herself for the way in which she had -treated him, and finally released him from his engagement. The long, -rambling letter, full of repetitions, and blurred with her tears, she -concluded with the pathetic prayer that when one day he should have -found a girl who was worthy of him, and who would love him -disinterestedly, he would still not quite forget her. Her whole being -went out to him in that final entreaty. - -“Then think sometimes of me, without hatred or bitterness, and have a -little pity for your poor Nily.” - -The letter was written, the envelope sealed, and after much painful -hesitation she at length summed up courage to ring for Gerard, to whom -she handed it to post. Then a wild terror seized her, and she had a -sensation as of icy water running down her back. - -Now Gerard was in the street, she thought, now he had reached this -house, now that, now he approached the letter-box in the Nassaulaan. -And it seemed to her as if she could hear the letter falling into it -with a thud, like that of a coffin falling down an open grave. She was -on the point of swooning away, for in the terribly overstrung state of -her nerves, it seemed to her as though she were surrounded on all sides -by tangible terrors and hideous spectres. And all at once, as if -awakening from a nightmare, she felt conscious of what she had done, a -deed that was irrevocable! She felt herself trembling and quivering all -over as in a fever. To-morrow, to-morrow early, Otto would receive the -letter, that letter. - -Great God, it must not, it could not be! It was her very happiness that -she had flung away, because the rest and the peace of that happiness -had bored her! Yes, it was her happiness which she had cast away, and -which she could never regain. - -It seemed to her as though the ceiling would come down and crush her, -she could scarcely breathe. And she rushed with faltering steps to the -door, out of her room, across the landing and into Betsy’s bedroom. - -“Great God—Betsy—Betsy!” she screamed with a choking voice. Betsy was -in bed and awoke with a fright. A confused idea of something terrible, -a thought of fire, of murder, arose to her mind. - -“Who! What! What is it? What is it, Eline?” - -“I—oh, great heavens—oh!——” - -“What is it, then? What is it, then, Eline?” - -“I have—I—have——” - -“Well?” - -“Sent a—letter to—Otto.” - -“A letter?” - -“I have—I have written him. I have—broken it off. Oh, great heavens!” - -Betsy had sprung out of bed, and she stood trembling before Eline, who -had crouched down on the floor, and lay sobbing hysterically, her face -hidden by her dishevelled hair. - -“What do you say?” she asked, completely crushed. - -Eline said nothing more, she could only sob. - -Henk came in. - -“What is the matter?” he asked anxiously. - -“Eline has written to Otto, she has broken it off!” said Betsy in a -tremulous voice. - -Henk stood still in blank amazement, and could not utter a word. But -Eline lifted up her head, and wringing her hands and nearly delirious -with grief, she said— - -“Yes, oh heavens! yes, I have broken it off. A long letter—I have sent -him—and, oh! ’tis terrible—’tis terrible—but I don’t know what I am -doing, I don’t know what I want, I don’t know if I care for him or if I -don’t, or if I care for any one else. I don’t know anything—and, oh! -’tis all a-throbbing, a-throbbing in my head. I wrote -him—because—because I thought it was my duty—I should have made him -unhappy. But it is terrible, terrible—that I should have done it. -Perhaps I ought not to have done it, perhaps I could have yet cared for -him. Oh, God! I would it was all over with me now, I would I were dead, -for I can bear it no longer, I can bear it no longer!” - -Dull and lifeless the words fell from her, while she crouched down on -the floor, wrung her hands, and slowly rubbed her forehead on the -carpet. - -Betsy glanced at Henk: what should she do? The secret spite she felt -against her sister melted away for the moment in a great pity at the -sight of Eline’s grief. And when she saw her husband continue staring -like one demented at Eline, she felt annoyed that he could find nothing -better to do. She lit the gas, and wrapped a cloak about her—and -Eline’s altered features alarmed her, now that she sat staring vacantly -before her with her eyes red with weeping, her hands folded on her -knee. - -“Oh, Elly, Elly! How could you do such a thing?” said Henk in a husky -voice, as he thought of Otto. - -Eline did not answer, and only slightly moved her head. - -“Oh, my head is bursting!” she faintly murmured. - -“Are you in pain?” asked Betsy. - -“Oh!” groaned Eline. - -Betsy dipped a handkerchief in some water and bathed Eline’s face, her -temples, and her forehead, from which she brushed away the dishevelled -hair. - -Henk had sat down. He did not know what to do, what to say; he only saw -Otto before him. - -“How could she do it? How could she do it?” That was his only thought. - -“Is it better now?” asked Betsy gently. - -Eline smiled contemptuously. - -“Better—no—but it is cool—the water——” - -“Will you have something to drink?” - -“No, thank you.” - -She sobbed no longer, but her tears still flowed. And slowly, almost -inaudibly, staring vacantly all the while, she said— - -“Oh, not to know what to do—not to know—and then to do a thing like -this, against your will. Poor, poor fellow! And this terrible pain—oh -God!—it is as if I am going mad.” - -“Come, Eline,” said Betsy, “let me take you to your room.” - -She led Eline away like a child, and like a child she undressed her. - -“Oh, my head!” groaned Eline, and she fell back exhausted on her -pillow. Betsy undressed her further and covered her, then she bathed -her face once more with a wet cloth. - -“Come, try and sleep a little now. There is nothing more to be done for -the present—perhaps it will all come right again later on.” - -Eline shook her head. - -“Shall I sit down by your bed?” - -Eline did not answer, and lay staring vacantly before her. Betsy closed -one of the red curtains and sat down. - -The little white night-lamp glowed like a star on the table, and in the -panelling of the wardrobe, in the toilet glass, over the flask and -vases, on the muslin toilet duchesse, fitful gleams of light played -hither and thither, while the big, black shadows lay about everywhere, -motionless and gruesome, like so many dark spectres. Betsy sat -shivering in her dressing-gown; she wanted to think, but could not, for -continually the one idea returned to her mind, that Eline had written -to Otto. The hours dragged slowly by, and Betsy heard it strike one, -half-past one, two o’clock. Then the groaning behind the bed-curtain -died away. Betsy rose, and peeped through for a moment; it seemed Eline -was asleep, she lay motionless with closed eyes. Slowly and quietly -Betsy left the room. - -In his own room Henk was still seated, leaning his head in his hands. -Neither of them went to bed, and they sat whispering together, now and -then listening whether any movement could be heard in Eline’s room. -They both feared something indefinable, of which they could not speak, -something that continually filled their thoughts with a vague, dread -terror. - -“Hush!” cried Betsy all at once, for Henk was still whispering, and she -heard something. Both listened. From Eline’s room there came the sound -of a violent sobbing, the sobbing of a soul in despair, passionate and -loud. A chill trembling came over Betsy. - -“I am so frightened,” she faltered in a quivering voice. - -Henk left the room as quietly as possible, and walked across the dark -landing. The servants were in bed, the whole house was in darkness. In -Eline’s sitting-room, however, the gas was alight. There he sat down, -and he heard Eline in the adjoining room—she was sobbing, sobbing with -such intensity as he had never heard any one sob before; it sounded -hoarse, screeching, wild, as the voice of a sorrow that was past -comforting; every sob must pain and torture her, every sob re-echoed in -his own brain; with every sob he waited for the following. At last the -sobbing died away in a soft groaning, then it ceased altogether. All -was still. And Henk’s hair began to stand on end in his terror at the -tragic stillness that now reigned throughout the big house. He rose, he -was no longer master of his actions, he wanted to be certain, he must -see. For a moment, but for a moment only, he hesitated to enter Eline’s -bedroom; then he opened the door and entered. - -On the rumpled bed, in the ruddy reflection of the curtains, lay Eline -with distorted features, her hair falling a dishevelled mass about her -head. The blankets she had cast aside. She seemed to sleep, but yet -every moment an inward sob appeared to shake her very frame as with a -shock of electricity, and under her eyes there were two deep, dark -circles. Henk looked at her, and his lips trembled with emotion at the -sight of that painful sleep. Gently he covered her with the blankets, -and he felt that she was very cold. A little longer he stood staring at -that tear-stained face, then he passed through the boudoir, where he -turned down the gas. And then that same tragic stillness filled the -dark house completely, that night of grief and terror. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -In the morning Eline’s letter was handed to Otto. He would not give -himself the time to retire to his room, but walked straight into the -drawing-room, and throwing himself on the first seat he came to, he -opened the letter. And he commenced reading those words of grief and -remorse. There was no need for Eline to assure him that she had -suffered, suffered intensely in the writing of it. Thus much he read in -every word, and with every word a fresh dart of sorrow was plunged into -his breast. He read too, although she did not write it in so many -words, that every effort on his part to find his own happiness in her -love—even if he succeeded in once more calling her affections into -being for him—would be in vain; the lesson that he read from her -letter, in language which to him was clear and unmistakable, was that -they were separated for ever, because she had not possessed the -strength to preserve her love. A great, an immeasurable despair filled -him; he thought that had she had the strength, had she remained true to -him, he could have made her happy, because in the restfulness of his -own soul, in the soothing calm of his own love, she would have closed -her eyes and slumbered, to awaken again at last full of peaceful -happiness. Once he had felt certain that such would have been their -future; now, however, that idea appeared to have been but an idle -fantasy, nothing more. - -Once again he looked through the letter, and it seemed to him as though -only then did he read it aright; yes, she was lost to him, lost -forever! A void, a hopeless vacuum surrounded him in his solitude in -the midst of the luxurious drawing-room, full of inanimate lustre, full -of big, chill mirrors and costly furniture, and with his moistened eyes -he looked around him and shuddered. Then he fell back on his chair, and -covered his face with his hands, and a single, painful sob escaped his -pent-up bosom. He felt a sensation as if everything within him was -being shattered and broken, as if that single bitter sigh, like the -breath of a hurricane, had dispelled and destroyed every budding -blossom of hopefulness with him—it seemed to him as if with him there -was nought left but that great, that immeasurable despair, and at that -moment he would fain have died. Softly he sobbed and sobbed, and a -feeling of bitterness arose in his breast. Had he deserved this, he who -had once discovered such a treasure in himself, he who had desired -nothing better than to make another share that treasure, that treasure -of peace and rest? His treasure was despised, and now he felt himself -poorer even than the poorest, and empty, utterly empty, in despair and -lassitude. - -The door was slowly opened. It was Mathilde. She approached him as a -sad image of pity, she sat down beside him, and tried to remove his -hands from his face. He started violently, and looked at her with two -great, wildly staring eyes. - -“What have you come to do here?” he asked in a disconsolate voice. For -there was nothing to do for him, nothing; he was dead to everything. - -“What used you to come to me for, five years ago, when you used to sit -down beside me and draw me close to your side? And what did you come to -me for one evening, also five years ago now, when my husband—had—left -me—my husband, whom I have never seen since. Tell me, what did you come -to me for then? Did I then ask you what you ask me now?” she said -reproachfully. “You have had a letter from Eline, I know it, I have -seen the envelope. You need not tell me what it was about. I can feel -it instinctively. But, Otto, let me share your grief, do not turn a -deaf ear to my pleading.” - -She saw his chest heaving under the mighty sob which he repressed with -a violent effort, and she threw her arm round his neck, and forced him -to lean his head upon her shoulder; and in his own sorrow he started, -terrified at the recollection of hers, of her grief, of which she never -spoke, and he felt that indeed she must sincerely desire to comfort -him, when for his sake she thus plunged herself anew into that great -sorrow of the past. - -“Why do you speak about that?” he asked, for he knew that she suffered -least when she suffered in silence. - -“So that you may feel that I understand you. And so that you may see -that I live still, and must continue to live; and especially to show -you that all the grief on earth is not yours exclusively. Perhaps that -idea may comfort you a little.” - -“Oh!” he burst out sobbing, and he clung close to her, and tremblingly -handed her the letter. “There, read! read!” he cried. - -She read the letter, and stroked his hair as if he had been a child. -Yes, that was as it should be, now he no longer forced himself to -control his feelings, now he felt not ashamed, in his obstinate -manliness, of his copious tears. And while she read, she thought of -Eline. - -“Did she know what she was throwing away?” she mused. “What would she -do if she saw him thus? Is she not worthy of you, my Otto, my own -brother? or is it only that she is unhappy, unhappy as we are?” - -Madame van Erlevoort came in with Frédérique. They had heard the news -from Henk. - -Mathilde lifted up his head. - -“There is mamma!” she said simply, as though she would no longer retain -him, now that another demanded his attention. But when he saw his -gentle mother, melting away as it were in his grief, deepest pity -filled his soul. He must comfort her. - -“Mother, mother, do not cry like that! ’Tis not so terrible!” he cried -out in despair. - -Frédérique remained standing, leaning against one of the folding doors. -Of her they took no notice whatever. Mathilde, mamma, could soothe and -comfort him, but she, she was of no use to him at all; she was silly, -childish, and would not know what to say to him. She remembered how, -one day, long before his engagement, she had spoken to him about Eline; -but now she had nothing to say, absolutely nothing. For, of course, she -did not understand what sorrow was, she herself had never suffered, she -had no feeling, she was a stone. - -“A stone! they think I am a stone!” she repeated softly to herself, and -she remained leaning against the door-post and sobbed inaudibly, -disconsolate at the thought that she could not comfort Otto. She felt a -hand on her shoulder, and she turned almost haughty at being thus -misjudged. But when she saw his sorrowful face; those moist eyes, in -which, for the first time, she beheld tears; when she saw those lips -trembling under his moustache, and the deep furrows over his brow, she -flung herself, brimming over with pity, on his bosom, and clasping him -tightly in her arms, covered his face with burning, passionate kisses. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -Vincent was busy packing, for the next day he would be leaving for -London. Henk tried to make him alter his mind and stay, but only -half-heartedly, for he felt well enough that when Vincent was once -away, a great obstacle to the peace of the house would be removed, and -Betsy would no longer be irritated by the presence of a cousin whom she -hated, whom she feared, and whom in her fear of him she had nurtured -and tended until she abhorred him. In the morning before his departure -Vincent had a last chat with Eline in her boudoir. - -“Then you are going, really?” she asked. - -“Certainly, my dear girl. You can see for yourself that Betsy can’t -bear me any longer.” - -“What are you going to do in London?” - -“I have to call on some acquaintances there—to arrange some money -matters before I go to America.” - -“Are you going to America, then?” - -“You know I am; haven’t you yourself brought me St. Clare’s letter?” - -“I—I did not know that you had decided for certain. Poor Vincent!” - -He looked at her with a quiet smile; not quite recovered from his -weakness, it rather soothed him to be pitied. - -“Do you pity me so?” - -“Yes—indeed, I pity. You are beginning your wanderings again, and who -knows if I shall ever see you again. Perhaps never, never again!” - -She sighed. - -“I am always happiest when I am on my wanderings.” - -She felt an eager desire to ask him if she might accompany him, if she -might by his side also seek her fortune far away. But she did not know -how to shape her question, and she waited to see if perhaps he would -say something. For did he not love her? had he not wanted to go away -for her sake? Now there remained nothing more that need separate them. - -“He is afraid to speak,” she thought, and she could not say whether she -was glad or sorry that he was afraid. - -“Happiest on your wanderings!” she repeated musingly. “It is -possible—you are a man, you can wander. But I am a girl, I have always -lived a quiet life here. Happy am I? Heavens! No, that I am not!” - -He glanced at her for a moment, as if about to ask her something; but -for a while he remained silent. Then he asked— - -“And why—are you not happy?” - -“Why!” she murmured. - -She waited for him to proceed, until perhaps he should put to her the -question which she had awaited for days past. But no doubt it was owing -to a sense of honour and decency that he did not ask it; it was but -such a little while ago as yet that she had written to Otto. Still she -thought she could detect the presence of love beneath his soft accents, -and she looked at him. A ray of sunshine glinted along the -window-curtain into the room and fell upon him where he sat, -surrounding him with a kind of halo, and she started back in sudden -alarm when she observed by that brilliant light how he resembled her -dead father. This alarm caused her heart to pulse the quicker, and she -fancied that she loved Vincent for the sake of her father’s memory, -because in him she saw a victim of the world’s conventionality, and -thus she invested him with something ideal and romantic. - -He, too, looked at her with pity in his heart, for he knew that she had -flung away her happiness. He had often done so himself, he thought; but -in his own case the fact had never disclosed itself to his eyes with -such distinctness as it did now with regard to Eline. For a moment he -wanted to tell her as much, but he could see no use in doing so, and so -he said nothing. She would never have admitted it. - -“Vincent!” she faltered at last, with her nerves painfully overstrung -in the suspense of waiting, waiting for that which never came. -“Vincent, tell me—perhaps we shall never see each other again—have you -nothing—nothing to say to me?” - -“I have, and a good deal, Elly dear; I have to thank you for having -tended and nursed me like a dear little girl, here in your own room, at -a time when you yourself were suffering.” - -“How do you know that I suffered?” - -“I have a little knowledge of human nature.” - -She shook her head. - -“I don’t think so. I have not suffered, I pity—Otto, but I have not -suffered myself.” - -As she uttered that lie she felt it tortured her, but it was for the -sake of Vincent, who loved her, and who must not know of her own grief. -He looked at her penetratingly, asking himself why it was that she -lied, but he was at a loss to account for it, he could not understand -it at all; the only thing he did understand was that in the soul of -woman there always remained something that was strange and mysterious, -a mist that could not be penetrated. Neither did she understand him. -She could not understand why he did not ask her to love him, now that -there was nothing more to separate them, and now that he was on the -point of going away. In another hour he would be gone. Oh, perhaps he -thought it was too late. She sighed, and eagerly she said— - -“Vincent, one thing you must promise me; if ever I can do anything for -you, write to me, and I assure you I shall not disappoint you. Will you -promise me this?” - -“I promise you, and I thank you.” - -“And something else. I know you are often in want of money. If at -anytime I can help you with any, pray write to me. Just now, for -instance, I have two hundred and fifty florins in cash lying here; are -they of any use to you? if so, they are at your disposal. May I give -you the money?” - -She had already risen to open her escritoire, but he grasped her hand -with something like emotion. - -“Elly—Elly—no, Elly—not that—thank you very much. It is most kind of -you indeed, but I could not return you the money for ever so long -perhaps.” - -“Oh, come now, don’t—don’t refuse me. ’Tis a pleasure to me, I assure -you.” - -“Once again, I don’t know how to thank you, but really—I—I cannot -accept it—really I can’t.” - -She stood still, and her cheeks turned white as marble. Yes, yes, -indeed, he loved her, how could she doubt it? If he did not, would he -have refused to accept the money? Yes, she could see it, he would not -owe her money, because he loved her. But why did he not speak then? - -At length he rose, the cab was to be at the door in a few minutes. - -“Now I must really go,” said he. “Good-bye, Elly dear, good-bye; thank -you a thousand times for what you have done for me.” - -“Good-bye, Vincent, good-bye.” - -He made a movement as if he wanted to kiss her, and she threw her arms -round his neck and kissed him on both cheeks. - -“Think of me sometimes, will you? I am fond of you, and I am really not -fond of many persons; I can count my affections easily enough. Well, -good-bye, Elly, good-bye, and perhaps, au revoir.” - -Once more she kissed him, her eyes full of tears, and as he went she -threw herself on the sofa, and nodded her head to him for the last -time. He disappeared, closing the door behind him. - -For a while she sat staring at that door. And when, after a few -moments, she heard his cab move away, she wondered that he had kissed -her so unreservedly and coolly in that final moment of parting. She -wanted to muse about him, because she did not understand him; she -wanted, too, to probe her own feelings and discover if she really loved -him, but she felt tired and her head ached, and with a weary sigh she -fell back in the cushions, covering her face with her hands. - - - -It was the third day after Vincent’s departure, but although he had -left the house, there had been another tiff about him between Eline and -Betsy, who had spoken her mind about her “wretch of a cousin” in the -presence of visitors, and to Eline’s intense annoyance. The time had -now come, Betsy thought, when she should once for all let Eline know -that she was mistress in that house; and so, with the full intention of -doing so, she walked up-stairs in the evening into Eline’s boudoir. - -“What do you want?” Eline said haughtily. “I should like to be alone.” - -“May I remind you that you are in my house, and that if I feel inclined -to come here I shall do so! I have something to say to you.” - -“Make haste then, for I tell you again I wish to be alone!” - -“You wish! you! What right have you to wish, I should like to know? You -are in my house, and it isn’t for you to wish! Who do you think you -are, eh?” shrieked Betsy, exciting herself to a towering passion. “Do -you imagine you are a princess, and can do exactly as you like? or do -you fancy that I am going to be dictated to by you in the presence of -strangers?” - -“Don’t you think I know what to say without your valuable advice? I -don’t want your advice, so there! And I assure you that in future, -whenever I hear you speak in that disgraceful way about Vincent, I -shall make you hold your tongue. Thus much I assure you.” - -“Indeed, you assure me—you do, eh? But I don’t want your assurance, I -tell you. I have no intention to trouble myself in the least about your -idiotic tenderness for Vincent! Perhaps it was he from whom you learnt -the politeness to interrupt one among strangers as you dared to do to -me? I can’t understand how you can have the impertinence, I can’t -really. Why, they must have thought you were crazy. Well, if you are, -that must be your excuse! Fancy calling me vulgar; and what are you, -pray? you, who forget the very rudiments of politeness, and have——” - -“Yes, I know, I have heard it before—have had the impertinence to -interrupt you, you were going to say. Do say something else for a -change. But you shall see that I dare more than that, if you attack -Vincent again. You think him false, do you? But I think you are false, -you who invite him here yourself, and then drive him out of the house, -you who for no reason whatever go on about him like a washerwoman! It -is you, you who are false!” - -“Keep your beautiful epithets to yourself, please.” - -“Then you just keep that wretched abuse of Vincent to yourself too, -please!” shrieked Eline, boiling with passion. “I won’t, do you hear, I -won’t hear it any longer. I have stood it long enough for the sake of -peace, but now I won’t stand it any longer! Do you understand?” - -“Indeed, won’t you stand it any longer? Perhaps it was all on account -of that darling Vincent that you could not stand Otto any longer -either?” - -“Hold your tongue!” screamed Eline. - -“Or perhaps you are smitten with that reptile, and that is why you -treated Otto as if he had been a schoolboy with whom you were having a -little joke? You won’t bear my abuse of Vincent any longer, will you? -but I tell you that I won’t be compromised any more by you! Not bad, -I’m sure! To start with, you are silly enough to break your engagement, -and, out of pure caprice, without the slightest reason, you have made -yourself the talk of the town; then you carry on here in my house with -Vincent, as if you were in love with him, and as a wind-up you dare to -be impertinent to me before strangers! Well, I am not going to bear it -any longer, do you hear? If you have learnt that unmannerliness in your -philosophic discourses with Vincent——” - -Eline could no longer control herself. Her nerves were strung to their -utmost tension, and quivered under Betsy’s insults as under the touch -of rough hands. And Betsy’s allusion to Otto, to her sympathy for -Vincent, which she fancied she had so successfully concealed, made her -furious. She grasped Betsy’s wrists in the nervous strength of her -fingers, and in a voice shrill with rage she cried— - -“It is enough! Hold your tongue, I tell you. Don’t talk any more about -Otto, don’t say another word about Vincent, or I—I—I’ll do you an -injury! Don’t aggravate me any longer. Take care!” - -Betsy wrenched herself free from her grasp. - -“Eline, are you mad?” she cried, but Eline did not allow her to finish. -She remained standing in front of Betsy and clenching her trembling -hands. - -“I tell you, you aggravate me, you aggravate me with that eternal -rubbish about your house. ‘My house! my house!’ I know I am in your -house, but I did not ask you to take me in, and I won’t be reminded -that I am in your house, as if you did me a charity. I am not dependent -on you although I am in your house, and I won’t be dictated to by you, -not in anything. I am free, quite free, to do just as I please.” - -“Oh no, you are not; you are in my house, and you must behave yourself. -And if you don’t know how to behave yourself, I shall tell you, so long -as you are here!” - -“And I won’t be told by you how I am to behave!” shrieked Eline. “I -tell you, I am free! I don’t want your house, about which you make so -much fuss, and I swear to you that I shall not stay another moment in -it! That I swear to you, I swear it, by all that is sacred! Enjoy your -house to yourself, or choke in it for my part!” - -She was scarcely conscious of what she said. She had worked herself -into a paroxysm of rage, and with a rapid movement she picked up her -cloak from the floor and flung it round her shoulders. Then she rushed -towards the door, but Henk, who on hearing the loud voices had come -upon the scene, stopped her. - -“Eline!” he began severely. - -“Let me go, let me go!” she screamed like a wounded tigress, and she -pushed his big body aside with such a frantic strength as made him -stagger. Once more he attempted to stop her, but again she pushed him -aside, rushed out of the room, and down the stairs. - -“Eline! In Heaven’s name, Eline! you don’t know what you are doing!” he -shouted to her from the landing, and rushed after her. - -She heard no more. She had but one single thought: to fly from that -house, away from a shelter where she was reproached for her presence. -She saw nothing more; she saw neither Gerard nor the servants, who -stood looking at her in blank amazement; she hurried along the -vestibule, flung open the glass doors, and quickly drew the bolt from -the street-door. But now, now she heard behind her a rattling noise; -the door fell to with a bang, shattering the glass on the floor with a -loud crash. - - - -Then the street-door too slammed behind her, and she found herself in -the street. The rain was falling in torrents, and the blustering wind -blew open her cloak, and beat in her face as with a damp thong. It was -impossible for her to plod on in the teeth of that boisterous -hurricane, and she turned the other way and allowed herself to be -driven along aimlessly by the force of the wind, which flew at her back -like a gigantic vampire, with big, tearing claws. Aimlessly she let -herself be carried along in that pitiful, that dismal night. In the -street she saw no one, and in her loneliness, in the lowering gloom, in -the splashing downpour, in the wild gusts of the storm, she at length -felt herself conscious of her position, and a chill, indefinable terror -overtook her. It seemed to her as though she had been suddenly wrenched -away from out of the midst of every-day life, and found herself plunged -into a sphere full of nameless, terrible anxiety and blank, dismal -despair. She nearly died with fright at the darkness that enveloped her -like a black shroud of grief, at the deluge which was pouring down upon -her bare head, utterly without protection from the wind gusts which -nearly blew her cloak from her shoulders, and numbed her with cold in -the thin black silk dress that fluttered about her in the buffeting -wind. Her little patent shoes went splashing along through mud puddles -and thick mire; her dishevelled hair hung dank and dripping down her -temples; and under her thin cloak she felt a chill moisture gliding -down her neck and down her bare bosom. She knew no longer where she -was; she started in fright at the twigs that fell about her, at the -howling of a watch-dog in a house she passed. And she saw no one, no -one. - -But her condition brought her to herself. She felt conscious of having -fled from her sister’s house. She would fain have stood still for a -moment to reflect, but the strong wind thrust her forward, as though -she were one of the autumn leaves that were whirled about her head. And -she let herself be blown along, and collected her thoughts, while -tramping forward with involuntarily hurried footsteps. Despite her -pitiful condition, she felt neither remorse nor regret at the step she -had taken. And suddenly she felt astounded at her own courage. She -would never have imagined herself possessed of the pluck to run away in -such a night, without knowing whither to go. But she forced her -thoughts to take some practical shape, she could not continue wandering -about in this way, she must have an object. - -All at once she noticed that she had reached the Laan Copes van -Cattenburgh. Driven forward by the wind, she hurried along the -rain-sodden, muddy path, while the storm swept in sullen fury across -the Alexanders-veld. - -Continually she had to step back before the shower of loose twigs which -the wind blew from the trees, and she began to perceive that she was in -danger of being crushed by some falling trunk. A fear for her life -prevented her from thinking, but the more intensely that fear numbed -her heart, the more eagerly she nerved herself to do so. Whither in -Heaven’s name should she go? A chill tremor seized her—a vague, -undefined dread—while her wide, staring eyes were trying in vain to -peer through the dense gloom. To whom was she to go? To old Madame van -Raat? No, no, fond as she was of her, the old lady would be sure to -take the part of her son and her daughter-in-law! To the -Verstraetens—her brother-in-law’s relation? Everything began to surge -around her, and she—she felt herself lost in her black solitude, and -gradually sinking lower and lower into an abyss of grief and of mire! -Otto’s figure rose to her mind, and she would have given all that -remained her of her life could he have come to her at that moment, -could he have there and then borne her away in his arms, clinging to -his heart, to some abode of warmth, light, love, and safety. Her -courage all but failed her to go farther, she could have flung herself -down in that mire through which she plodded, and remain lying there, -letting the winds sweep over her until her last breath should have -escaped her! But no! that would be all too cowardly after the pluck she -had already shown, and now she must, she would set her mind to think of -some place of refuge. Not Madame van Raat—not the Verstraetens—in -Heaven’s name whither should she go then? And all at once, like a -lightning flash darting through the gloom of that night of blank -despair, an idea struck her, and her mind reverted to a certain suite -of humble apartments, to Jeanne, her friend of former days. Yes, -thither she must go: she knew no one else, and she could not for ever -go on wandering along in that pouring rain, in that howling storm; and, -bracing herself up to face the buffeting wind, she hurried -round—numbed, chill, and wet to the skin—by the Alexanders-veld in the -direction of the Hugo de Grootstraat. There, over on the opposite side -of the field, she could just see the backs, lit up here and there with -a faint gas glimmer, of the houses on the Nassauplein, but she could -not distinguish which of them was theirs—hers no longer. A wild, -longing remorse now filled her poor, despairing heart at the -recollection of all she had lost yonder, at the thought that she had -yet to plod on for so long through the raging storm ere she could reach -the Ferelyns. And she was tired, tired unto death, tired from her -quarrel with Betsy, tired with the rain that was unceasingly beating -down upon her face, cold and cutting as thongs of steel, tired with the -wind against which she struggled as with an immense black monster, that -was dashing her to and fro as though she had been a human battledore. -She felt more fatigued with every step she took in her little patent -shoes, which were bespattered with mud, and with every movement -threatened to slip from her feet. And oh! she could have died with -misery, with distress, with grief. - -But forward, still forward she must go, and she fought and struggled on -with the monster and slowly gained upon it. In this way she reached the -Javastraat, and then she turned to the right, towards the Laan van -Meerdervoort. The hurricane shook her as though it would break her like -a reed, and a heavy branch struck her on the shoulder, and scratched -her face so that she screamed with pain. And suddenly, with despair -overmastering her body and soul, desperate with fear and grief, she -made an attempt to start running, running as if for very life, and -fly—fly to the Ferelyns. But the furious wind stopped her, it was in -vain, she could only proceed slowly, painfully, step by step. - -“Oh God! What have I done?” she cried in wild despair. Those familiar -streets, along which she trod almost daily, seemed to her, in that -noisome darkness, as the unknown ways of a demon city along which she -was doomed to wander like some accursed phantom. She passed by Madame -van Raat’s house, and she had to summon forth all her courage, all the -strength of her will, not to knock at that door, that would surely open -to her, and admit her to light and warmth. But no, it was too late, -Madame would be asleep; besides, she would reproach Eline with her -flight from the Nassauplein. And she plodded on, driven forward by the -wind and by an obstinate fixed idea, towards the house of the Ferelyns. -She went on, on, although with every step she took she felt her thin -little saturated shoes growing heavier, heavier than lead. She turned -at the Spiegelstraat—how much longer should she have to suffer? She -counted the minutes—then—then she entered the Hugo de Grootstraat. And -the furious rain beat down more savagely than ever on her face, more -roughly than ever the wind tugged and tore at her cloak, when—thank -God!—she stood at their door. She could see no light anywhere, but she -did not hesitate. Here only could she find safety. And she rang the -bell violently, roughly, passionately, as with a tintinnabulating cry -for help. - - - -The time to her seemed unendurably long before any one answered. But at -last she heard steps coming down the stairs, the bolt was drawn with a -grating sound, then the door was slowly, stealthily opened, and a face -appeared at the opening. - -“In God’s name!” she cried imploringly, and pushed the door quite open -and rushed inside. “It is I, Eline.” - -The door closed and she stood in the darkness before Frans Ferelyn, -who, in utter amazement, shouted out her name. At the top of the stairs -appeared Jeanne with a lamp, and in her longing for light, for warmth, -for glow, her will once more got the better of failing strength, and -she hastened up the stairs. - -“Jeanne!—Jeanne!—I implore you—help me. It is I—Eline, oh, help me! -help me, do!” - -“Great heavens, Eline!” Jeanne cried, as she stood paralyzed with -astonishment. - -“Help me, do. I have—run away from them. Help me, do, or I shall die.” - -She sank down soaking wet at Jeanne’s feet, and where she lay the -stairs were soon wet with the water that dripped from her cloak. - -“Great heavens, Eline! Eline!” cried Jeanne, who could not believe her -own eyes. - -Eline had burst out sobbing, and remained crouched at Jeanne’s feet. -Jeanne attempted to lift her up; and wherever her hands touched her, -she felt her icy cold and soaked through with the rain. - -“In Heaven’s name, Eline, what have you done? What has happened? You -are so wet—so wet—wet and cold all over. Great heavens, Eline!” She led -Eline, who walked with tottering steps, into Frans’s little office, and -set down the lamp. Eline fell exhausted on a chair, the dirty -rain-water oozing through her clothes. - -“Yes—yes,” cried Eline. “I have run away from them, I could not stop -with them any longer. And I have come to you—because I don’t know where -else to go. Oh, Jeanne, do, do help me!” she went on, in a voice broken -with sobs. - -Jeanne trembled with nervousness and pity. - -“Tell me about that afterwards, Eline. Let me undress you—you will be -ill in these wet things.” - -“Yes, yes, undress me, do—that cloak, those shoes, oh, I am sick of -myself. I am all over mud. Great heavens! oh, that I were dead!” She -threw herself, trembling all over, backward in her chair. Frans had -come into the room. - -“Oh, Frans, just look here,” said Jeanne, shaking with excitement, and -pointed to Eline. “I hope she won’t be ill.” - -“Without a hat, in that thin, low-necked dress! I shall try and light -the fire down-stairs. You undress her.” - -He was still as if paralyzed with Eline’s appearance, and he too -trembled with pity, quite unable to speak, as he saw her sitting in -that chair, the water dripping from her hair on her white face and down -her throat, her black evening dress clinging to her like a wet flannel. -But he went. He must be up and doing. - -And outside raged the storm. - - - -She was now in their well-lit sitting-room, lying on a couch which -Frans had placed by the side of the flaming stove, and she shivered -with fever under her woollen blankets. And yet she felt a grateful -sense of well-being in that light, in sight of those flames, intensely -grateful that she was saved from the demoniac powers of darkness. -Suddenly she raised herself up. - -“Jeanne,” she shrieked in a hoarse voice to the little trembling woman, -who was preparing a steaming hot drink. “Jeanne! I implore you, forgive -me for keeping you up such a night as this. But, in Heaven’s name, -where was I to go to? Oh, that rain, that wind! It drives me mad to -think of it. I had no idea that a person could be in such distress as I -have suffered this night. But really, I could not stay with them any -longer. As for that Betsy, oh, how I hate her.” - -“Eline, I entreat you, be calm now.” - -“Why did she mention Otto’s name? What right has she to mention Otto’s -name? I hate her! I hate her!” - -“Eline! Eline!” Jeanne cried, clasping her hands. - -She flung herself before the couch. - -“Eline, I beseech you, I beseech you, in Heaven’s name! Be calm! Rest -yourself now, Eline.” - -Eline, with her feverish, staring eyes, looked long at Jeanne, then she -threw her arm round her neck. - -“Lie down and rest yourself now, Eline; rest yourself, if you cannot -sleep.” - -A hollow sob burst from Eline’s throat. - -“Oh, you are an angel!” she whispered in broken tones. “I shall never -forget what you are doing for me, never. It is as if you have rescued -me from an abyss of despair. Oh, that mud! You care for me then, Jany?” - -“Yes, yes, Eline, of course I do; but rest now, rest yourself now.” - -“Oh! rest myself.” - -That single word ‘rest’ cut Jeanne to the quick. Eline pronounced it in -a voice full of despair, as if for her there would never more be any -rest. Still she allowed Jeanne to ensconce her snugly in the pillows, -and emptied the glass that Jeanne offered her. - -“Thanks, thanks, Jany,” she faltered. - -Jeanne covered her up with the blankets and sat down beside her. The -windows rattled in the wind, and the bare branches beat furiously -against the glass. The clock over the chimney struck three. - - - -It had just struck three, too, in the house of the Van Raats, when -Frans Ferelyn drew up in front of their door in a cab. The storm still -roared and shrieked like some wounded monster that was savagely -fighting for life above the housetops of the dark city. Frans sprang -from the cab and rang the bell. He noticed that the gas was lighted in -the vestibule. - -The door was opened immediately by Henk, who appeared to be expecting -some one. But on seeing Frans rush inside, he stepped back in -astonishment. - -“Is that you, Ferelyn?” he cried. - -“Yes, don’t be alarmed,” said Frans, calming him, for he saw that Henk -was in a terrible state of excitement. “It is all right; Eline is with -us.” - -He walked further inside, crushing the glass that lay scattered all -over the vestibule. - -“With you, is she? Thank God!” exclaimed Henk. “I was mad, mad; I did -not know what to do! Thank God she is with you.” - -“Come in, Ferelyn,” came in a trembling voice from Betsy, who appeared -at the door of the dining-room. - -The servants were also in the vestibule, and their frightened faces -cleared up a little, while they retired whispering into the kitchen. -Frans entered the dining-room with Henk. - -“You need not be alarmed, madam; really, for the moment it is all -right. Eline was wet through, but Jeanne has taken her under her care. -You can imagine what a fright it gave us when we heard such a loud -knocking at the door, and at such an hour, and we saw her soaked -through.” - -Suddenly he noticed Henk’s face. - -“But I say, what has happened to you? Your cheek is all over blood.” - -“Oh, that’s nothing at all. When Eline ran away I rushed after her, and -through the wind the door in the vestibule fell to and broke the glass. -The shattered glass sprang into my eyes, and so I could not at once run -after her. Still, as soon as I could I got out into the street with -Gerard, to drag her home again if necessary. But it was so confoundedly -dark; the gas-lamps were blown out in the storm, and I could see -nothing of her. I did not know what to do. Then we went to the -police-station on the Schelpkade, and they sent out some night-watchmen -to find her. She was in such a state. I thought perhaps she might have -made an end of herself, and in this infernal weather anything might -happen to her. My eye pains me; I shall go and see an oculist -to-morrow.” - -Betsy fell down with a sigh in a chair. - -“Oh, ’tis terrible, terrible!” she faltered. “That girl can behave like -a maniac sometimes!” - -“Of course, if you do your best to drive her mad!” cried Henk angrily, -with his hand on his eye. - -“Ah, bien! Yes, blame me for it.” - -“Van Raat, there is just a thing or two I want to say to you,” -interrupted Frans. “In the first place, I came round here without a -moment’s delay, because I feared you would be terribly anxious about -her.” - -“Old chap, I don’t know how I can thank you.” - -“Never mind about that just now. But Eline has positively declared that -she would not go back to you. Now I need not tell you that such an -affair as that soon gets wind; people begin to talk, and all that, and -that! not very pleasant. And the servants know all about it too, don’t -they?” - -Betsy gave Frans a grateful look for touching that point. - -“Oh, well, how can you help that?” cried Henk impatiently. “People will -always talk.” - -“Yes, that’s true enough; but anyhow you come round to my house as soon -as you can to-morrow, and see if you can’t persuade Eline to return -home. That is, of course, if she is not ill; just now I thought she was -rather feverish. So you had better let her rest a bit now; but come as -early as possible to-morrow.” - -“All right,” said Henk, with a dazed look. - -“I believe she was delirious when I went out to fetch a cab, but still -she seemed very determined. She would not go back, and she gave me her -keys. She asked me”—and he looked at Betsy—“to arrange her things here -and pack them. But I think she said it all in her passion; I hope in -any case that by this time to-morrow we shall have come to some -amicable arrangement.” - -“Look here, Ferelyn!” said Betsy uneasily; “you can well understand the -despair I am in. Good gracious, it isn’t the first tiff I have had with -Eline, but who could imagine her capable of such a mad freak as this? -And as you say, all the Hague will be talking about it. Therefore if -you can manage to persuade her to come back, I shall be for ever -grateful to you. Our house is always open to her; and as for those -keys, you had better leave them here. I am of your opinion, and think -it will all come right yet. Good heavens! what a blessing that she came -to you! But in such a night as that, alone, out in that storm! How -could she have done it? Good heavens! How could she have done it?” - -Frans had still to talk about one or two matters with Henk, who asked -him to stay till the morning, as Frans had sent his cab away, and the -weather was still frightfully boisterous. Gerard conducted Frans to -Henk’s dressing-room, where he removed his wet clothes. - - - -Early next morning Henk drove with Frans to an oculist. It was only a -vein that had burst in Henk’s eye, and after a little grain of glass -had been removed from it with a lancet, he felt greatly relieved. But -across his cheek there was a long, ugly cut. - -“I look as though I had been in the war,” said he, with an attempt at a -smile to Ferelyn, as soon as they were in the carriage again, on their -way to the Hugo de Grootstraat, “and indeed, old fellow, it does seem -as if we were all at war just now. I have got enough of it already.” - -Ferelyn could not help pitying him when he saw that kindly honest face -suffused with a gloomy melancholy. It was evident enough that Henk -looked forward with a deal of misgiving to the interview with Eline. -But the ordeal was spared him. Eline passionately refused to receive -him, and in the adjoining room he sat and listened anxiously to the -reproaches she levelled at Frans. Why did Frans want to bring him? Why -had she given Frans her keys? Was Frans, too, no longer to be trusted? - -Eline’s voice sounded hoarse and rough, and to Henk it seemed that she -was delirious. Then he heard a soft, reproachful whispering of Jeanne, -followed by the sobbing of Eline, who accused herself of ingratitude. - -Soon Frans came back, shrugging his shoulders. - -“She won’t see you. You had better resign yourself to it. I believe she -is in a violent fever. Do you think Reyer is still at home? If so, I -should drive down to him if I were you.” - -“All right,” said Henk dejectedly, “I will go.” - -Eline was still lying on her couch covered with woollen blankets, and -she groaned softly as if in pain. - -“You are so kind to me, Jany, but you see of course I can’t remain -here, and trouble you like this,” she went on, sorrowfully. “You -haven’t very much room. I must be an inconvenience to you. This -afternoon I shall go to an hotel.” - -Jeanne sat down beside her and took her hands in hers. - -“Eline, be sensible now, and don’t talk any more about that. Believe -me, you are ill; you remain quietly here with us. I won’t insist that -you shall return to Betsy’s, but then you must not talk about going to -an hotel.” - -“Yes, but if I am ill—I don’t believe I am, but you say so—if I am ill, -it will be some time before I can leave you again. And—and—oh, forgive -me for saying it—I know you cannot afford it, Jany dear; forgive me, -forgive me for saying it.” - -Jeanne looked at Eline tenderly, and her eyes filled with tears. - -“If it’s that, Eline, pay us then and stay here; pay us, and don’t talk -any more about an hotel. I won’t be ashamed of it; you may pay me for -it if you want to. But stay here—stay.” - -Eline started up with her wild staring eyes and her dishevelled hair, -which Jeanne brushed in vain from her temples. And she clung to Jeanne -with a sudden intensity, as if in her burning grief she plunged into -the grateful cooling waters of pity and sympathy. - -“Oh, you darling! you angel!” she cried. “Forgive me, I—I did not mean -to grieve you, but—but—oh, yes, indeed, I will gladly stay, you are so -good. May I stay?” - - - -That afternoon old Madame van Raat and Madame Verstraeten came to see -Eline, and endeavoured to persuade her to return to the Nassauplein. -Eline, however, refused to receive them. Even Betsy allowed Jeanne to -persuade her to call on Eline, and ask her pardon. Jeanne thought it -was Betsy’s duty to try and make her peace with her sick sister, and it -might have a favourable effect on her. But Betsy Eline would not see -either. And in the adjoining room Betsy, with her mother-in-law and her -aunt, heard, as Henk had heard that morning in silence and anxiety, how -Eline declared to Jeanne that she would not—would not see any one. Only -Jeanne and no one else would she see about her! Before long Eline’s -quarrel with the Van Raats and her flight to the Ferelyns became the -general topic of conversation. Of the details of the dispute they did -not know much; only, of this they were certain, that in that stormy -night Eline had been seen sitting in a carriage with a night-watchman -and a young man, and to say the least of it they thought it passing -strange! But then Eline had always been rather eccentric. In the winter -she had been in the habit of taking early morning walks alone in the -wood—what respectable young girl would think of doing such a thing as -that? Now—that affair with Erlevoort too, that was a bit mysterious; -and now there was that romance with a young man and a night-watchman! -It was a pity certainly, for she was really such a nice girl, so pretty -and graceful; but had they not always been a strange family, those -Veres? - -Betsy was mad with spite at this talk, and she scarcely ventured to -show herself anywhere, seeking her refuge only at the Verstraetens’ and -with Emilie de Woude. