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