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.