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -A month had elapsed, a month which Eline spent with the Ferelyns, as -Jeanne would not allow her to go until she had quite recovered. Reyer -had told them that Eline had caught a severe cold which, with the least -neglect, might prove fatal. Jeanne in the meantime tended her with -gentle care; Frans’s little office she had had fitted up specially for -her, and when Eline protested and began again to talk about an hotel, -Frans himself declared that he thought he ought not to work so hard, a -little rest was necessary for him. Eline, therefore, embraced Jeanne -with a passionate gratitude and stayed on, while her violent fits of -coughing filled the little house as with a painful echo. - -Her cough was a little better now; she felt not quite as much pain on -her chest. But she had grown very thin, her eyes were hollow and dull, -and her face was wan and sallow. She sat in a big chair close to the -little stove, and she gazed out of the window and amused herself a -little watching the tradesmen—the butcher, the greengrocer, the -milkman—as they called from house to house; she amused herself watching -the servants who opened the door—a stout, red-faced one here, a tall -thin one there, then again the mistress herself, in a black apron and a -dirty little lace cap. - -Then she rose and looked in the little black-framed glass, simple as -all around her was. She expected some one, and she looked eagerly at -her face; it was such a long time since she had seen him; what sort of -impression would she make on him, with that sallow face and those -sunken eyes? - -For Betsy had written a long letter to her uncle, Daniel Vere, who -during Eline’s minority had been her guardian, and who was only lately -married and living in Brussels. When old Aunt Vere died he was still -single, so that it was out of the question for Eline to make her home -with him. He came but seldom to the Hague, and when he received Betsy’s -letter, in which Eline’s flight was described to him, it seemed to him -that he was being drawn into matters that did not concern him. He -replied to it, however, and at the same time wrote to Eline, asking her -for an interview. His letter surprised her, and agreeably so, and she -thought that through him she could see a relief from her present -position, which, when she should have quite recovered, would certainly -be no longer bearable to her. She therefore replied to him in the most -amiable terms, and promised to do as he required her on the one -condition only, that he did not ask her to make her peace with her -sister and again to make her home with the Van Raats; that she should -on any account have to refuse, as the past had already taught her that -Betsy and she could not get on together; with whom the fault was it was -not for her to say. - -Vere then telegraphed what day and hour he would be coming to see -Eline. And now she awaited him, and examined her emaciated features, -and feared, as she saw herself so worn and emaciated, that she would -not be able to shed around her that all-powerful charm with which she -attracted every man towards her. She drew down the curtain a little, so -that the light should not fall with such a glare on her sallow -complexion. In the afternoon he came. - -He was tall and slender, with the somewhat languid movements peculiar -to all the Veres except Betsy, who was more like her mother. On Eline, -who had not seen him for two years, he made a very favourable -impression. He had the appearance of a thorough man of the world, and -she felt a little ashamed to receive him in this little room and amid -these humble surroundings. She rose slowly and languidly from her seat, -and walked towards him, while Jeanne shut the door and retired. - -“How do you do, uncle?” said Eline softly. “I am very glad to see you, -very glad.” - -She held out her hand to him, and pointed to a chair. He sat down, -looked at her rather searchingly, smiled a little sad smile, and shook -his head. - -“For shame, Eline,” he began slowly. “What sorrow you have caused me. -Do you know I’m very dissatisfied with you, little girl?” - -“I suppose Betsy has written all sorts of things about me?” she asked -with assumed indifference, but with real curiosity. - -“What Betsy has written me came upon me like a thunderbolt. I had no -idea that you were so out of sympathy with your sister. I thought you -were very happy at the Van Raats’. Last spring you wrote me such an -enthusiastic letter about your engagement, and now Betsy tells me that -you have released Van Erlevoort from his word. But still I had no idea -whatever that such scenes had taken place. Eline, Eline, how can you -allow yourself to be carried away like this by your feelings, without -the slightest attempt at self-control?” - -He searched a little for his words, proceeding cautiously, with much -misgiving whether she would allow him to persuade her to another -course. The news of her flight had given him the idea that she was a -very violent, impetuous creature. Now her gentle reticence seemed to -him very suspicious, and he feared every moment that she would jump up -and do something desperate. But she replied very quietly— - -“Look here, uncle. I ran away from Henk and Betsy, it is true; but that -is no reason why you should imagine that I do nothing but silly things. -I was beside myself with passion because of Betsy’s aggravating manner. -Now I’m sorry that I did not control myself, that I did not simply turn -my back on her, to leave her house the next day in peace and quietness. -But I think you will agree with me that there are moments in life -when—yes, when one is no longer master of oneself.” - -“And you are determined, then, that you will not return?” - -“I thought I had told you as much in my letter,” she answered, a little -piqued. - -“That is true; but I hoped—perhaps you would alter your mind.” - -“Never!” she said calmly and deliberately, and still with a certain -hauteur. - -“Very well then; if that is the case we shall not return to it. I am -sorry if that is your decision, but I suppose you have considered -everything?” - -“Oh yes,” she said, and gave a little cough. - -“Well, then I must propose something else; or rather—what do you think -of doing when you have got rid of that wretched cough?” - -Eline looked at him with some anxiety, and all her pride vanished. - -“I have been thinking about it myself. I really don’t know. Perhaps I -shall go and live by myself. I have a good many things of my own, and I -can be economical. Then perhaps too I can get some one to stay with -me.” - -And in her fancy she already saw herself ensconced in a set of quaint -little rooms something like those she occupied now, and her eyes filled -with tears. - -“That is a sensible idea, at all events. Here in the Hague do you -think?” - -“Well, yes, I dare say; but I really am not certain. Maybe I shall go -to a smaller place.” - -“Well, anyhow that is an after consideration. The fact is, there is -something I wanted to propose to you myself.” - -He took her hand, and glanced at her with his lack-lustre eyes. And she -thought that perhaps he was about to ask her to come and stay with them -in Brussels; if so, should she accept? - -“I am going abroad with your aunt, Eline, for the winter. I cannot help -laughing when I speak about your ‘aunt,’ for, as you know, she is -scarcely five years your senior. We are first going to Paris, and then -perhaps to Spain. And so now I wanted to suggest that you should -accompany us. You want a little change after what has happened; we may -perhaps stay abroad right through the winter. When you get tired of it -you can leave, and then there will be time enough to go and live by -yourself. With my wife I dare say you will get on very well, she is -very good company, a real Française. What do you think of this plan?” - -Eline looked at him confusedly with her tearful eyes. Yes, it was very -true she needed change, and she should travel about right through the -winter! And at that thought it was as if a flood of sunshine had -suddenly lit up the sombre darkness of her soul. No life without change -Vincent had said. - -“I really do not know what to say, uncle,” she said with some emotion. -“I am not very cheerful just now, and I fear you won’t find me pleasant -company.” - -“That is nothing at all, my girl; when you find yourself in different -surroundings, and see different faces, your ideas will change too. -There is nothing so necessary in this life as change; we cannot live -without it!” - -She started, and looked at him with a smile. It was as if Vincent had -spoken! And she felt grateful, very grateful, for his kind offer, for -his kindly voice. Yes, she consented, consented with gratitude. - -“You see, you can come and stay with us in Brussels for a few days -first, and then we can go; we do a deal of travelling, and we do it -economically, but without denying ourselves any pleasure. You see, we -understand the art, and as for you—you have money enough, you are a -good catch for anybody, aren’t you, eh?” he concluded smilingly. - -“I a good catch? My wealth is not very great, I can tell you, and I am -no longer in the market,” she said with a little sad smile. “You see, I -am getting old gradually; I’ve served my time.” - -He spoke to her as cheeringly as he could. Her trip would cure her of -all those gloomy ideas. After Jeanne, whom Eline had called into the -room, had been told of the plan, he left; he had still to pay a visit -to the Nassauplein, to the Van Raats. - -Eline remained alone while Jeanne conducted him to the door. A -multitude of thoughts rushed through her brain, like showering -rose-leaves, like sparks of sunshine, like glittering bubbles of soap. -She looked out of the window at the great clouds of dust which the wind -blew up from the paths and roadways. And she turned away shuddering at -the grave tints of autumn that met her gaze, when all at once her eye -fell on Frans’s diary, which was hanging on the wall, with the date -15th November distinctly visible. - -Great heavens! that was the very day which only a few months ago Otto -and herself had fixed upon as—their wedding day! Her gaze was as -transfixed on those black figures. A wild, a hopeless grief and remorse -suddenly overwhelmed all her new bright happiness, and savagely she -flung herself into her big chair and sobbed as if she would sob her -very life out. - - - -The news soon spread; the Eekhofs, the Hydrechts, and the Van Larens -repeated it to one another; Eline Vere was going abroad with her uncle, -Daniel Vere, who lived in Brussels and had only been married a year. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -Her head languidly resting against the red velvet cushions, Eline was -seated alone in the ladies’ coupé. She listened mechanically to the -rattling of the wheels along the rail, and it seemed to her as if she -heard a nervous tattoo in that monotonous hard melody of steel and -iron. Once or twice she took her handkerchief and wiped the glass to -have a glance outside, where the gray evening shades were falling, and -an opaque mist was rising over the meadows. In a few minutes she would -be in the Hague, in the Hague, where now she had not been for eighteen -months, and after her continuous wanderings the place seemed dear to -her now, a place where yet she might find something of a home. - -For eighteen months she had been travelling, and in all that time she -had lived with strangers without the smallest spot that she could call -her own. The changeful life she had led made the time pass rapidly; -change, ceaseless change had been hers. New cities, new scenes, new -people, wherever she went, until she was tired, dead tired of all this -variety. Now she longed for rest and calmness, for a long dull period -of slumbering repose, free from dreams and free from sorrows. - -Something of a home! Should she indeed find that, with that sad, aged -woman who loved her, but who did not understand her as she was -now—quiet, sadly quiet, and tired, utterly tired of her young life? For -henceforth she would be sad and quiet and tired of it all, she would -not again excite herself to an artificial glitter of gaiety, as she had -been forced to do among the strangers with whom she had sojourned. - -She heard the shrill whistle of the engine, and the lights that -glimmered through the mist grew in number at every moment. She was -approaching the Hague slowly. She rose, arranged her hat and her veil, -placed her book and her scent-bottle in her leather satchel, and sat -waiting, looking somewhat thin and worn, her face sallow and emaciated, -her eyes dull and sunk deep within their sockets. She sat waiting until -the train glided into the station and came to a stop. - -Her heart beat and the tears glistened on her lashes. Through the -steam-covered glass, in the dull glow of the gas-lights, she could see -the busy turmoil of the station, and she heard the loud voices of the -guard calling out— - -“Hague, Hague!” - -The carriage-door was opened; she rose, her portmanteau, her rug and -sunshades in her hand. Amid the rushing to and fro of the travellers -her eyes sought Paul; she knew that he was coming to fetch her, and she -gave a sudden start when she saw a familiar burly form make his way -through the crowd and approach her. - -“Henk!” she cried. - -He helped her out and she nearly fell into his arms, while Paul, who -followed him, relieved her of her luggage. - -“Elly—my child! Elly, dearest!” said Henk in a choking voice, and -gently he kissed her, while she lay her sobbing head on his shoulder. -She scarcely heard Paul’s greeting, and quite mechanically she held out -her hand to him. A wild sob escaped her. But Henk still spoke on, he -took her arm and led her to the front of the station where his carriage -was waiting. She let him lead her, full of undefined thoughts, full of -a vague sadness, and she leant on his hand and stepped into the -carriage. - -“We shall wait for Paul a moment,” said Henk, who took his place beside -her. - -She did not answer, but lay back in the cushions and covered her head -with her hand. - -“I did not expect to see you, Henk; it’s very kind of you, very kind -indeed,” she at last was able to say. He gently pressed her hand, and -leaned his head out of the window. Paul was approaching. - -“All the luggage is right,” he said, and sprang into the carriage. -“Well, Elly dear, I am glad to see you again.” - -The footman closed the door and the carriage rolled away. Paul said -nothing more, neither did Eline or Henk. By the light of every gas-lamp -they passed, Paul saw Eline lying back in the cushions motionless, her -hands covering her face, her bosom heaving with sobs, and they remained -silent. - - - -It was past ten when the carriage drew up in front of the house in the -Laan van Meerdervoort. The footman rang the bell, the door was opened, -they stepped out. In the hall stood Madame van Raat, trembling with -emotion, and Eline rushed towards her and flung her arms round her -neck. - -“Dear, dear little madam! dear little mother!” she sobbed, “you will -have me stay with you, won’t you?” - -The old lady wept like a child, and took Eline’s arm and led her into -the dining-room; the table was laid, and supper was waiting. - -“Oh, what a dear old darling you are!” cried Eline. “I am so glad, so -glad that I may come and stay with you.” She clasped the weeping old -lady in her arms, and Madame van Raat made her sit down on the sofa, -and sat down beside her with her arm round her waist. What a time it -was since she had seen Eline, and how was she looking now? All right? -“Oh yes, yes, I am quite well,” cried Eline, and kissed her again and -again. - -But the old lady undid Eline’s veil, and helped her to remove her hat -and her cloak. And oh, very soon she saw—that emaciated frame, those -hollow cheeks, those dull eyes. - -“My child,” she cried, unable to contain herself, “my child, oh, how -changed you are, how bad you look!” - -Eline embraced her passionately, and hid her glowing little head in the -old lady’s bosom. - -“Oh, you must not take any notice of that, I am a little tired of -travelling—perhaps I look a little pale, eh? Really you shall see, when -I’ve been with you a little time again, I shall look as fresh as a -daisy.” She smiled at the old lady through her tears, and kissed her -repeatedly, now her cheeks, then her old shrivelled hand. - -Henk and Paul entered, and they too were touched by Eline’s altered -appearance, but although it alarmed them, they said nothing. The old -lady could not keep her eyes from Eline; she wiped her eyes, and asked -Eline whether she would not like to wash her hands. - -“No, never mind,” cried Eline; “I feel a little dusty, but it does not -matter. Oh, Henk, my dear old Henk.” - -She motioned Henk towards her, made him sit down by her side, and -clasped his big head in her little hands. - -“Aren’t you—aren’t you angry with me any more, Henk?” she murmured -close to his ear. - -He bit his lips with emotion. “I never was—angry with you,” he -stammered with a choking voice. She kissed him, then released her hold -of him, gave a sigh of relief, and cast a long glance around her. Yes, -she had found something of a home. - -They sat down at table, but Eline had no appetite; she just touched her -soup, but eat she could not at all. But she asked Paul to fill and -refill her glass, for she was thirsty. The wine and her emotion brought -a blush to her sallow cheeks, and when the old lady asked her why Uncle -Daniel had not brought her home, she laughed, a loud and nervous laugh. -Oh, she could very well journey from Brussels to the Hague by herself; -uncle wanted to take her, but she refused his escort, she was so used -to travelling now. Nothing was easier than travelling, she need only -pack her trunks, ask a few questions here and there, and take her seat -in the carriage. Why, it was nothing. - -Quickly and nervously she spoke on, her glass, which she repeatedly put -to her lips, clasped in her hands. She spoke about her life in Paris, -in Bordeaux, and in Spain. Ah! Spain, there she lived again. Spain! the -land of romance, the land of ancient Moorish chivalry and elegance. As -for Granada and the Alhambra it was grand, magnificent; to the -bull-fights she would never go, although Elise had laughed at her, but -she could not stand it, such a dirty thing to see those dead, mangled, -bleeding beasts. - -Paul laughed, and she laughed too, and pitied the poor bulls, and still -she spoke on; the old lady continually urged her to eat something, but -she refused. - -“Really not, little madam, really not, thank you. I can only drink a -little, I’m so thirsty. May I have another glass?” - -“Can you take so much wine, child?” - -“Oh yes, it makes me sleep beautifully. If I don’t take wine I lie -awake all night, and that is so wretched. Cordova is a beautiful city -too, there is such a grand mosque there.” - -And she allowed herself to be driven forward along the nervous stream -of her travelling impressions. Why did not Paul travel more than he -did? if she were a young man and had money, she would always travel, -always. Long journeys would she make, from New York to San Francisco, -and then by sea to Japan, all over the world. How beautiful! It was -splendid, splendid in a railway carriage, she could pass her life in a -train! The old lady shook her head, gently smiling at her enthusiasm. - -“But nicer still than all it is to come and live with you here, my dear -little madam, my little dot,” she cried; and with sudden impetuosity -she embraced the gray-haired old lady. - -After supper Madame van Raat suggested that Eline should go and take a -little rest in her room. Eline agreed, but little madam was to stay -with her—would she? Paul had an appointment with some friends, and took -his leave, and Henk too rose. - -“May Betsy come and see you to-morrow?” he whispered a little -anxiously. She smiled and looked at him questioningly, pressing his -hand. - -“Certainly,” she replied; “kiss her for me, will you? And how is Ben, -has he grown much?” - -“Oh yes, he is an immense boy. You shall see him to-morrow. Well, -good-bye, Elly, good-night.” - -“Good-bye, Henk, till to-morrow.” - -Henk left, and Madame took Eline up-stairs to her room. - -“For the present I cannot give you a sitting-room, Elly,” she said on -the staircase, “at least so long as Paul is with me.” - -“Where does he think of going to then?” - -“He wants to live by himself; that is best too for a young man, is it -not? But your bedroom is a very large one, you know that room next to -mine?” - -“Oh yes, I remember, ’tis a splendid room.” - -In her room the gas was lit, and the French windows were open, so that -the cool evening air blew inside. Eline coughed a little when she -entered. - -“’Tis rather cool, I shall close the window,” said the old lady. - -Eline looked about her in astonishment, and her eyes grew moist. - -“But, little madam, little madam, what have you done?” she exclaimed -with emotion. - -For wherever her eye went she saw some souvenir of her rooms on the -Nassauplein. There was her Psyche yonder, her toilet dishes; in this -corner her writing-desk, her letter-rack; there hung her Venetian -mirror; round about her in tasteful profusion her statuettes were -arranged; while almost the only thing that was new in the room was the -big bedstead, on which the dark blue curtains were suspended like a -baldaquin from the wall. - -“Does it suit you?” asked Madame van Raat. “I thought you would like -your own things best; but, child, what is the matter now, what are you -crying about?” - -She allowed Eline’s arms to encircle her, and Eline wept on her -shoulder and kissed her again and again. The old lady made her sit down -on the couch, and sat down beside her, and Eline still leaned against -her as a weeping child leans against her mother. - -“Oh, now, now at last I begin to feel the luxury of rest,” she said -wearily, “for I am so tired, so tired.” - -“Shall I leave you alone then, if you want to sleep?” - -“No, no, stay, do stay here; it is not the five hours in the train that -has made me tired. I am tired, tired of everything, and that sleep will -not cure; but still now I feel that I am resting, not because I am -sitting down, but because it is on you that I am leaning, and because I -know that you care for me. You see I needed it so much—in all this -travelling, among all those strange people—I needed somebody upon whom -I could lean, somebody who would give me a little, a very little love -and affection, but it was all so cold, so deadly cold around me, with -all the kindliness and courtesy. Uncle Daniel too is just like all the -rest, very friendly, very kind, very polite, but so cold. With Elise I -was always having some joke or another, all about her is light and airy -as foam, but she too is cold, cold and cynical, and with all those -strangers I was always obliged to be on my friendliest behaviour, and -always smiling, for who would have cared to be bothered with a guest -who was not jolly? And where was I to go to, if I did not lodge -somewhere or was on my journey?” - -“But, child, you could always have come to me, and I should have -written to you before this if I had thought you were so unhappy, but I -always imagined that you were very happy indeed.” - -“Happy!” groaned Eline, “yes, happy as a horse that cannot go further, -and is driven