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 penda