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.