along by blows and kicks;” and she laughed, a laugh of -bitter sadness. - -Her laugh cut into Madame van Raat’s soul like a knife. The tears -sparkled in her dulled eyes and she could not speak, she could only -clasp Eline closer to her breast. - -“Yes, that’s right, hold me close to you,” murmured Eline softly. “This -is rest, rest indeed—my dear, dear old pet.” - -Thus they remained seated for a long time, and neither of them spoke -another word until the old lady insisted that Eline should try and -sleep. She would stay close to her, Eline need but open a door, and she -would be with her. - -“If you want anything say so, or you will ring, won’t you, child? Do -exactly as if you were at home. Ask for whatever you want.” - -Eline promised she would, and the old lady left her. But Eline’s heart -was still too full for her to retire to bed at once. She glanced around -her, and in every nook, in every corner, she recognized her own vases, -her plates, and her photos. Then her glance fell upon a Japanese box on -the table. Her little bunch of keys was lying beside it, she took it -up, found the right key, and opened the box. In it there were a number -of letters discoloured with age—letters from old schoolmates, letters -from Aunt Vere, written at a time when she was at boarding-school. The -former she would tear up, for she felt no longer an attachment for the -gushing professions of girls whom she never saw, and whom she had -forgotten as they had forgotten her. A letter or two she found also -from her father—her father who had been so dear to her—and she kissed -the paper with veneration as though it had been sacred. But all at -once, while she was arranging her papers, there fell from those -discoloured pages a small piece of cardboard. She stooped, picked it up -from the floor—and she turned white as a sheet, while her eyes stared -wildly in front of her. - -“Oh!” she groaned, as if an old wound had suddenly been opened. “Oh, oh -heavens!” - -It was a small portrait of Otto’s. How did it come there, among all -those old letters? Ah, yes, she remembered, it was the proof of a -photograph which once he had had taken for her. The portrait itself, -which during her engagement she had constantly carried about her, she -had returned him, together with his other presents, with the Bucchi -fan. This little proof had got lost among her letters, and she had -never given it another thought. - -“Oh!” she groaned again. “Oh!” - -She wept, she sobbed, she pressed the portrait to her lips. That little -proof was now her greatest treasure, and for ever—yes, for ever—she -would carry it about her, it was the only thing that was left to her -out of her great happiness, that happiness that had slipped from -between her fingers like a precious bird. And this was the only little -feather it had left behind. - -“Otto—Otto,” she murmured. And her tears and kisses covered the little -piece of cardboard. - - - -In her own room Madame van Raat still sat meditating. Sadly, her eyes -full of tears, she shook her head. How was it possible, while she had -been so long happy with her husband, that her dear little Elly had -known so little of real pleasure? and in her piety—the piety and -childlike faith of a simple heart, a heart full of gratitude for that -which once had been granted it—she folded her shrivelled hands and -prayed, prayed for her dear little Elly, prayed that she might be -happy. - - - -Next morning, at the breakfast-table, a sudden impulse moved Eline. - -“Little madam,” she began in soft, trembling tones, and she laid her -hands on that of the old lady. “Little madam, I wanted to ask you -something. Do you see anything of Erlevoort now?” - -The old lady looked at her as though she would fain have guessed -Eline’s thoughts, but she could not gather anything from those feverish -eyes, from those nervously-moving fingers. - -“What makes you ask that, Elly?” - -It was the first time that she had spoken to Eline about Otto since the -breaking of her engagement. - -“Oh, I should so like to know if it affected him much, and if he’s -happy now. Do you never meet him?” - -“I have met him once or twice at my brother-in-law’s on the -Princessegracht.” - -“How does he look?” - -“He is not much changed, he may have aged a little perhaps, but it is -not very noticeable. He is certainly a little quiet and rather gloomy, -but then he was never very boisterous, was he?” - -“No,” murmured Eline, brimful of past memories. - -“He is not in the Hague now; he is at the Horze, I believe.” - -“Have I driven him away, I wonder?” thought Eline, and with an effort -to make it appear as though the interest she took in him was for his -own sake, not for hers, she softly said, “Then I suppose he has got -over it; there is nothing I should like better than to know him to be -happy, he deserves it. He is a very good fellow.” - -The old lady said nothing, and Eline could with difficulty keep herself -from crying. Oh, was it not terrible that even before her dear old -little pet she was obliged to do violence to herself and be a -hypocrite? Oh, what a hollow sham it all was! She, she had always -shammed, to her own self as well as to others, and she still shammed -now. So inured had she grown to her shamming and hypocrisy, that now -she could not do otherwise. - -“And now there is something that I want to show you, which I hope you -will like,” said the old lady, who guessed something of Eline’s -sadness; “follow me.” She led her down-stairs, and opened the door of -the drawing-room. - -“You know I used to have such an old cripple of a piano, because, you -see, it was only for Paul, who jingled a little on it to study his -singing, but now just look here.” - -They walked inside, and in the place of the old cripple they found a -brand-new Bechstein; her music-books in their red and gilt bindings lay -on the top. - -“It will suit your voice splendidly, the tone is so clear.” - -Eline’s lips trembled and twitched nervously. - -“But, madam,” she stammered, “why did you do this—oh why, why did you -do it? I—I don’t sing any more.” - -“Why, why not?” asked the old lady, quite alarmed. - -Eline with a sigh threw herself in a chair. - -“I may not sing any more,” she exclaimed almost bitterly, for the new -piano most cruelly awoke the memory of her splendid voice of former -days. “The doctors whom I consulted in Paris have forbidden me; you see -I have been coughing all the winter, and it is only lately that my -cough has been less. During the last two winters I have coughed -continually, and had such a pain here on my chest. In the summer-time I -am quite well.” - -“But, child,” said the old lady anxiously, “didn’t you take good care -of yourself then, while you were abroad?” - -“Oh yes, the Des Luynes recommended me to some specialists in Paris, -and they sounded and tapped me and knocked me about until I was tired -of it; besides that, I was constantly under treatment of two regular -doctors, but in the end I had enough of it. They did not cure me, while -they told me I should always have to reside in a warm climate. But I -could not remain vegetating all by myself in Algiers, or Heaven knows -where, and Uncle Daniel had to return to Brussels; so you see,” she -concluded with a little nervous laugh, “I am a hopeless wreck in every -way.” - -The old lady pressed Eline’s head to her bosom, with the tears -glistening in her eyes. - -“’Tis a pity, because of the nice piano,” said Eline, releasing herself -from the old lady’s embrace and seating herself nervously at the piano. -“What a full clear tone, how rich and beautiful!” - -Her fingers glided quickly along the notes, the tones seemed to sob -with grief at that voice that was lost. The old lady looked on sadly, -she had nursed herself in the belief and hope that Eline would sing -with Paul; that Paul, attracted and charmed by the music, would stay -much at home in the evening; that a melodious sweet sociability would -once more fill her lonely, silent rooms; but all she heard was the loud -sob-like notes as they came from under Eline’s fingers, the weeping dew -of a chromatic bravura, and the great running tears of painful -staccatos. - -“Yes, I shall practise my piano playing. I never was a great pianist, -but I shall do what I can; you shall hear some music, dearie. What a -tone, what a beautiful clear tone!” - -And the clear, liquid notes followed one another as in a flowing -torrent of grief. - - - -In honour of Eline, Paul took care to be home for coffee. In the -afternoon Madame Verstraeten came with Marie, and they were followed by -Emilie de Woude. Eline received them cordially, and showed herself -pleased to see them. A strange feeling came over Marie now that she -heard and saw Eline once more; something of a fear it was, a misgiving, -whether Eline would also discover any change in her; but Eline did not -seem to notice anything, and talked on; she talked about her travels, -about the cities she had visited, about the people she had seen, talked -on continuously with nervous rapidity, the thoughts rushing closely one -after another. She could not help it, it was the nervous state in which -she existed just now, a nervousness that overmastered her wherever she -might be, and ever kept her fingers in motion either crumpling up her -handkerchief, plucking at the fringe of the tablecloth, or swaying the -tassels of her fauteuil backwards and forwards. Her elegant languor, -her graceful calm of former days was completely gone. - -About four o’clock the drawing-room door was opened, and Betsy entered, -leading Ben by her hand. Eline rose and hurried towards her to hide her -confusion under a show of cordiality. She embraced her sister -impetuously, and fortunately Betsy found some appropriate words to say. -Then Eline overwhelmed Ben with her kisses. He was a big boy for his -five years, but in his eyes there was that undefinable, sleepy -expression common to a backward child. Still a happy memory seemed to -steal over him, for his little lips opened into a glad smile, and round -Eline’s neck he flung his little chubby arms and kissed her. After that -neither of the sisters seemed to desire any very confidential -conversation, and Betsy left, together with the Verstraetens and -Emilie, and Eline did not press her to stay. Both of them felt that no -closer tie than one of mere conventionality bound them together. During -the last eighteen months they had not seen each other, and now that -they did meet it seemed to them as though they were strangers, who made -a show of politeness and cordiality, saying all kinds of nice things, -while a chill indifference filled their hearts. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -Some weeks had passed by, and Madame van Raat was beginning to feel -very uneasy about Eline’s health. She wrote to Dr. Reyer, and he had -visited Eline. Madame van Raat, who was present at his visit, did not -form a very great opinion of the ability of the dapper little doctor, -who talked about nothing but Paris and Spain, and seemed only to have -come to have a little chat. When two days later Reyer repeated his -visit, she received him somewhat coldly. She left the doctor and -patient alone together for a moment. Reyer rose somewhat in her favour -when, after he had gone, Eline told her how carefully Reyer had -examined her. Then, after all, he did have an intelligent idea of -Eline’s condition, thought the old lady; and under his graceful -elegance she discovered Reyer’s firmness of will and strength of -character, and with it the belief in his skill too grew fixed in her -mind. At his third visit, after he had left Eline, she took him aside. -He told her frankly that he would not mislead her, that he would tell -her the whole truth. Eline had the germs of pulmonary consumption, the -consequence of a severe cold which had been neglected. He would exert -his skill to the utmost in his endeavours to destroy that germ, but -beyond all that he had discovered something in Eline, something which -he might call the fatal taint of her family. Eline’s father had -suffered from it, so did Vincent. It was a soul-disturbing unrest of -the nerves, which were like the tangled chords of a broken instrument. -He would not presume to more skill than he really possessed; it was not -in his power to renew those chords, or to tune them so that they should -once more produce an harmonious tone. The delicate fibres of a flower, -which a too rough handling had bruised, it was not for him to infuse -with fresh sap and renewed vigour. That was a task which Madame -understood better than he. She could tend and nurture that flower, she -could handle Eline so delicately, with such gentleness, that, chord for -chord, she might yet call back into her prematurely-wasted frame the -whilom vigour of her youth. Calmness, loving care, these were the -remedies of which Eline stood in need; then with the approach of -winter, a milder clime than that of Holland. - -The tears came into Madame van Raat’s eyes as she listened to him; when -he left she pressed his hand cordially, full of grateful sympathy, but -the task which he had given her weighed heavily on her shoulders. She -feared that Reyer had overrated the power of her affection for the poor -child; she inwardly suspected that a love other than hers was necessary -to draw forth sweet melody from that soul which was now so sadly out of -tune. - -At his next visit Dr. Reyer insisted that Eline should try and find -some occupation that would bring some life into that languid melancholy -to which she had given herself up from morning till night. Eline found -an excuse for her idleness in the warm summer weather; but now that the -leaves were falling, now that the cool winds of early autumn began to -blow refreshingly in her face, it seemed to her that she breathed anew, -and she felt much more cheerful, and declared her determination to seek -some occupation. Madame van Raat continued to look at her with great -anxiety, for with Eline’s renewed vivacity her cough had also -returned—a dull, hacking cough, which sounded as though it would choke -her. In the meantime she now dressed herself with a little more care -and taste than she had done during the past summer, and she practised -industriously on her new Bechstein; but music alone did not satisfy -her, she needed another occupation, and that she now sought elsewhere. -Although she somewhat neglected her former acquaintances, she still met -them occasionally in Betsy’s drawing-room. While there one evening, out -of sheer ennui she arranged with an old lady, a Miss Eekhof, an aunt of -Ange and Léonie, to go with her on the following Sunday to the French -Church. Eline went; a new preacher with great black dreamy eyes and -white aristocratic hands preached that day. She returned home in -ecstasy, and told Madame van Raat excitedly about the eloquent sermon -to which she had listened. She inwardly regretted that a Protestant -Church was so cold, so empty, so bare, that the singing was so bad; -gladly she would have been a Catholic; on an Ave Maria, or on a Gloria -in Excelsis, her soul would have risen on high as on the wings of -melody; at the holy transfiguration, in the mystic glamour of the -altar, she would have trembled with glorious fervour, while the incense -would have imbued her very being with a flavour of theatrical piety. -But she was not a Catholic, and she consoled herself with her French -Church; she now went there frequently with Miss Eekhof, until it became -a regular habit with her, and she occupied a fixed seat. The -acquaintances she met there she greeted with a serious little face, -with soft dreamy eyes and a melancholy droop about her little mouth, -and every one began to wonder at Eline’s new piety. Miss Eekhof was on -the committee of several charities, and it needed but little persuasion -on her part to induce Eline to enrol herself as a member of some of -them, and many a time Miss Eekhof persuaded her to accompany her on her -visits to the poor. - -For a month or so she found a pleasure in this new piety, then the -monotony of the preacher’s unctuous words began to pall on her, and she -could tell beforehand how he would lift up his eyes at the singing, or -what movement he would make with his white hand when he pronounced the -benediction. The singing quite unnerved her, hearing it rising as she -did from so many hoarse, uncultivated throats. The plain white walls, -the simply-constructed pulpit, and the wooden pews began more and more -to irritate her; she began to suspect that all these people who had -come there to be edified were really a set of hypocrites. The pious -fervour of the preacher was a sham; the dignified bearing of the elders -was a sham. Miss Eekhof by her side, she too was shamming; and she -herself, with her soft melting eyes and her serious face, what was she -but a sham! - -Through Miss Eekhof she heard of many a tiff, many a petty dispute -among the lady directors of the different societies, and of their good -intentions she now too began to doubt. Oh, she hated that philanthropy, -which was a cloak for so much jealousy and envy, and she could no -longer believe in the sincerity of those ladies, not even of those who -had moved her to sympathy; every one of them shammed and had some -motives of her own, every one was an egoist and thought only of -herself, under the cloak of working for others. - -And after that first month she felt thoroughly disgusted with the poor -people whom she had visited with the old lady. The stuffy closeness of -their dirty little rooms, their wretchedness and misery, seemed to -choke her very breath. Indeed, she would have been suffocated had she -but been forced for one single day to breathe such an atmosphere, and -as she mistrusted the lady managers, so she mistrusted the poor. -Stories of wealthy beggars rose to her mind; she had read of beggars -living in London who were as rich as bankers, and who spent their -evenings in feasting and pleasure; and although she remained a member -of the different societies, and often enough gave Miss Eekhof some -money for an ailing widow or a blind old organ-grinder, she no longer -went to church, nor to these dirty people. - -Winter approached, and on account of her cough Eline remained at home a -good deal with Madame van Raat; in dull listlessness the days dragged -by, one after another without change, without a break in the monotony; -for the hundredth time Eline asked herself to what end she lived, why -indeed should she live if she could not be happy. After this -disappointment in her own philanthropy and piety she would trust no -one; she looked around her, and she did not believe that Georges and -Lili cared for each other now that they were married, or that they were -happy; no doubt they were deceived in each other, and now they shammed -so as to hide it. She did not believe that Betsy was happy although she -was rich, for how could it be possible that she cared for Henk, and did -not long for a more passionate love? And now she did not believe either -that Otto had ever loved her; how could he, seeing that his character -was so entirely different from hers? At one moment even her suspicion -grew so intense and so all-absorbing that she no longer believed in -Madame van Raat’s unselfish affection for her. Madame van Raat had -hoped to find in her an agreeable companion, and now no doubt she was -disappointed. Yes, Madame van Raat shammed as all the others shammed. -At one time such bitter feelings as these would have driven Eline to -despair, but now so much bitterness had already entered her soul, that -even those feelings could no longer irritate her; she remained quite -indifferent under them. What did it matter to her that life was one -great lie? it was so, and could not be helped, she could not alter it. -She must play her part, and lie like all the rest of them. - -At least, when she could not do otherwise, when they excited her to -emotion, to “life”; for as long as they did not, she would lie down, -lie down in her blank indifference as in a deadening rest. Thus she -thought, and forced her youth to stoop under the yoke of that apathy. -To it she gave herself up completely, she even lost her charm of -manner. Among her acquaintances she no longer excited any pity, and -gradually she grew quite rude and disdainful; she got into the habit of -staying in bed the greater part of the morning, and although Madame van -Raat disapproved of it, she nevertheless had Eline’s breakfast taken to -her, because otherwise she would not breakfast at all. - -Eline felt well enough that she could not go on leading this kind of -life; something she could not have described continually irritated her -in Madame van Raat and in her house. Involuntarily Eline allowed her -peevish fits to overmaster her, so that she addressed the old lady in -words of passionate irritation. Then the old lady would merely look at -her with a sad expression, and Eline felt at once how wrong she was. -Sometimes she was too proud to acknowledge it, and then she had a -sulking fit which perhaps lasted a day or two, and during which she -scarcely spoke a word. At other times, again, she was so brimming over -with remorse that she would sobbingly throw herself upon her knees, lay -her head in the old lady’s lap, and beg for her pardon. No, little -madam should not take notice of her wretched fits of temper. She could -not make them out herself, and she could not control them. Oh, they -were like so many demons, who dragged her away against her will -wherever they would have her. The old lady wept as well, kissed her, -and the next day the same demons dragged Eline along with them. No, it -would not do, thought Eline. She wrote a long letter to her Uncle -Daniel and Elise. She wrote that, loving and affectionate as Madame van -Raat was, she felt very unhappy, and that she would die with melancholy -did she stay there—she longed for other surroundings. - -Uncle Daniel came to the Hague, and asked Eline in the presence of the -old lady if she had quite forgotten the family in Brussels, and if she -would not like to pay them a visit. - -Eline did not know what to decide, but the old lady herself urged Eline -not to refuse her uncle’s invitation, and go to Brussels. When Daniel -Vere had left, Madame van Raat, as though crushed under a heavy -disappointment, remained seated motionless on her chair; and her gray -head, with its dull, staring eyes, drooped with even more than its -wonted languor upon her chest. In two days Eline would leave her; there -was the end then of all her expectations. She had hoped, old and weak -as she was, to be of some use to this young life, and to infuse a fresh -vigour into this dulled youth, and—and she guessed it—Eline grew more -and more listless; Eline longed for change. How could she, old woman -that she was, have had such presumption? - -Eline did not fail to notice this silent grief, and a great despair -overmastered her, a despair at her own egoism. She had not given a -thought to the old lady when she wrote to Uncle Daniel, it was only of -herself that she had thought; and now she caused the old lady pain by -her departure, while she felt convinced that she, after her change of -residence, would remain the same as she, faded in body and soul, had -now been for the last two years, and, amid nervous sobbing, fell back -on the sofa, to rise again immediately in a wild, indefinite terror. -Her eyes glittered wildly, and her fingers were constantly moving, -touching a vase here, tangling the fringe of the curtains, or -scratching fantastic figures on the bevapoured window-panes. It seemed -to her suddenly as if she had just awakened from a dream, and the -memory of what had passed before completely forsook her. - -“I suppose you did not understand me?” she asked doubtfully of the old -lady, whose sad glance had constantly followed her. - -“I—I think—I did!” stammered she, inwardly shocked at the picture of -lost happiness which Eline presented. - -Eline looked at her with a vacant stare; for a moment she felt a great -regret at her confession, of which she scarcely longer remembered the -words. But the sympathy beamed from the old lady’s eyes reassured her. - -“You did understand me? You understand why it is that I can no longer -be happy?” she asked in a voice of bitter sadness, as once more she -sank down on her footstool. - -The old lady did not answer, but, with her eyes full of tears, she -threw her arms round Eline’s neck and kissed her. Both remained thus -for a moment in silence. - -“And can you now forgive me for leaving you?” - -“Oh, why do you not stay with me?” - -“I’m a trouble and a sorrow to you. I do not give you the slightest -pleasure. I can do nothing for you, and you can do nothing for me.” - -Yes, indeed, it was too true. The old lady could do nothing for her—no -one could. - - - -They found nothing more to say to each other. Both understood well -enough that they could render each other no help in bearing the burdens -of life, that neither could be of any comfort to the other. But now the -old lady began to doubt, too, whether even Uncle Daniel or Elise could -be of any comfort to Eline. And though they said not another word, -still the old lady sat there with Eline clasped close to her bosom. - -It grew dark, and a cheerless chill began to fill the rooms. Sombre -shadows were descending in every corner behind the draperies and along -the walls. The old lady shivered with the chill atmosphere, but she did -not rise to ring the bell for the servant to look after the dying fire, -for Eline had fallen asleep with her head resting on her shoulder. Were -it not for Eline’s heavy breathing, Madame van Raat would have thought -that death had overtaken her. The waxen pallor of those emaciated -features was like unto the dew of death. - -Eline slept on, and it grew chiller and chiller. The old lady glanced -at the stove; not a spark of fire was to be seen. Slowly she removed -the woollen pelerine from her shoulders, and gently spread it over -Eline’s sleeping form. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -A month had passed, during which Eline had been living a life of -semi-lethargy, of languid indifference, at the house of her uncle in -the Avenue Louise at Brussels. Her cough was still very troublesome, -but she felt herself comparatively at ease in her surroundings. Elise, -though she chattered somewhat, seemed rather to like her; and Uncle -Daniel, though he was somewhat cold in his studied politeness, was very -amiable also. Sometimes, indeed, a suspicion rose to her mind that they -shammed as every one in the Hague had shammed, but she would not stop -to analyze this doubt; she was satisfied to allow her brain to be -gradually enveloped by the lethargic indifference which was more and -more becoming a part of her very being. - -Quite unexpectedly one day Uncle Daniel received a letter from Vincent -Vere from New York. They were not in the habit of corresponding, and -uncle was somewhat surprised. Eline, whose correspondence with her -cousin had not been of very long duration, now that his name sounded so -unexpectedly in her ears felt her interest in him revive; she was very -anxious to know what the contents of his letter might be. Perhaps he -asked for money. - -But in this Eline was mistaken. Vincent asked for no money, nor even -for a recommendation or any help whatever. He simply wrote that he -intended to take a trip to Europe with his friend Lawrence St. Clare, -and they would visit Brussels. This letter roused Eline somewhat from -her mental lethargy. She called to mind how Vincent, languid and weak, -had reclined on her sofa in his Turkish dressing-gown, and how she had -tended him. With this memory the thought of Otto became mingled, and -with nervous agitation her fingers played around the black enamelled -locket of her chain. Had she not fancied that Vincent loved her and -that she loved him? Were any of those feelings now still remaining in -her heart? No, those feelings were gone—vanished like birds that had -flown away. Uncle and Elise talked a little about Vincent, and then -remained silent; but Eline, though she said nothing, thought a great -deal about him and his American friend. - - - -After a week or two Uncle Daniel received a second letter from Vincent, -this time dated from Paris. In a few days the two young men arrived, -and they remained to dinner. Uncle and Elise out of politeness asked -them to make their stay in the house, but St. Clare refused—they had -already taken their rooms at the Hôtel des Flandres. - -Vincent was not at all changed in his appearance and his movements, and -Eline all at once remarked, when both of them were standing beside each -other, and she saw her face reflected in the glass, how greatly she had -aged. He in his elegant, gentlemanly attire was the same as he had been -two years ago. His face even, beside her own yellow, emaciated -features, seemed to her healthier than ever she had seen it before. She -in her black lace, a material which she now constantly wore, with her -drooping shoulders and her sombre, lack-lustre eyes, seemed a mere -wreck of her former sparkling youth. Lawrence St. Clare made a very -agreeable impression both on Eline and on Elise. With her ideas of a -Yankee, Eline had rather fancied him somewhat boorish and rough—perhaps -chewing, swearing, and eternally drinking whisky—and she was very -agreeably surprised by his winning, easy manner. Tall, and of a -powerful frame, with his full-grown beard, which fell upon his bosom, a -certain pride gleaming from his eyes, not the pride of vanity, but one -that denoted power and strength of will. Although formerly Eline had -only now and then heard Vincent drop a word about St. Clare, it seemed -to her now as though she had known him ever so long. His frank smile, -his soft but penetrating eyes, charmed her and aroused her from her -lethargy, and it suddenly struck her, when her glance went round the -table, what a peaceful, calm, healthful truth beamed from him, by the -side of which the studied politeness of her uncle, the airy -effervescence of Elise, the misty melancholy of Vincent and of herself, -seemed but vain, hollow hypocrisy and unhealthy sham. After dinner they -took coffee in the large salon, and Eline felt herself contented in St. -Clare’s company, and inwardly hoped that none of her other -acquaintances would come and disturb the harmony. Yet she had not much -conversation with St. Clare. Elise took him in tow altogether, asking -him hundreds of questions about New York, Philadelphia, and other -places. He answered her in French, and spoke slowly with a foreign -accent, which charmed Eline. Vincent took both her hands in his and -looked at her attentively. He was grateful to her for what she had one -day done for him, and something like pity filled him now. - -“I am rather disappointed in you, Elly,” said he, as they sat down in -the balcony. “You must try and get a little stouter; do you hear?” - -She laughed a little, and the tip of her little shoe moved about -nervously among the soft white rugs. - -“It is nothing at all,” said she. “I have not felt at all so unwell -lately. I have been much worse than this, and I am very glad to see you -once more, very glad indeed. You know I always rather liked you.” - -She gave him her hand and he pressed it, and drew his fauteuil a little -closer to her. - -“And what do you think of Lawrence?” he asked; “do you like him?” - -“Yes, I believe he is a very good fellow, is he not?” - -“He is the only man whom I have ever known upon whom one can depend. -There is no one in the world in whom I have any confidence—no, no -one—not even in you, nor in myself; but him—him I trust. What funny -French he speaks, eh?” - -“He speaks it very nicely,” answered Eline. - -“You have no idea what he would do for any one to whom he takes,” -Vincent continued. “If I told you what he has done for me, you would -not believe me. It is not every one whom I should like to tell what he -has forced me to accept, and even when I tell you about it I certainly -feel a bit ashamed. You must know that in New York I was very ill -indeed, in fact, all but dying. At that time I had a situation in a -house of business with which he is financially connected. Well, he took -me into his own house and tended me almost with as much care as you -did. I really do not understand how I have deserved his friendship, and -I do not know how I can repay. Still, I would do anything for him. If -now there is a grain of goodness in me at all, it is his influence that -has produced it. It was he who kept my place open for me while I was -ill, but a little while ago he decided to do a little travelling. He -did not know much about Europe, and he declared that my situation was -really too hard for me. In a word, he invited me to accompany him. I -refused at first, because already I was under such obligations to him, -but he forced me, and at last I yielded. With the coming winter he -intends to go to St. Petersburg and Moscow, and next summer he will -wander about the south of Europe. You know I have always been fond of -change, and have careered about a good deal myself, so no doubt I shall -be of some service to him as a guide, but I have never travelled in -such a style as this before. Wherever we go we have the pick of -everything.” - -He paused, somewhat tired of his long whispering. - -“Has he so much sympathy for you?” said Eline softly. “How curious! I -do not know him, of course; but I should say that his character is -entirely in contrast with yours.” - -“So it is. You are right. Perhaps it is for that very reason that he -likes me; at all events, he is always declaring that I am much better -than others think me, and than I even think myself.” - -“Perhaps he finds you interesting as Elise finds me,” said Eline, with -an involuntary sly little laugh. But now that she saw St. Clare -approaching, she felt some self-reproach, as though she had wronged -him. How could she compare the proud, manly truth that beamed from him -with Elise’s airy coldness? - -Elise was very busy serving out her liqueurs, and she asked Vincent -whether he drank Kirsch or Curaçao, or whether he perhaps preferred -cognac. Vincent sat down by the fire, beside her and Uncle Daniel, -while St. Clare seated himself by the window next to Eline. - -“And you are the nice little cousin, then, of whom Vincent has told me -so much? The little cousin who nursed him so well?” he asked with a -smile, as he placed his hands in his pockets, and with his clear, frank -eyes looked penetratingly into Eline’s. - -“Yes, I am the cousin who nursed him,” she answered in French. She -spoke very good English, but his French pleased her, so that she did -not ask him whether he preferred speaking English. - -“That was at the Hague, was it not?” - -“Yes, at the Hague. He was then staying at my brother-in-law’s.” - -“And you were also staying with your brother-in-law, were you not?” - -It seemed as if he were trying to pump her a little; but the manner in -which he did it had so little of indiscretion about it and so much of -interest that she did not feel hurt. - -“Yes,” she answered. “Did Vincent tell you so?” - -“Yes, Vincent often spoke to me about you.” - -His words gave her the impression that he knew a great deal about her -life. After her flight from Betsy’s house she had written Vincent, and -no doubt St. Clare knew of it. - -“And you have travelled a good deal, have you not?” he continued. - -“Yes, with uncle and aunt. You also think of travelling, do you not?” - -“Yes, as far as Russia next winter.” - -Both were silent for a moment. It seemed to Eline as if they had much -to say to each other, and did not know where to start. To her it seemed -as if she had long known him, and now it appeared too that he knew her. -They were no longer strangers to each other. - -“Do you care very much for Vincent?” she asked. - -“I like him very much. I feel much sympathy and pity for him. If his -health had been more robust he would have made his mark. In him there -is much energy and elasticity, and his views are very broad, but his -physical weakness prevents him from giving his mind to any one thing -and bringing it to completion. Most people misunderstand Vincent. They -think him indolent, capricious, selfish; and they will not acknowledge -that the explanation of it all is to be found in the fact that he is -weak and ill. I defy the greatest and the best of us to be active and -determined to turn his gifts and talents to good use if he is half -dying with weakness.” - -This was a light in which she had never viewed Vincent. The only thing -she could say was that she had felt an unaccountable sympathy for him. - -“Yes, I think you are right,” she said, after a short pause. “But do -you not think that such a long journey will fatigue him too much? -Russia, in the winter?” - -“Oh, no, not at all; the cold climate is good for his temperament, and -he need not fatigue himself—there is no work for him to do; as for mere -railway travelling, he is used to it. He need only wrap himself up in -his furs and lie back in his carriage. That is all.” - -From his words she suspected, as she had suspected from her -conversation with Vincent, that St. Clare was in the habit of -surrounding him with every possible comfort and luxury. - -“I must say I think you are rather kind-hearted,” she could not help -remarking. - -He looked at her for a moment in some surprise. - -“What makes you think of that all at once?” he asked laughing. - -“I don’t know,” she answered, and she blushed and laughed a little. -“One cannot help getting certain impressions about people. Maybe I’m -mistaken.” - -He raised his hands with a deprecatory motion. She felt that in her -last words there was just a shade of coquettishness, and now that she -had spoken them it irritated her. - -“You said just now something about energy and activity,” she resumed, -“and you believe that when one is ill one ought to be excused for -showing no such energy and activity?” - -“Of course. What do you mean?” - -In his manner there was something penetrating, something that went ever -straight to its object, and it confused her somewhat. Had it been -Vincent, she would very soon have plunged into some more or less misty -philosophical discussion, and lost herself in a maze of sentences thin -and filmy as cloudlets of steam—discussions in which neither of them -knew what they were really aiming at. But St. Clare threw her entirely -off her qui vive with his “What do you mean?” - -“I mean,” she answered with much indecision, “whether you would not -even be readier to forgive one who had passed through great grief, that -lack of energy and activity, than—you would forgive Vincent, who has -only been ill.” - -He looked at her fixedly for a moment. - -“Yes, I should, that is, if he had tried to be energetic and had failed -in the attempt; not otherwise, not if he had allowed himself, without -an effort, to be dragged along by the force of circumstances with the -simple reflection that one cannot fight against destiny. Vincent has -some of that fatalism, and there is nothing that is so unnerving as -that. Life would degenerate into a moral lethargy if every one did so, -and simply sat down with folded hands and thought, ‘I cannot help it, -come what may.’” - -Her thoughts wandered a little. In fact, she did not know what she -thought. And she, had she had any energy? Had she allowed herself to be -dragged along by the force of circumstances? She did not know. His -strength of will, his determination, oppressed and crushed her, and -arrested the flow of her thoughts. - -“But if that person had gone through much suffering, if he had -suffered, especially with remorse, at what he once had done?” she -whispered almost imploringly, with a moist glitter in her eyes, and her -little foot wandered nervously along the rug, her fingers clutched at -her black locket. His glance softened, filling with tenderness and -pity. - -“In that case—yes, then I should forgive him all,” he whispered, with a -merciful assurance. - -But his last words completely unnerved and abashed her. It suddenly -seemed to her as if she had entirely exposed herself, as if she had -said things which she should not have said, and yet it seemed as if the -strength failed her to withdraw herself now that she had said so much -as that. - - - -After that day St. Clare and Vincent stayed away for about a week, and -Eline began to long for their return. When they came again it was the -day before New Year’s Eve, and Elise invited both for the following -day, when she was giving a big soirée. - -The following evening, about half-past nine, the guests arrived. Uncle -Daniel and Elise courteously welcomed their somewhat loosely-picked-up -acquaintances. The young men of the club, the count, the actor, the -dueller and his blonde wife, were the first to make their appearance; -and after that Eline saw them pass in review before their host and -hostess, and a strange review it was. The gentlemen with something -artificial or Bohemian about them, the ladies with much too big -diamonds, and in faded silken trains. She did not feel herself at home -at all in this circle, and yet she felt amused by these strange folk, -who wandered about the crowded salons, the light from the candles in -the Venetian chandelier glinting strangely over all that antique -bronze, that antique china, that antique furniture. And there was a -variety about the guests that charmed her. Eline withdrew herself a -little when she saw St. Clare and Vincent approach. They were in -evening dress, and it struck her that there was something distingué -about them both. But after they had greeted uncle and Elise, they did -not seem to observe her among the noisy groups by which they were -surrounded, and Eline felt herself quite forsaken, although a little -old lady, wrinkled and brown as a nut, with little red plumes in her -hair, eagerly conversed with her about painters and sculptors. The old -lady affected to be a great patron of struggling artists. - -“I suppose it is an artistic soirée this evening?” she asked with -blinking eyes. - -“I believe it is,” answered Eline, with growing irritation. - -“You sing, do you not?” - -“Oh, no! I do not sing any more. The doctor has forbidden me to sing.” - -“I suppose you intended to go on the stage?” - -“Oh, no. Not at all.” - -Some gentlemen came forward and bowed to the old lady, and she -introduced them to Eline. They were very talented artists. Musicians, -actors, painters, misunderstood geniuses all of them. The little old -lady overwhelmed Eline with operas, poems, panoramas which they had -written, created, and painted; their fame would ere long resound -throughout the world, for she would protect them. - -Eline felt as if all those misunderstood geniuses were hemming her in. -Things began to shimmer and dance before her eyes, and it was a relief -when she saw St. Clare coming towards her once more. - -“You are so surrounded,” he laughed softly, “one can scarcely -penetrate.” - -Eline puckered up her little mouth contemptuously. - -“Let us move aside a little. There is more room there,” she lisped. - -She made her escape deftly from the circle of the geniuses, and with a -sigh sank down on a settee. Nervously her fingers played about the dull -gold beads that covered her low-necked corsage of black satin as with a -glistening ray. - -“Oh, those people do bore me,” she said with light disdain. “What sort -of time did you spend in Ghent and in Bruges? Come, tell me something -about it.” - -He remained standing beside her, and told her a little of his trip. -Here and there little groups formed themselves. The footman served wine -and refreshments. - -“But what is to happen this evening, I wonder?” asked St. Clare with -curiosity, as he suddenly broke off his conversation. - -Elise was standing, all amiability, writhing herself into all sorts of -bows and curtseys before the count, and people looked round at them and -whispered. The count seemed bashful, and made some excuses. - -“No, don’t disappoint me, pray,” Elise was heard to say in a beseeching -tone. - -“I suppose she is asking him to recite something, and he is shy,” -laughed Eline. - -Eline was right. Elise cast a glance of triumph in the direction of -some of the ladies, and the count, with a movement as if he could not -help it, assumed an attitude and coughed. He would recite an epic poem, -Pizarro’s account of the conquest of Mexico, of Montezuma, and the -Aztecs. - -A silence ensued, tempered with a low whispering. The stanzas rolled in -thundering tones over the heads of the guests with a harsh rumbling of -r’s. - -Vincent, from another corner of the room, nodded at Eline archly. The -count began to shout louder and louder. - -“Magnificent! don’t you think so?” asked the little old lady with the -red plumes, who had once more come back to Eline. - -Eline nodded approvingly, but here and there a cough was heard, and -despairing faces were to be seen all over the room. The whispering, -too, grew a little louder. - -“Patience and resignation,” Eline said to St. Clare with a smile. - -He smiled in return, and she no longer found the immense poem so -unbearably boring now that he stood by her side. When the count’s last -stanza had died away a sort of electric movement began to be manifest -among the erstwhile motionless groups. They laughed and they talked and -they pushed one another. Some ladies were expressing their thanks to -the count with a great show of rapture. - -“Could we not devise some protection against his next attack?” asked -St. Clare laughing. - -“We shall be freer in the conservatory,” said Eline. - -With some trouble they threaded their way to the little conservatory. -There were only two little groups—two old gentlemen seated at the table -covered with empty wine-glasses, and a little woman in active -conversation with a young man. There prevailed a soft balsamic odour -which permeated as with a breath from the tropics the palms and the -Vanilla plants and the orchids that were crowded together in rich -profusion. Outside a snowstorm was showering around its flakes of downy -white. They had scarcely sat down before they heard some chords struck -on the piano in the adjoining room. The actor, a bass, was about to -sing a duet with the fair-haired jeweller’s wife. St. Clare and Eline -could see them standing by the piano, their figures reflected in the -mirrors of the conservatory, while one of the misunderstood composers -was to accompany them. - -“I had no idea that she sang,” Eline exclaimed in surprise. “La bonne -surprise! it’s really getting amusing, but don’t stop talking.” - -A blush rose to her cheek, and something of her former sparkling -fascination came back to her. Now and then she lifted her champagne -glass to her lips. In close attention she listened to his stories. He -spoke so well. Yonder the high shrieks of the soprano and the low -growling of the bass intermingled with overpowering if somewhat -ludicrous effect. The conservatory gradually filled with little groups -who were making their escape from the drawing-room. Vincent came to -join St. Clare and Eline. - -“Je ne dérange pas?” asked he. - -“Par exemple!” cried Eline. - -It seemed as if the three of them had found themselves at some public -fête. They scarcely knew one among all those curious people, and they -amused themselves by laughing a little at them. The two old gentlemen’s -collection of empty wine-glasses seemed to have grown larger and -larger, and under the shady leaves of a banana the young man could be -seen with his arm furtively encircling the waist of the little woman. -In the other corner, where some glasses had just been broken, Vincent -recognized some one, who posed as a Russian prince, engaged in -boisterous chat with two circus-riders, and he could not understand how -they could have been admitted even to Uncle Daniel’s drawing-room. - -“Oh, they must have entered through a back door. I’m sure Elise cannot -know that they are here,” laughed Eline. - - - -In the salon the programme was proceeding. They sang, they recited, -both serious and comic pieces, but the stillness of admiration grew -less and less. In the conservatory the Russian prince ran after the -circus-riders, and tried to embrace them; and the two old gentlemen all -at once broke out in a terribly angry dispute. The young couple had -disappeared. - -“I should advise you to return a little closer to your uncle and aunt. -The company is certainly getting rather mixed here,” said St. Clare to -Eline. - -Vincent had left them. Eline rose a little anxiously, and St. Clare -followed her. But in the salon Elise was surrounded by a very noisy -group, of which the ladies smoked cigarettes and spilt more champagne -on their dresses than they drank. St. Clare led Eline to the terrace. -His eyes sparkled and his lips twitched nervously as his glance fell on -the group by which Elise was surrounded. - -“How did you really get here?” he suddenly asked Eline in a tone of -dissatisfaction which he could not hide. “How is it possible that I -could have met you here?” - -She looked at him in astonishment. - -“I ask you how it is possible that I could have found you here? You are -certainly not in proper company.” - -She began to see his meaning, and started at the boldness of his -question. - -“Not in proper company,” she slowly repeated. “May I remind you that I -am at the house of my uncle and aunt?” - -“I know that. But your uncle and aunt, it seems to me, are in the habit -of receiving people who are not fit company for you. You are here with -the consent of your relations, I suppose?” - -She began to tremble all over, and her eyes were fixed upon him with -all the haughtiness that she could at that moment muster up. - -“May I ask you, Mr. St. Clare, by what right you place me under -cross-examination? I thought I was free to do as I pleased, and am old -enough to choose my friends without anybody’s consent, either that of -my relations or of yourself.” - -Her tone was sharp and cutting. She was about to turn away. He took her -hand, she quickly withdrew it. - -“Do stay a moment, pray. Forgive me if I have hurt you. But I take an -interest in you, I have heard so much about you from Vincent. I knew -you, in fact, before I had seen you. I looked upon you -somewhat—somewhat, if I may say it, as a little sister, just as I -thought of Vincent as my brother; and now I find you here, mixed with -people——” - -“Thank you very much for your good intentions,” she resumed with icy -coldness, “but in future please to give expression to your brotherly -interest in a more proper fashion. You knew me before you had seen me, -it is possible. I have known you now for a week, and I cannot -understand how you dare to speak to me as if you were called upon to be -my guardian. I am much obliged to you for your solicitude, but I do not -need it.” - -He made a movement of impatience, and once more prevented her from -going. She was still trembling with rage, but she stayed. - -“Now do not be angry, pray,” he resumed appeasingly. “Perhaps I did -speak rather boldly; but don’t you think yourself that the company here -is not suited to you?” - -“The acquaintances of my uncle and aunt may be mine as well, I should -imagine. In any case, it is a matter which does not concern you in the -least.” - -“Why do you forbid me to take an interest in you?” - -“Because you take advantage.” - -“And is there no pardon for that when it is merely caused by a feeling -of sincere friendship?” he asked, and held out his hand. - -“Oh, certainly,” she answered coldly, apparently without noticing his -hand. “But, in future, pray spare me your feelings of friendship. Too -much interest in one is sometimes annoying.” - -Much hurt she turned away. - -He remained alone on the terrace, and he saw her disappear among the -circus-riders and the Russian prince, the fair-haired lady, the two -drunken gentlemen, and the poetical count. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - -Now that the fête was over, she began to think over it all in the -solitude of her room. It was five o’clock, and she felt almost too -tired to undress herself. She did not feel so much hurt because of his -presumption. But—that evening, for the first time after so long a -period of lethargy, she had forgotten her sorrows a little. She had -found a little amusement, and been somewhat of her former self again, -and he had embittered that innocent pleasure by reminding her that she -was in a circle to which she was not suited. Did she not know that as -well as he? and it was just because she knew it—because she felt that -he was right—because he felt as she felt herself, that she was hurt. -Why had he not allowed her to pass a brief moment of happiness in -peace? Why had he spoken to her about her relations? What did Henk and -Betsy care if she did throw herself away among the curious -acquaintances of uncle and Elise? But she did not do so, she had -scarcely spoken a word to any one except Vincent and himself. She had -only amused herself at the expense of a circle which surrounded her. -She threw herself in her black satin dress on a chair, and, as she -thought about that which had given her offence, she felt it gradually -evaporating like a cloud of mist. But still she wanted to feel hurt; -yes, she did feel hurt, very much hurt indeed. Yet after all it was not -so very bad. It was for her sake that he had felt so annoyed at the -strange coterie in which she found herself. He had shown her his -annoyance so frankly, and she could still hear him say in that -discontented voice— - -“How did you get here? Are you here with the consent of your -relations?” - -He took an interest in her, genuine interest, with all the haughty -pride of his sunny, truthful temperament, and a great desire suddenly -overmastered her to go to him and ask his pardon, his counsel. It would -be delicious to conform herself entirely to his will; it would mean -peace, much-longed-for peace and calm. About twelve o’clock, after a -short sleep, she entered the room with a pale face and dark blue -circles under her eyes, and found Elise, with a couple of the servants, -busy rearranging the disorder which the orgies of the previous evening -had brought about. Elise was very satisfied with her soirée, and wished -Eline a happy new year. Uncle Daniel was out. - -“What a number of glasses they broke! If you want to breakfast, Eline, -you must go to the dining-room. Here you are only in my way. Pardon me -for saying so. But it was very jolly yesterday, was it not?” - -Eline went to the dining-room. She ate something and remained a little -while idling. She waited for some one—for St. Clare—but neither Vincent -nor he came, nor did they come the following day, nor the next. If -Eline had dared she would have written him. - -While she dreamily awaited his arrival she received a letter from -Madame van Raat, who wrote her, that although he was living at -Bodegraven just now, she saw Paul occasionally, and that he seemed to -have some secret grief which she could not guess. She was very sorry -that a kind of estrangement had come between her and her son, and she -doubted whether she had always shown him sufficient tenderness. - -“She not enough tenderness!” thought Eline, “why she was all -tenderness, at least to me.” - -When she came to the end of the letter she started violently. Jeanne -Ferelyn had died in Bangil. Eline’s eyes filled with tears. - -“Great heavens! Great heavens!” she repeated slowly, and a nervous sob -shook her frame. Her poor friend was dead! Oh! how tenderly Jeanne had -nursed her when she was prostrate with bronchitis in that little home -of theirs! How gentle and loving Jeanne had always been! How -affectionate she was to herself and her children. And now she was dead! -What happiness had her life brought her? None—none at all! And Madame -van Raat, she had her sorrows. Paul had his. What was life but one -great sorrow? - -She sobbed violently over the letter, and could not reconcile herself -to the thought that Jeanne was dead. Jeanne is dead! Jeanne is dead! It -was hissing in her ears and in her brain. She had so much to thank -Jeanne for, and she would never see her again, for Jeanne was dead! Oh, -great heavens, she was dead! - -She threw herself back in her chair and covered her face with her -hands. But suddenly she heard steps in the adjoining room. She looked -up, and ere she could recover herself saw St. Clare appearing in the -door. Half demented with grief, with her weeping eyes she glanced at -him. - -“I hope you will pardon me if I disturb you.” - -He spoke softly, for he saw that she was crying. “The servant said that -you were at home. Perhaps I had better come back to-morrow.” - -She rose, wiped her eyes, and gave him a friendly smile. - -“Do you wish to go so soon?” she said sadly. “You do not disturb me in -the least. On the contrary, I think it very nice of you that you have -come. Take a seat. Is Vincent all right?” - -“Very well, thank you,” he answered, in a tone from which she could -gather all the friendship he felt for Vincent. “We have been to Liège -and Verviers.” - -“Is that the only reason then why I have not seen you before now after -the soirée?” - -He looked at her for a moment. - -“Yes,” he answered, “the only reason.” - -“You were not angry?” - -“No, not at all. I was in the wrong. I should not have spoken like -that. You were quite right.” - -“I am not sure,” she said. “I know I must have offended you with my -unmannerliness. Will you forgive me, or do you refuse me your hand as I -have refused you mine?” - -She gave him her hand. He pressed it closely. - -“I will forgive you gladly,” he answered, “and I think it very nice of -you that you confess that you have been a little in the wrong.” - -“And in future, will you please take that interest in me which you said -you did when last I saw you. Will you believe me if I tell you that -your interest in me and your friendship will not annoy me as I told you -it did then? May I depend upon that?” - -“Certainly you may.” - -“Thank you. Thank you very much. I was not deceived when I told you -that you had a kind heart. You are more than kind, you are noble.” - -He laughed a little. - -“What big words you do use,” he said jestingly. “You’re becoming so -dignified.” - -“No,” she said determinedly. “I’m not dignified, and I use no big -words. I mean what I say. You do not know what pleasure it gives me to -see you and to hear from you that you are not angry with me, especially -at this moment. I was feeling so terribly unhappy.” - -“You were crying, I believe.” - -The tears dropped from her lashes. - -“I have just now heard of the death of a very dear friend, a poor, weak -little thing she was, but she was so useful. She will be so terribly -missed by her husband and children. It is always thus in the world, is -it not? People who are of use, they die, and those who, like myself, -are a trouble to every one and a misery to themselves, live on.” - -“Why do you speak so sadly? Are you then of use to no one? Do you care -for no one, and is there no one who cares for you?” - -She laughed bitterly. - -“But surely there are people who take an interest in you?” he -continued. - -“What shall I answer you? I have no parents. About my sister I dare say -you have heard something from Vincent. Do you know that I—ran away -from—my brother-in-law’s house?” - -“Yes.” - -“Ever since that time I have done nothing but wander about. I have -always been with strange people. Uncle and aunt have taken me under -their roof, but still they are strange. At the Hague I lived with an -old lady, the mother of my brother-in-law; she was very kind to me and -I liked her very much, but I was not kind to her.” - -“I pity you very much,” said he. “I wish I could do something for you. -But suppose you sought some occupation? Is it not because you have -nothing to do that you feel yourself unhappy?” - -“I sought an occupation at the Hague. I travelled a good deal, and yet -I felt myself unhappy. It is all my own fault, you see; I have thrown -away my own happiness.” - -She began to cry, her head resting in her hands. - -“Tell me, cannot I do something for you?” he insisted. - -“Nothing at all, thank you. No one can do anything for me.” - -“But it is really not right to bury oneself in one’s grief, and to -think of nothing else. You may not do so. You must rouse yourself from -your sorrows. Every one has his troubles. Come, promise me that in -future you will think otherwise.” - -“I cannot,” she sobbed, “I am so weak. I am broken down, broken down -utterly.” - -In her words there sounded such a hopelessness that he did not know -what to say, but he brimmed over with pity—a pity that was mingled with -despair at the thought that he could do nothing for her—and he would -solace and comfort her, whatever it might cost. - -“No,” said he with determination, “you are not broken down—that is a -mere idea! You are young, and have a life before you. Break with your -past, forget it completely.” - -“Oh! how can I do that?” she sobbed. “How is it possible?” - -He knew he was wrong himself. He knew that the sorrowful memories of -the past were all but indelible. - -“I feel such a pity for you,” he repeated, “a pity such as I have never -yet felt for any one before.” - -“That is the only thing left you that you can do for me, pity me,” she -exclaimed passionately; “pity me, that does me good. For have you not -told me that you knew me already before you saw me, that I was to you -like an unknown little sister?” - -He had risen from his seat, he laid his hands on her shoulders, and -looked at her. - -“Certainly,” he replied cordially. And she could have died for him, so -intensely grateful did she feel. “And now you are no longer unknown to -me, and anything I can do for you I will do. You must tell me all about -yourself, and if you will leave it to me, I will make you forget your -miseries.” - -He just tapped her on the shoulder like an old friend. In her heart -there arose a great regret that they had not known each other sooner. -What a happiness it had been to her but a little while ago when she -humbled herself before him, when she begged him for his pardon. - - - -A week elapsed, during which the Veres saw neither Vincent nor St. -Clare, as they were away a few days in Holland. There was a talk of a -masquerade ball to be given by the count. Uncle Daniel would not go in -fancy costume, but Elise would go in Eastern dress; and Eline, whose -fancy did not soar very high just now, would accompany her, also in -Eastern dress. - -A day before the ball the two young men came back. Eline thought she -could see a frown pass over St. Clare’s features when he heard that -they were going to that ball. He said nothing, however; but the -following evening, about half-past eight, he came in with Vincent. They -had also been invited. Vincent had accepted the invitation. St. Clare -had not. He asked to see Eline for a moment, but she had just commenced -her toilette; but St. Clare was importunate, and Eline sent her maid -down to ask him to wait. - -In the big salon there was no one. Vincent, in evening dress, was lying -on the couch, and had taken up L’Indépendance. St. Clare stood on the -balcony thinking, and he stared at the snow which glistened in the -evening light. A servant came and asked whether they would have tea. - -“I must say I admire your pluck, Lawrence,” said Vincent in English, as -he slowly stirred his cup of tea. “But are you certain that all would -go well?” - -“Well, I can’t help myself. I will have it so,” answered St. Clare -determinedly. - -The servant left and both were silent, when Eline entered. A pink glow -of veloutine hid the sallow tint of her complexion. Her hair was -already arranged, and rows and rows of glittering sequins hung over her -brow. But further than that she had not yet proceeded with her costume, -and was simply wrapped in a white flannel peignoir. Vincent rose, and -she apologized for her toilette. But she was very charming. - -“You wanted so urgently to speak to me,” she said softly to St. Clare, -as she held out her hand to him. “You won’t mind that I’ve come to you -like this; and keep your seat, please.” - -They sat down, while Vincent withdrew with his newspaper into the -conservatory. St. Clare looked at Eline searchingly. - -“What is it you want to ask me?” she said. - -“In the first place, I must ask your pardon for my boldness in having -called you away from your toilette.” - -“Oh, that is nothing. I have plenty of time.” - -“I feel very much flattered that you have come at once. You can well -imagine that I should not have intruded if it had not been for a very -good reason. I had a request to make you.” - -“Which admitted of no delay?” - -“Yes, that admitted of no delay, and I run the risk that you will be -very angry when I make that request, that you will feel hurt, and that -you will tell me that I am interfering in matters that do not concern -me.” - -She had a vague suspicion of the question that he was about to utter. - -“Never mind. Speak up frankly,” she simply answered. - -“You’ve asked me to show as much interest in you as a brother would -show for a sister. Is that right, or am I mistaken?” - -“No, that is quite right.” - -“Well, if you were my sister, I would ask you to do me a great favour, -and beg of you not to go to that ball this evening.” She did not -answer, but looked him straight in the face. “If you were my sister I -should tell you that Vincent and I have made inquiries about the people -who are coming to the ball this evening; I should tell you that I know -for certain that a great number of the invited guests are even less -suited to your circle than some of your uncle’s and aunt’s -acquaintances. If you were my sister, I could scarcely express myself -in plainer terms than I have done, and I have not a word to add to what -I have said; but I hope that you will not misunderstand me, and that -you will now have some idea what kind of guests they will be whom you -would see there this evening.” - -She cast down her eyes and remained silent. - -“And, therefore, at the risk of interfering in a matter that does not -concern me, at the risk that your uncle and aunt will take offence at -my interference in your affairs, at the risk that you yourself, after -having forgiven me one indiscretion already, will be very angry with -me, I ask you once more, do not go to this ball. You are out of place -there.” - -Still she remained silent, and her fingers clutched nervously at the -girdle of her peignoir. - -“Are you very angry,” he asked. - -“No,” she answered after a pause, very softly. “No, I am not angry, and -I shall do as you ask me. I shall not go.” - -“Do you really mean it?” he cried delighted. - -“I really mean it. I shall not go. I am very thankful to you that you -have inquired about the people who are coming. I was already afraid -that you would not approve of my going, but I could not bear the -thought of staying alone at home a whole evening; that always makes me -so melancholy.” - -“You feared my disapproval?” he asked smilingly. - -“Yes,” she answered. “You are such a good friend to me, that I should -not like to do anything of which you disapprove. And for this evening—I -shall do exactly as you require.” - -“Thank you,” he said with emotion, and pressed her hand. - -“Yes, you may well appreciate it,” she cried with forced airiness, -feeling somewhat depressed by her humility. “Do you know that, for the -last three-quarters of an hour, I have been busy arranging the sequins -in my hair, and all for nothing?” - -“Certainly, I appreciate what you have done. I assure you I appreciate -it,” he declared with much earnestness. - -Uncle Daniel entered the room. - -“Bon soir, St. Clare. You are not coming, are you? But, Eline! Are not -you going to dress?” - -Eline stammered something and could not find her words, when she heard -the voice of Elise, who was grumbling to the maid. Elise entered, -glittering with sequins and Moorish draperies, her feet encased in two -little slippers. - -“Bon soir, St. Clare. What a pity you are not going. It will be very -nice—Ciel! Eline!” - -Vincent came in from the conservatory. - -“It is nearly half-past nine, and you have only as yet done your hair,” -continued Elise in blank astonishment. “What have you been thinking -about?” - -“I don’t think that your cousin is going, madam,” said St. Clare, as -Eline was too confused to speak. “We heard, Vincent and I, that the -company would be rather mixed at the ball—and I advised Miss Vere not -to go rather than risk unpleasant encounters. I hope you will pardon me -for giving that advice. Of course, I know she would have been under -your protection and that of her uncle, but I thought that such circles -were even more to be avoided by a young girl than by a married lady, -even though she be as charming as yourself. Was I very wrong?” - -Elise hesitated whether she should be angry or not, but in his voice -there was so much determination and at the same time so much that was -winning, that she felt herself completely disarmed. Daniel Vere just -shrugged his shoulders. - -“Whether you were wrong?” Elise repeated, still hesitating. “Well, -perhaps not. Of course Eline can do as she likes. If she would rather -not go, eh bien, soit! then we shall pretend that she had a headache. -That is easy enough. But you will have a terrible ennui, Eline.” - -“No, really, I would much rather stay at home,” said Eline; “at least, -that is, if you are not offended.” - -“Not at all. Liberté chérie, child.” - -The servant came in to say that the carriage was at the door, and -brought uncle’s and Vincent’s furs. The maid assisted Elise to her fur -cape. - -“If your uncle and aunt have no objection, I should like to keep you -company for a little while?” asked St. Clare. - -Uncle and aunt thought it excellent. Eline was still rather confused. - -“Adieu! Much pleasure,” she said with a little furtive smile to Elise, -her uncle, and Vincent. - - - -“Ridiculous,” muttered Uncle Daniel, when they were in the carriage. -“Ridiculous! He won’t allow her to go to the ball, but he does not mind -keeping her company. That is American fashion, I suppose. I, at least, -would like to know which is more improper? To go with us to the ball, -or to spend an evening alone with a young man? Ridiculous!” - -Vincent said nothing. He thought it beneath him to defend his friend, -but Elise quickly urged her husband to be silent. She would not permit -him to speak ill of a cousin who was under his roof, and of a friend -whom they saw so frequently. - -“Speak ill of him—oh dear, no!” resumed Uncle Daniel, still feeling -hurt. “’Tis only American fashion, I suppose.” - - - -Eline still felt her confusion. - -“I don’t think uncle thought it right that I followed your advice,” she -said, when they were alone. “Perhaps, too, he thought that—you should -have gone with them.” - -St. Clare looked at her in quiet surprise. - -“Then why did he not say so? I asked him, did I not? But would you -sooner have me go?” - -“No, I should think it very kind of you if you stayed a little longer.” - -“With pleasure! for there is something else that I would like to ask -you, but it is not of such importance this time.” - -“What is it, then?” - -“I should like one of those sequins which you have arranged in your -hair.” - -Eline smiled, and carefully she took from her hair the row of sequins -and removed one of the coins, which she offered to him. - -“Thank you,” he said, and attached the coin to his watch-chain. - -A strange feeling came over Eline. She felt very contented, very happy, -and yet somewhat abashed, and she asked herself which Betsy would have -considered less proper: to go with her uncle and aunt to that ball, or -to spend the evening alone, and en négligé, even with St. Clare? The -latter certainly, she thought. But he seemed to think it so simple and -natural that she did not even venture to ask him whether she might go -and change her dress. - -“And now let us have a little quiet chat,” he said, as he sat down in a -fauteuil, and she remained sitting on the sofa, still a little shy, and -playing with her row of sequins. “Tell me something, do—of your -childhood, or of your travels.” - -She said she did not know what to tell him, but again he asked her. She -answered him, and slowly her confidence in herself came back, and she -told him of Aunt Vere, of her Ouida literature, and especially of her -father and his great canvases which he never completed. She told him -also of her singing, of Betsy and Henk, and added that formerly she -thought very differently from what she thought now, and that she -appeared different too. - -“What is it you call formerly?” - -“I mean before my illness, and before I went travelling with uncle and -aunt—before—my engagement.” - -“And how did you look then?” - -“Much healthier and—and fresher.” - -“Prettier, you would say?” - -She could not help laughing that he read her thoughts, and did not give -himself the least trouble to be gallant. Then she asked him whether he -would like to see her portraits of those days, and while she took an -album from the table, she thought she might just as well permit him to -call her by her name. But she could not get so far as that. - -He turned the pages of the album, which contained many of her -portraits; delicate little heads, with a ribbon or a string of pearls -round the neck. In a few of them she was décolletée. - -“Well—what do you think?” she asked, as he remained silent. - -“Very charming little faces, all of them, but everywhere an intolerable -coquettish little smile. A prettiness much too artificial. Were you -always in the habit of posing thus, or did you only do so before a -photographer?” - -She felt a little piqued. - -“For shame! How rude you are!” she said reproachfully. - -“Was I rude?” he asked. “I beg your pardon. Yes, ’tis true these are -your portraits. I was a little confused at the moment, for you see it -is rather difficult to recognize you in them. But, believe me—I should -have thought you unbearable had I ever seen you thus. Pretty, yes—but -unbearable. Now you are a little thinner, it’s true, you have the -traces of suffering, but there is something winning in your face; while -in these little faces here there is nothing but coquettishness. I would -rather see you as you are now.” - -He closed the album, and laid it down. - -“And yourself,” he resumed, “would you rather be as you were then? Do -you regret those days?” - -“Oh, no,” she sighed, “then I was not happy either.” - -“But now you will do your best to be happy, will you not?” - -She gave a little laugh and shrugged her shoulders. - -“One cannot force one’s happiness,” she murmured dreamily, and, -involuntarily, she said it in English. - -He looked at her in astonishment. - -“Do you speak English?” he asked. - -“I?” she cried in French, aroused from her dream. - -“Yes, you!” - -“Am I speaking English?” - -“Not now. But just now you were.” - -“Was I speaking English? I did not know—” - -“Why have you never spoken English to me?” - -“I don’t know.” - -“Oh yes, you do know.” - -“No, really not.” - -“I assure you that you do know. Now tell me why, come!” - -She laughed a little amused laugh. - -“Because you speak such jolly French. You have such a pretty accent.” - -“Then you have always laughed at me in secret?” - -“No, I assure you, really I have not.” - -“Which will you speak in future, English or French?” - -“French, or you will still think that I was laughing at you.” - -“There is no logic at all in what you say.” - -“Possibly, but still I will speak French.” - -“Very well. Do you know, you are no longer so weak as you were. You are -getting better, stronger.” - -“Why?” - -“For the first time since I have known you, I have heard you say I -will. Now mark my words. You commence by getting a little will of your -own, and in the end you will be quite firm, and when your will is firm -and strong you will get strong yourself. Now promise me that you will -cultivate a little will, like a frail hothouse plant that requires much -care and attention.” - -Again she laughed, in her gentle, winning way. - -“You shall see. I shall grow astonishingly obstinate under your -influence.” - -“No. I hope not. But I should be very happy indeed if you would get a -little stronger under my influence.” - -“I shall do my best.” - -“And I shall keep you to your word. It is nearly eleven.” - -She was silent. The word “already” was on her lips, but she restrained -herself in time. - -“And tell me frankly, don’t you think now that you will act much more -sensibly by going to bed early this evening, and trying to get a little -sleep, than you would have done if you had gone and danced till six -o’clock in the morning with very queer partners, and in the company of -still queerer ladies?” - -“You are perfectly right. I am sincerely grateful to you.” - -“And I, too, am grateful for the coin which you have given me.” - -She felt that it was not only for the coin that he was grateful. - -“And now good-night. Good-night, Eline.” - -She looked at him, and her eyes softened when she thus heard him -pronounce her name, without her permission. - -“Good-night, Lawrence,” she whispered. She held out her hand. For a -moment he held it in his, his eyes looking into hers. Then he released -the little thin fingers. - -“Adieu,” said he with a last cordial nod, and left. - - - -For a while she stood still and mused. Then she told the servant to -extinguish the gas in the salon, and retired to her bed-room. The -sequins she took from her hair and placed on the toilet-table. On a -chair lay the glistening draperies of her ball toilet, and her little -Moorish slippers were on the floor beside it. While she undressed, she -still heard his voice with its light accent. Slowly she arranged her -ornaments. Her eye fell on her watch, to the chain of which a black -locket was attached. She opened it and gazed into it for a long while, -and her eyes grew moist. Then she pressed a soft kiss on the likeness -which it contained. For a moment she thought of detaching it from its -chain and placing it in one of the little drawers of her jewel-case; -but she did not do so. She lay down in her bed; she did not sleep, -neither did she take her sleeping draught. At half-past five she heard -Elise, sighing with fatigue, returning with Uncle Daniel. But her -sleeplessness had not been disturbed by grim nightmares, and it seemed -to her as though a calm pink glow of light was diffused around her. -Later on she slept a little, and when she awoke she did not feel -herself quite so languid as she usually did on awaking. - - - -Eline did not see Elise the following day before lunch. Uncle Daniel -had gone out already; he was always very busy, but nobody knew exactly -what his occupations were. Eline asked Elise whether she had enjoyed -herself. - -“Oh yes,” said Elise in a kindly tone. “It was rather boisterous, and -perhaps it’s quite as well that you did not go. It might have upset -you. Did St. Clare stay long?” - -“Till eleven.” - -“Look here, it does not matter to me that he persuaded you to stay at -home, but Daniel found it rather foolish of you that you were so -obedient. Still he does not care either, you know. You are free to do -exactly as you like with us, you know that.” - -Eline was silent. - -“But you must admit,” Elise proceeded laughingly, “it’s a strange case. -Yes, certainly, Eline, it’s a strange case, and sets one thinking.” - -Eline looked at her searchingly. - -“What do you think, then?” - -“My dear girl, that I keep to myself, that I won’t tell you. But I, -who, as you know, never think, I certainly do begin to think a little -now. But I do not want to intimidate you, you know. I think it’s a very -good thing, if what I think is true.” - -Eline knew that she was referring to something which in her own mind -was only just rising in very vague shape. She remained silent, and -while Elise, who was still rather tired from the ball, threw herself on -the couch with a book and was soon asleep, she sat down by the window -and collected her thoughts. In the last few days she had thought -little, she had merely allowed herself to be dragged along by a sweet -tenderness which had overwhelmed her; but now Elise’s veiled words -brought her to herself again. Yes, the case gave food for thought. St. -Clare had dared to ask her to stay at home, and she had yielded to his -wishes, and the thought that it awakened in her mind she did not dare -to shape. Gladly as she would have yielded herself to that thought, she -knew that it could never be, never. Oh, why had she not met him sooner? -Fate was cruel indeed. She began to fear that she should have treated -him differently, perhaps she ought to have repelled him with haughty -coldness, with indignation at his interference in her affairs, neither -should she have asked his pardon after she had once been cold to him. -But it had been so sweet to bend to his will; he was so strong, and she -found so much support in his strength. She had never imagined that he -could have felt any love for her—ailing, weak, broken-down creature -that she was; it was not right, he ought not to have begun to care for -her, but now perhaps it was too late. - - - -When, a few days later, she saw him again, he found her alone in the -large salon. Eline was seated in an arm-chair by the fire, whilst a -furious wind was driving the snowflakes against the window-pane. - -“I knew I should find you at home. That is why I have come,” said he, -as he took his seat. “Have your uncle and aunt gone out?” - -“Yes; I don’t know where they have gone. I believe to a sale.” - -She had made up her mind to be a little distant in her manner, but his -company was so welcome to her that she did not succeed. She said, “I am -very glad to see you again.” - -He smiled a little, and made a few remarks about the antique china -which was scattered about the room. Then he continued— - -“Soon I shall be leaving you for long; we are going northward viâ -Cologne and Berlin.” - -It was as if the breath were choked within her. - -“When do you go?” she asked mechanically. - -“In a few days.” - -“You are going as far as St. Petersburg, as far as Moscow, are you -not?” - -“Yes.” - -“Does Russia attract you?” - -He answered a little absently, in short, halting sentences. While she -listened, she felt she could have cried, and his words sounded to her -as if they were spoken through a mist, and she heard him say, as if he -were interrupting himself— - -“But I wanted to ask you something. I wanted to ask you if, during the -time that I am away, you will now and then think of me.” - -“Certainly I will think of you,” she said with trembling lips; “you -have been so good and so kind to me, and—I shall always hold you in -pleasant memory.” - -“Thank you,” he softly said. “Don’t you think it sad when people have -learned to know each other, and feel sympathy for one another, that -they have to part?” - -“Yes. But there is so much that is sad in the world.” - -“You will say, perhaps,” he continued, following his own train of -thought, “that I can stay in Brussels as long as I like because I -travel for my pleasure. Perhaps, even, I should prefer to remain in -Brussels.” - -She began to tremble all over, but she made an effort and restrained -herself. - -“Why should you not go further?” she murmured. “Why should you not see -what you can of the world?” - -“Because I’m fond of you,” he answered calmly. And his penetrating eyes -looked at her fixedly. “And because I cannot bear to leave you. I -should gladly stay with you, stay with you always to protect you—I -shudder at having to leave you. I have a feeling when I think of my -departure as if some misfortune would happen to you.” - -She wanted to reply something, but she could not, for she nearly choked -in repressing the tears that came to her eyes. - -“But that is impossible,” she said painfully, almost despairingly. - -“And why is it impossible?” he asked. “Why is it impossible that I -should always stay with you, or rather that you should always stay with -me? Tell me, Eline.” - -“Because it cannot be,” she answered briefly. - -“Oh yes, it can; if you cared for me you would not say so. I should -take you with me. I should care for you. You should be my wife.” - -“And I—I should make you unhappy.” - -“No, no; I should do my very best to make you happy, and I’m certain -that I should succeed. Listen to me. Even before I had seen you, -Vincent’s words made me feel an interest in you. The first time that I -met you I pitied you, for I saw in your whole being that you had had a -great grief, that you were still in grief, and that you were unhappy. I -began to think what I could do to make you happy, but I found nothing, -only while I was speaking to you, and while my mind was full of -thoughts, it seemed to me that there was a little more animation coming -into your face, and more contentment into your words. Perhaps it was -only my fancy, but it seemed so to me. I imagined, too—perhaps it was -my vanity—that I myself somewhat influenced that change. I took notice -of you, though you spoke to other people, but at such times you were -quiet, cool, and reserved. But with me you were very different; you -even grew confidential. Then it was that a great desire came over me to -be all in all to you, for I thought perhaps then you would be happy, -and would no longer take such a sombre view of life. Elly, dear, you -are still so young, and you imagine that all is over with you. Do not -think so any longer, but trust yourself to me, and let us find out -together whether life is really such a melancholy affair as you -imagined. Tell me, Elly, will you do so? Will you see with me whether -an entirely new life may not be yours?” - -She sobbed softly, lifted up her weeping eyes, and folded her hands -almost in supplication. - -“Oh, why do you ask me that?” she cried. “Why must you ask me that? Why -must I cause you grief? Have I not given pain to enough people already? -And now must I be a misery to you as well? But it cannot be—it cannot -be, never!” - -“Why not?” - -“Why not?” she repeated meditatively. “Because although I am still -young, I am thoroughly broken. Can you not see that? Because everything -in me is shattered—because I am an utter wreck.” - -“Eline, use no such big words; speak calmly.” - -“I use no big words. I do speak calmly. I speak with deliberation, with -the deliberation of despair,” she cried rising, and she remained -standing before him as he took her hand. “I speak with so much -deliberation that it makes me shudder. Listen, Lawrence, you know that -I have been engaged.” - -“Yes. And that you have given him back his word.” - -“Yes. I have given him back his word, and yet I liked him. Even while I -wrote to him releasing him from his engagement, I liked him. Is that -not terrible?” - -He did not answer, and looked at her as if he did not understand. - -“That you cannot understand, can you?” she asked, and her hands -trembled in his. “You cannot understand that such terrible doubts can -fill a woman’s heart? You cannot understand that at times I don’t know -what I feel, nor what I think, nor what I would do. Do you see, there -is something in me, something that is incomplete. I am always in doubt. -I am always searching for something, and never feel certain of -anything. I liked him. Forgive me for telling you now. I liked him so -very much, he was so good, and he would have sacrificed his life for -me. And there came a moment when I knew no longer whether I liked him -or not, when I even thought I cared for some one else, whilst all the -time I cared for none but him. And now I know it—now that it is too -late, and now that I have perhaps made him unhappy.” - -“Do you know that you have made him unhappy, Eline?” - -“No. I do not know, but I suspect it. At the Hague I did hear something -about his having got the better of his grief, but I could never believe -it. Now that it is too late I know all, and it is only now that I know -how fond he was of me. Even if I were to hear that he were married, I -could not believe that he had quite forgotten me. It cannot be! He must -think of me as I often think of him.” - -“Do you still care for him?” he asked in a dull voice. - -“Not as I have cared for him, not now, Lawrence. I believe just now it -is only pity I feel for him, but I often think of him. Here is his -portrait.” - -She opened the locket, and showed him Otto’s likeness. Without saying a -word he gazed at it. - -“Do you always carry this about with you?” he softly asked. - -“Yes,” she whispered, almost inaudibly, “always. To me this is sacred, -and therefore, Lawrence, therefore it can never be. The thought of him -would always rise up between us. With you I could be happy if that -memory did not always haunt me. But for me to be happy whilst I -continually remembered that his life was so wretched—oh! it would be -impossible.” - -He did not answer, and she began to sob violently. She sank down on the -ground, and laid her head on his knee. - -“Oh, forgive me, Lawrence, forgive me. I never thought that you could -care for me. I was so ill, I was always coughing, I felt myself so -weak. I thought that I had grown out of it, that I should even have -repelled a man. Had I not thought thus I should never have allowed you -to see that I cared for you. At first you spoke as if we were brother -and sister. Why did you not continue to speak thus? As it is, now I -have been compelled to cause you pain; I could not help it. I should -have been wicked if I could have become your wife without a feeling of -remorse.” - -He lifted her up gently, and drew her towards him a little. - -“Eline,” said he, “one day you told me that you had thrown away your -happiness. Then I did not ask you what you meant by it, but now I ask -you, do you mean by that the letter which you sent to Otto?” - -“Yes,” she sobbed. - -“With that letter you threw your happiness away, you say? Are you -certain now that you are not throwing away your happiness for the -second time, or can I never make you happy? It is Otto alone who can do -that?” - -She looked at him with a melting expression in her eyes. - -“Oh, Lawrence,” she murmured passionately, her head nearly on his -bosom, “if I had but met you before—before all that had happened, I -could not have cared for any one but you. But it could not be. It was -my fate.” - -“Oh, do not speak about fate. Fate is but a phrase. Every one makes his -own fate. You—you are too weak to make one for yourself. Let me make -your fate for you.” - -“It cannot be,” she sobbed, and shook her head, which was nestled -against him, hither and thither. “It can never be.” - -“Yes, Eline, it can be,” he answered. “You say you could not have cared -for any one but me had you seen me sooner. Perhaps in that case I might -not have cared for you; however, these are suppositions which do not -concern you in the least. All I know now is, that I like you as you -are. You say that you are ill, but I know that you will be well again, -I feel it.” - -“That is no certainty,” she wept. - -“That is true, but no more is it a certainty that you have made Otto -unhappy. You feel that too, do you not? You are not certain of it.” - -“No, no, I believe I am certain.” - -“No, you are not,” he continued; “and you tell me, now that I ask you -to be my wife, that it cannot be, that it can never be. Is that not -cruel of you?” - -“Oh, why do you reproach me with that?” she sobbed. - -“Just now you said yourself that you were always in doubt—that you were -always searching for something, but that you never knew anything for -certain. How is it then that now you say you know without doubt that it -never could be? Are you so certain of that? Will you feel no regret -when I am gone—when it is too late?” - -“Oh,” she groaned, “how can you make me suffer thus? You torture me.” - -He was silent for a moment, and gently raised her head from his bosom. - -“I shall torture you no longer, Eline. Only this I want to say to you. -Don’t refuse now what I have asked you. A day may come when you may -wish that you had spoken differently. Let me hope as much as that, at -least. The day after to-morrow I am leaving here with Vincent. In five -months’ time I shall see you once again. I shall ask Vincent to write -you now and then. You shall always know where we are, and you need but -say one word, and I shall return at once. I don’t ask you now to -promise me anything, but pray refuse me nothing either. Allow me to -hope, and endeavour to hope yourself. Will you do this, or is it too -much that I am asking you?” - -“No,” she whispered. “Oh, no, it is not too much. I will give you my -answer in five months’ time.” - -“Very well,” said he. “I shall ask you nothing more, and now I shall -wait until your uncle and aunt are home to take leave of them. Vincent -will come to-morrow. But now that we are alone, may I take my leave of -you?” - -She did not answer, but looked at him. He pressed her in his arms and -kissed her. - -“In five months’ time then?” he whispered with a smile. - -She raised herself up, looked at him fixedly, and then flung her arms -round his neck. And she kissed his forehead with a long passionate -kiss. - -“In—in five months,” she murmured in reply. - - - - - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - -Uncle Daniel and Aunt Elise were not a bit surprised when Eline, a few -days after St. Clare’s and Vincent’s departure, told them that she -intended to return to the Hague. They knew how capricious Eline was, -how she longed, now for this and now for that, and never was contented. -But this time it was not out of caprice that Eline longed for another -dwelling-place. After the soirée, at which St. Clare had asked her -somewhat brusquely how she got there, it seemed to her as if a veil had -risen before her eyes, as if suddenly it was made plain to her that she -was not in her place with her uncle and aunt, and especially in their -coterie, and it was out of respect, out of friendship, perhaps out of -love for St. Clare, that she determined to leave her Brussels -acquaintances. - -She wrote to Henk and asked him to take two rooms for her in a ladies’ -boarding-house or in one of the new stately hotels. In reply she -received letters from Henk, from Betsy, from old Madame van Raat, all -of whom begged her not to go into apartments, but to make her home with -them. Betsy wrote her that she forgave and forgot everything that had -happened, if Eline on her part would also forgive and forget, and -implored Eline not to be so eccentric as to go and live by herself when -there was room for her in her sister’s house. Old Madame van Raat, too, -wrote very urgently and very affectionately, but Eline refused with -repeated professions of gratitude; she was determined that no one -should make her change her mind. - -Henk, therefore, with a dejected face, shrugged his shoulders, and with -Betsy he chose two handsome apartments in a large pension on the -Bezuidenhout. Thereupon Eline came to the Hague. - -She recollected how the previous summer, worn-out with her wandering, -she had come to the Hague to make her stay with Madame van Raat. She -compared her languor of those days with the exhaustion which now, as it -were, was surely undermining her, and she did not even feel strength to -weep about it. For the sake of her regard for St. Clare, she had -concentrated the last lingering remnants of strength to be once more as -she had been—winning, amiable, if not brilliant; and now that St. Clare -was gone, she discovered how, frank and natural as she had been towards -him, she had for all that involuntarily, as it were, excited herself so -that she should not appear to him altogether the utterly worn-out -being, the living corpse that she was. Now that that excitement was no -longer necessary, she collapsed, broken down utterly. The emotion -caused by her latest confession, too, had greatly unnerved her, and it -became to her a certainty that she would never more be able to arouse -herself from her physical exhaustion and her moral inanition. - -Her cough was very violent, and Reyer attended her again, but she never -told him about her Brussels doctor, who had prescribed her the -morphine-drops, as she remembered that Reyer would never allow her to -take an opiate. It was February, the cold was intense, and she did not -leave the house. When in the morning she rose, she felt as formerly she -had felt at Madame van Raat’s, too fatigued and languid to dress -herself. She wrapped herself in her peignoir and sank down on a couch. -Then a delicious feeling would come over her that she need not trouble -herself about any one, that there was no need for her to dress herself, -and that she could remain as she was in her slippers as long as she -liked. Often Madame van Raat or Betsy, Madame Verstraeten or Marie and -Lili, found her thus undressed, dishevelled, vacantly staring out of -the window. She did not read, she did not do anything, and hour after -hour passed by during which she did not even think. At times she would -suddenly throw herself on the floor, her face pressed down on the -carpet, and then it grew dark, oh, so dark around her, until a knock at -the door—the servant who brought her dinner—made her start up with a -sudden fright. Then she would sit down and eat a very little, and then -a wan little smile would hover around her lips, in which at once -something satirical and something idiotic were intermingled. - -The nights that followed on those days were for Eline veritable hours -of terror. Everything within her began to live, and she felt as if -electrified by the horror, so that she could not sleep. Her brain was -in a mad whirl. Shrill, mysterious sounds rushed through her ears. A -very maelstrom of memories whirled round and round in her mind. Visions -of all shapes and forms rose up around her. She started in terror at -everything—at a shadow falling along the wall, at a pin glistening on -the floor; then she took her drops, and a dull sleep at last fell upon -her like a leaden mantle. - -For minutes at a time she would stand staring in the glass at her faded -features. The tears would then start to her eyes, whose brightness was -for ever extinguished, and she thought of former days, she longed for -that past again without really asking herself what that past had been. -For latterly she was no longer capable of continuous thought. It was as -if before her thoughts a barrier had been placed, which she could not -cross. But it was that very dullness which now overtook her that in -some measure lessened her melancholy, which, had her brain been of its -normal clearness, would certainly have risen to an unbearable crisis. -But instead of that melancholy she now struggled through hours of -doubt, in which she was at a loss what to do with her useless self, her -useless existence, which dragged itself along within these four walls, -with only her violent fits of coughing to break the weary monotony. -Then she fell to weeping bitterly about her unfulfilled desires, and -she writhed on the ground, stretching forth her arms towards an image -which vaguely shaped itself to her eyes; for in her dreams, as well as -in her waking thoughts, the forms of Otto and St. Clare began to be -confused in her mind. The observations and sayings, the ideas of the -one she ascribed to the other, and she could no longer say which of -them she had ever loved in truth, or which of them she still loved. -When, in such doubts, she attempted to continue her train of thought, -that impassable barrier stopped her, and her impotency enraged her; -with her clenched fist she beat herself on the forehead, as if therein -there was something broken that she would repair. - -“What can it be?” she would then ask herself in despair. “Why is it -that I forget so many things that have happened, and of which I can -only remember that they have happened? All that dullness here in my -head! Rather the most horrible pain than that dullness! It is as if I -am going mad!” - -A shudder crept over her back like a cold snake at that thought. -Suppose she were to go mad, what then would they do with her? But she -would not follow up such terrible suppositions, although it seemed to -her that if she could only think through that spectre of rising -insanity, she would suddenly pass over the barrier that had been placed -before her thoughts! But when once she should have passed into it, -then—then, indeed, she would be insane. - -At such moments she covered her face with her hands and pressed her -fingers in her ears, as though she would not hear, would not see; as if -the first impression she would now receive would drive her mad. And at -that idea she was so terrified that she said not a word about that -dullness to Reyer. - -Her uninterrupted, listless idleness made her yield herself up entirely -like a slave to the strange fantasies and ideas which frequently rose -to the most senseless ecstasies, from which she suddenly awoke in dread -terror; reclining on her couch, her fingers nervously plucking at the -tassels of the cushions, playing with the loose hair that hung -dishevelled about her head, her thoughts went back to her theatrical -illusions in the days when she had sung duets with Paul, and when she -thought she loved Fabrice. Then she became an actress; she saw the -stage, the public, she smiled and bowed, flowers rained down upon her. -Quite unconscious of herself, she would rise from her couch, and with -her broken voice softly hum a recitative, a phrase from some Italian -aria; and she moved about her room as if she were playing a part—she -acted, she stretched forth her arms in movements of despair, or lifted -them up with longing towards the fleeing lover; she sank down on her -knees, and imagined that she was dragged forward, although she prayed -and implored for mercy. Various rôles rose confused in her brain: -Marguerite, Juliette, Lucia, Isabelle, Mireille—of all these in the -space of a few minutes she would go through the most tragic scenes, and -suddenly, roughly awakened from that madness, she would see herself -once more alone in her room, and making the strangest motions. Then she -drew back in terror for herself, and tremblingly she thought— - -“Heavens above! is it coming over me?” - -After such moments she would remain lying down staring about her with -frightened eyes, as if she expected that some crushing catastrophe -would occur, as if the features of the statuettes, the figures in the -pictures and plates around her, would suddenly come to life and laugh -at her—a hard, grinning laugh, cruel as that of demons. - -After such a day she did her best in her silent terror to become -herself once more. In the morning, after awakening from her leaden, -artificial sleep, she would quickly get up, dress herself with much -care, and go out shopping; then go and take coffee with Henk and Betsy, -with the Verstraetens, or with Madame van Raat. She complained about -her loneliness, and as, in such moments, she showed herself rather -amiable, they asked her here and there out of pity to stay to dinner. -Then the evening would pass cheerily enough, and she returned home, -glad that another day was gone, but fainting almost with fatigue at her -unusual emotions by her artificially excited gaiety, unnatural and full -of shrill laughter, mingled with coughs. And such a day she had to pay -for dearly at night; the drops gave her no relief, she remained all -through hopelessly wide awake, struggling with horrible nightmares, -haunted by spectres of her diseased brain. - -Her acquaintances spoke a good deal about Eline, and Betsy frequently -remarked with a serious face that she feared it was far from right with -her; Eline was so strange just now, and Reyer was not satisfied either, -and her acquaintances pitied her. Poor Eline! formerly she was so -pretty, so elegant, so cheerful—and now she was like a shadow of her -former self. Yes, indeed, she was very ill. That one could easily see. - - - -It was raining—a cold, searching March rain—and Betsy was at home, -sitting in the little violet boudoir which opened on the conservatory. -It was somewhat dark, but Betsy had moved her fauteuil in the light, -and was reading Les Pêcheurs d’Islande by Pierre Loti. But the book -bored her; how could fishermen be so very sentimental? Now and then her -glance fell along the palms of the conservatory and on the barren -garden, where the bare branches were dripping with wet. Ben sat on the -floor by her fauteuil. All at once he gave a sigh. - -“What is it, Ben? Is anything the matter?” asked Betsy. - -“No, ma,” he answered, looking up in surprise with his laboured little -voice. - -“Why do you sigh then, child?” - -“I don’t know, ma.” - -She looked at him searchingly for a moment, then she laid down her -book. - -“Just come here, Ben.” - -“Where, ma dear?” - -“Here, on my lap.” - -He clambered slowly on to her lap and smiled. Lately her brusque voice -often had something soft in it when she addressed her only child. - -“Are you fond of your ma?” she asked caressingly. - -“Yes.” - -“Kiss me, then.” - -He flung his little arms round her neck. - -“Come, give me a kiss!” - -Still with the same listless little smile he kissed her. - -“Ma is never naughty to you, is she?” asked Betsy. - -“No.” - -“Will you stop with ma like that?” - -“Yes.” - -He nestled himself, the big boy of seven, against her bosom. - -“Tell me, Ben, is there nothing you would like? Would you not like -something nice of ma?” - -“No.” - -“For instance, a little horse and carriage—a real horse, a pony? Then -Herman can teach you to drive.” - -“Oh, no, thank you,” he said, in a tone as if she bored him a little. - -She grew almost impatient, and was on the point of giving him a -scolding, and telling him that he was a wretch of a boy, but that -impatience lasted only for a second. She clasped him closer to her and -kissed him. - -“But if there is anything you would like, you must tell me,” she said, -almost weeping. “Will you tell me, Ben? Say, child, will you really -tell ma?” - -“Yes,” he answered, in a tone of great satisfaction. - -And she closed her eyes, shuddering at the thought that her child was -an idiot. It was like a curse that had come to her. But why, how had -she then deserved it? What had she done? - -She did not read further, and she kept him on her lap, where he lay -quietly, with his head resting on her shoulder, when she heard some one -approaching through the salon. It was Eline. - -“Good morning, Eline.” - -“Good morning, Betsy. Good morning, Ben.” - -“Fancy you going out in this rain!” - -“I had a cab. I could not stay at home any longer. The weather made me -so melancholy, and I thought I was going mad with ennui. Oh, great -heavens!” - -She let herself go, as with a cry of despair she fell down on a seat, -and removed her little veil. - -“Just imagine always being pent up within the four walls of your room, -no one to see you, nothing in which you take any interest. Is that not -enough to drive you mad? At all events, I cannot bear it any longer, I -shall certainly go crazy.” - -“Eline, prends garde, l’enfant t’écoute.” - -“He—he does not understand that, and probably will never understand -it,” she continued in a hoarse voice. “Ben, come here; come here for a -moment. Do you know what you must do when you are big? Never think of -anything, little man, whatever you do. Don’t think at all. Eat, drink, -and enjoy yourself as long as you can, and then—then—you must marry! -But you must not think, do you hear?” - -“Eline, vraiment tu es folle,” cried Betsy hastily, fearing more for -her child than for her sister. - -Eline laughed loudly, and her laugh and the shrill words of her excited -voice frightened Ben. With his big eyes and his mouth wide open he -stared at her. But still she laughed. - -“Oh, he does not understand anything of it, the little man. Eh, you -don’t know what it is that aunt is raving about, do you? But it is -delicious to rave like that. I wish I could do something very -desperate, some awfully mad trick, something utterly ridiculous, but I -cannot think of anything. My mind is so dulled just now that I cannot -think. If only Elise were here she would know something. Do you know -what we did one day, Elise and I, the first time I stayed in Brussels? -I never had the courage to tell any one of it before, but now I dare -say anything. Nothing troubles me now. Just fancy, one evening we went -out together for a walk, all alone, you know, just for a little -adventure. Don’t you say a word of it to any one, do you hear? Then we -met two gentlemen, two very nice gentlemen, whom we did not know at -all. With them we went for a drive—in an open landau, and then—then we -went with them into a café.” - -Her story was continually interrupted by little nervous shrill laughs, -and with the last words she burst out into an uncontrollable fit of -hysterical laughter. Not a word was true of the whole story, but at -that moment she believed in it herself. - -“Just fancy, in a café—in a café! And then——” - -“Eline, do pray stop that mad talk,” said Betsy softly. - -“Ah! I suppose you think it awfully shocking, eh? But rest assured, it -was not quite so bad as all that.” - -She still laughed, half weeping, and at last she burst out in -hysterical sobs. - -“Oh, that wretched Reyer! I have always such a terrible pain here in my -head, and he does not care. He is always boring me about my cough. I -know I cough—that is no news; and oh, great heavens! it is so horribly -dull in that Pension.” - -“Why don’t you come and stay with us then?” - -“Oh, that would never do. In three days’ time we should be pulling -ourselves by the hair,” laughed Eline boisterously. “Now that we see -each other but rarely it is much better.” - -“Really, I should do my very best to make you comfortable,” implored -Betsy, who felt terribly alarmed at Eline’s excited state. “We should -have the greatest care for you, and I should study you in everything.” - -“But I should not study you. No, thank you very much. I value my -liberty before everything. How can you be so provoking? We should begin -haggling at once. Why, we are haggling now already.” - -“Why do you say that? I am not haggling at all. There is nothing I -should like better than for you to come here this evening, if you -like.” - -“Betsy, now just leave off about it, or you will never see me again. I -won’t live with you any more. I won’t, so there! I’ve had enough of -it.” - -And she hummed a tune. - -“Will you stay to dinner then this afternoon?” asked Betsy. - -“Rather! But I’m tired. You won’t find me very lively. What are you -going to do this evening?” - -“We are going to the Oudendykens’. Are you not invited?” - -“No. I never visit them.” - -“Why not?” - -“For my part they can frizzle themselves, the Oudendykens. Oh, my -head—may I lie down on a couch?” - -“Certainly.” - -“Then I shall go to Henk’s room. There is such a cosy sofa there.” - -“There is no fire there.” - -“Oh, that does not matter.” - - - -She went up-stairs to Henk’s sitting-room. She lay down on the sofa, -and ere long, exhausted as she was with her excitement, sleep overtook -her. She was aroused from her slumbers by a heavy step on the landing. -Before she was well awake, Henk entered. - -“Hullo, sissy, what have you been doing here in the dark? and how cold -it is in here!” - -“Cold!” she repeated, with a look as that of a somnambulist. “Yes, now -I feel it too. I’m shivering—but I have been asleep.” - -“Come along down-stairs. Dinner will soon be ready. Betsy said you were -going to stay; aren’t you?” - -“Yes. Oh, Henk, how terrible that I have been asleep here!” - -“Terrible! Why?” - -“Now I won’t sleep to-night,” she screamed in despair, and she threw -her head on his shoulder and sobbed. - -“Why don’t you rather come and stay with us again?” he asked softly. -“You would be so comfortable with us.” - -“No, not that.” - -“Why not?” - -“It would never do. I am certain of it. It is very kind of you, Henk, -to ask me, but it would not do. Sometimes I feel as if I could strike -Betsy, and I feel that just at the moment when she speaks nicely to me, -as she did this afternoon, for instance. I had to restrain myself with -all my might from striking her.” - -He sighed, with a despairing face. To him she remained a puzzle. - -“Then let us go down-stairs,” said he. - -And as they were going down she leant heavily on his arm, trembling -with the cold, which only now she began to feel. - - - -The winter went by, and Eline remained in the same condition. - -“Would it not do you good to go into the country in the summer?” asked -Reyer. “I don’t mean that you should travel from one place to the -other, that would fatigue you too much. But you might make a little -stay in some quiet, cool spot amidst some cheerful surroundings.” - -Her thoughts went back to the Horze. Oh, if she had been Otto’s wife, -then grateful coolness, shade, affection would have been hers. - -“I don’t know of such a place,” she answered languidly. - -“Perhaps I might know of something for you. I know some very nice kind -people in Gelderland. They have a little country seat surrounded by -magnificent pine forests.” - -“In Heaven’s name,” screamed Eline passionately, “no pine forests!” - -“But country life would strengthen you.” - -“It is impossible to strengthen me. Pray, Mr. Reyer, let me lie where I -am.” - -“Do you sleep better now?” - -“Oh yes, fairly well.” - -It was not true. She never slept at night, and by day she slumbered -just a little, she dozed just a little. The drops had no more effect, -and only brought her into a continual whirling ecstasy, a condition -full of listlessness and terror, in which she either raved like an -actress, or dragged herself groaning along the floor. Reyer looked at -her penetratingly. - -“Miss Vere, pray tell me the truth. Are you in the habit of taking -other medicines than those which I prescribe?” - -“What makes you think that?” - -“Answer me the truth, Miss Vere.” - -“Of course not. How can you think such a thing? I should not have the -courage to do so. No, no, you may rest quite assured about that.” - -Reyer left, and in his carriage he forgot his note-book for a moment, -and was deep in thought about Miss Vere. Then he heaved a hopeless -sigh. Scarcely had he left the room when Eline rose. She was dressed -only in a loose gray peignoir, which hung about her emaciated figure. -In front of the glass, she plunged her hands in her loose hair. It had -grown very thin, and she laughed about it while the stray locks fell -about her fingers. Then she flung herself on the floor. - -“I won’t,” she stammered, “I will not see him any more, that Reyer. He -makes me worse than I am. I cannot bear him any longer. I shall write -him to stay away.” - -But she did not feel sufficient energy to do so, and she remained lying -on the floor, and her fingers traced the figures of the carpet. Softly -she began to hum to herself. Through the door the sun cast a square -golden glimmer on the floor, and thousands of little dust particles -danced about in the golden light. The glitter irritated Eline, and she -drew herself back. - -“Oh, that sun!” she whispered, with strange, big, dull eyes. “I hate -that sun. ’Tis rain and wind that I want—cold rain and cold wind—the -rain that oozes through on my chest, through my black tulle dress.” - -Suddenly she rose, and wrung her hands on her chest as though she would -prevent the wind from blowing open the cloak from her shoulders. - -“Jeanne! Jeanne!” she commenced in her delirium; “pray, pray take me -in. I have run away from Betsy, for she is unbearable. This evening, at -the dinner at Hovel’s, she said all kinds of nasty things about -Vincent, and you know that I love Vincent; for his sake I have broken -my engagement, my engagement with Otto. Oh, how he bored me with his -eternal calmness, always calm—always calm! I—I shall go mad under all -that calmness; but really, Henk, I shall go to Lawrence and ask his -pardon. But don’t strike me, Henk! Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence, I love you -so! Do not be angry with me, Lawrence; see if I do not love you! Here -is your portrait which I always wear on my bosom.” - -She had knelt down by the sofa, and lifted up her face as if she saw -somebody. All at once she started in terror, and hastily, and with a -shudder, she raised herself. - -“Great heavens! there it is coming again,” she thought, becoming once -more conscious of herself. - -There seemed to be a struggle going on in her brain, a struggle between -her impotent senses and her ever-increasing madness. With an uncertain -movement she took up a book which was lying on the table, and opened -it, to force herself to be sensible and to read. It was the score of Le -Tribut de Zamora, which she had once procured during her passion for -Fabrice. She dared not look up, fearing lest she might see her insanity -take some hideous shape before her eyes. She dared not move, out of -terror for herself, and she would gladly have saved her fleeing senses -had she been able, as it were, to pass away out of her own self. And -the ray of sunshine once more filled the room, glowing over the satin -of the curtains and reflecting itself back in the china of the Japanese -vases and the polished glittering brass of the ornaments. Softly she -began to sing something to herself, quite unconsciously, in a voice -hoarse and raw with endless coughing. Then there was a knock at the -door. - -“Who is there?” she asked, alarmed. - -“’Tis I, miss,” cried a voice; “I’ve brought you your lunch.” - -“No, thank you, Sophie, I have no appetite.” - -“Will you not take anything, miss?” - -“No, thank you.” - -“Then you will ring, miss, when you want something, will you not?” - -“Yes, yes.” - -She heard the servant go down-stairs, she heard the tinkling of plates -and glasses on the tray. Eline gave another glance at the rôle of -Xaïma, and she lifted her head proudly and made an heroic motion with -her hand, as she began to sing in a weak voice, interrupted by -coughing. - - - -At half-past five Sophie brought the dinner and laid the little round -table with much care. But Eline scarcely touched any of the food, and -she was glad when Sophie took it back again. She took up a few cards -which Sophie had brought with her, cards from Madame Verstraeten and -from Lili. - -“Old Madame van Raat has also been here, and she went away.” - -Eline remained alone. The evening was falling, the sun was slowly -sinking in the west, but the light long remained. From her cupboard -Eline took a little bottle and carefully counted out some drops, which -she let fall in a glass of water. Slowly she drank it. Ah, if they -would only bring her some relief! It had so often been in vain lately. - -She was tired after her long day of idleness and half-insane ravings, -and she wanted to retire to her rest at an early hour. No, she would -not light the gas, she would stay a little longer in the twilight, and -then—then she would try to sleep. But it all began to boil, to seethe, -to throb in her head. She gasped for breath, and regardless of the -evening air which began to blow into the room, she let the gray -peignoir glide down from her shoulders. Her arms were thin, her chest -was hollow, and she looked at herself with a sad smile as her fingers -passed through her thin hair. And because it was growing dark, because -in spite of her drops she would not sleep, because she was very pale -and white in the lace and the embroidery of her dress, because she grew -terrified at the increasing gloom, the madness once more returned— - - - “Ah, perfido! Spergiuro!” - - -she began as in a rage to hum to herself, as she lifted up her arm. It -was the scene of Beethoven in which Vincent used to smell the odour of -vervain. In her song she reproached a faithless lover with his broken -troth, and her face expressed the most tragic grief, a wounded love -which would avenge itself. She told the lover to go, but the gods above -would crush him under their chastisement. Suddenly she snatched from -her bed a sheet, and she wrapped herself in the long white material, -which in the faint evening light fell about her like a cloak of marble. - - - “Oh no! Fermate, vindici Dei!” - - -she sang hoarsely, and her voice broke into coughs, with melting eyes -this time, for in another mood she now invoked the mercy of the gods -for the faithless one; however he may have changed she remained the -same, she wanted no revenge, she had lived and now she would die for -him. And slowly she murmured the Adagio slowly, very slowly, while the -white folds of her drapery, with the imploring motions which she made -with her arms, rose and fell continually. Thus she sang on, on, until a -plaint forced itself from her throat, and in that plaint all at once -she began to act, as with the noble art of a prima donna. It seemed to -her as though the lover had already fled, and as though she turned to -the chorus which surrounded her pityingly— - - - “Se in tanto affa—a—a—anno!” - - -she murmured, almost weeping, in grief-stricken cadences, and her agony -rose, the plaint rose, and she shrieked higher and higher— - - - “Non son degna di pieta!” - - -She started violently, terrified at the penetrating, shrill notes of -her broken voice, and she flung her sheet from her shoulders and sat -down shivering. Would they have heard her? she wondered. She just -glanced through the open French window on to the street. No, there were -only a few people walking about in the growing darkness. But in the -house? Well, any way, she could not help it now. She would be sensible -once more. She sobbed, and yet she laughed. She laughed at herself. If -she excited herself like that she would never sleep. Suddenly she threw -herself on her disarranged bed, and closed her eyes, but sleep would -not come. - -“Oh, heavens! Oh, great heavens!” she groaned. “Oh, great heavens, I -pray you let me sleep.” - -And she wept bitterly, continuously. Then a thought shot through her -brain. If she should drink a few drops more than the Brussels doctor -had prescribed? Would it hurt her? She thought not, because the dose -she was in the habit of taking now gave her no relief whatever. How -many drops, she wondered, could she add to it without risk? As many as -she had taken already? No, that would be too many, of course. Who knows -what might happen? But, for instance, half as many again! Therefore, -three drops more? No, no, she dared not. The doctor had so urgently -warned her to be careful. Still it was very tempting, the few drops, -and she rose. She took her little phial to count the three drops. -One—two—three—four—five—the last two fell into the glass before she had -time to take away the bottle. Five—that would be too many? She -hesitated for a moment. With these five drops she would be certain to -sleep. Still she hesitated, but all at once she came to a resolution, -lured as she was to it by the prospect of rest. And she drank. - - - -She laid herself down on the floor, close to the open French window. -The cold perspiration broke out all over her, and she felt a dullness -stealing over her, but such a strange dullness it was, quite different -from what she usually felt. - -“Oh, great God!” thought she. “Have—have I taken too many?” - -No, no, that would be too terrible. Death was so black, so empty, so -mysterious, but still, if it were so? And suddenly her fears melted -away into a restfulness immeasurable. Well, if it were so she would not -care. And she began to laugh with inaudible, nervous little laughs, -while the dullness descended upon her with a crushing weight as of the -heavy fist of a giant. With her hand she wanted to defend herself from -those giant fists, and her fingers became entangled in a cord about her -neck. Oh, that was—that was his portrait, Otto’s portrait. Could she -indeed have taken too much? When to-morrow came should she——? She -shuddered. To-morrow morning would they knock at her door in vain, and -in the end would they find her lying there? A terrible thought indeed. -She was wet through with perspiration, and her fingers again wandered -to the locket. No, that portrait they should not find on her bosom. She -raised herself up, and wrenched the portrait out of the locket. She -could no longer distinguish it, for it had grown dark in her room, and -in her eyes the light was already failing; only the yellow glare of the -street-lamp fell with a dull reflection into the room. But she saw the -likeness with her mind’s eye, with her fingers she touched the little -piece of pasteboard, and she kissed it, kissed it repeatedly. - -“Oh, Otto,” she faltered, in a heavy labouring voice; “you it was, you -alone, my Otto, not Vincent, not St. Clare, no one but you. You—oh, my -Otto—oh, Otto—oh, great God!” - -And she struggled despairingly between the agony of death and a calm -resignation. Then, after covering the portrait with passionate kisses, -she placed it in her mouth despairingly without the strength left her -to tear it up, or to destroy it in any other way than by swallowing it. -Thus, whilst a trembling gasp of breath shook through her whole frame, -she chewed, chewed the discarded proof of the portrait—of the portrait -of Otto. - - - -She was weeping still, not with intermittent sobs, no longer with any -bitterness, but as a child, with soft, child-like little sounds, gently -groaning, her bosom heaving with faint, undulating motions. It was a -weeping in which something like a little laugh resounded, a little -laugh of insanity. Then she grew quiet, and she nestled herself with -her head in her arms, still on the floor by the open window. She never -moved, desperate with terror at her surroundings, desperate with terror -at what was to come. It seemed to her as if throughout her frame there -foamed and seethed a dark and stormy sea, which engulfed every thought -in her brain, and into which she gradually sunk away. And with all her -last remaining energy she tried to struggle against that sea, but its -pressure was too heavy, and she fell, fell back utterly exhausted, -utterly unnerved, hopelessly dulled by a stormy hissing in her ears and -in her brain. - -“Great God! great God!” she groaned in a voice that was growing weaker -and hoarser with every moment, a voice full of a wild despair that had -no longer the power of utterance. Then, drop by drop, slowly and -gently, her consciousness flowed away, and she slept—the sleep of -Eternity! - - - -The street-lamp was extinguished, and the big room was now dark as a -grave. A mausoleum of impenetrable blackness in the midst of which, -white and shadowy, lay a corpse. Then the chillness of the night -entered into the apartment, and slowly the pearl gray mist of daybreak -arose to dispel the heavy gloom. - - - THE END. - - - - - - - - -NOTES - - -[1] Dutch gold coin, of the value of ten florins. - -[2] A rich cake baked in the shape of a turban. - - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELINE VERE *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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