CHAPTER XXII.
Vincent felt very ill and weak, and his condition became so serious that Dr. Reyer forbade him to leave his room.
He followed the doctor’s advice, drinking little, abstaining from smoking, and giving himself over completely to the soothing influence of the restful atmosphere that surrounded him.
His days he passed in Eline’s boudoir, as Betsy could not spare him a sitting-room to himself. There he would lie down on the Persian divan, an Eastern dressing-gown snugly wrapped about him—a memento of his days of luxury in Smyrna—his bloodless fingers clasping a book in which he did not read a line. It seemed to him as though all ideas had vanished from his brain, as if, in fact, his whole being was fading away in a languid calm, in a sense of weariness like that induced by prolonged and severe bodily exertion. His mind was filled with petty, childish thoughts, rising up like bubbles, to burst asunder the next moment. His pleasures were as petty as his thoughts, and he felt gratified when Dr. Reyer praised him for his obedience, while he suffered acutely whenever he had to wait a few moments for Eline to bring him his breakfast. And beyond that he felt nothing; he simply lay down, gazing round Eline’s room, and counting the pictures, the ferns, and all the smaller objects of luxury that were scattered about.
In the morning Eline sat down beside him and read to him or sang a snatch or two from a favourite opera; and Vincent would lie and listen as in a dream, lost in a strange vision full of faint odours and subdued tints, all wreathed and entwined one with another as in a kaleidoscope of colour and perfume. He did not speak, and Eline too said little, penetrated as she was with a feeling of romantic joyfulness, a joyfulness such as she had known when keeping her nightly vigil at Aunt Vere’s bedside—the pleasure of devoting herself to the care of an invalid. She became more and more interested in Vincent, and the loving care with which she tended him gradually had the effect of deeply endearing him to her.
In the afternoon she usually stayed at home until after four, when Otto came to fetch her for a walk; and then, when he gently rebuked her for not taking sufficient care of her own health, and for sacrificing herself too much for Vincent, she would look at him almost tearfully and ask how he could possibly fail to feel the deepest sympathy for Vincent, who was so forsaken, so unhappy, and so weak. The busy negotiations about her trousseau with Betsy were somewhat interrupted by these cares, and on one occasion even she remarked to her sister that she thought it a terrible thing to have to marry in November, when Vincent would perhaps be dying. She could not help fancying that Vincent’s illness was caused by a secret passion for her, a passion the secret of which he had until now most jealously kept. For he had never before made such a long stay in the Hague; he had now been in the city for nearly a year, whilst he never used to remain longer than a week or two. Poor Vincent—for the present her watchful care of him brought him solace and comfort—only, would not all that careful solicitude, those constant attentions on her part towards him, feed the flame of that passion that was for ever destined to be so helpless, as it was only her Otto she might care for, no one else? She would have been glad could she have confessed those thoughts to another; but to whom could she do so? To speak to Otto about it, that seemed to her scarcely proper; whilst if she made Betsy her confidante, she was certain to ask her why she must always fill her head with such nonsense. How about Madame van Raat though?
Yes, she was the person to consult; she would call on Madame van Raat one morning alone, without Otto. But when she did see the old lady, she found it such a difficult matter to shape her suspicions about Vincent in words, that when her visit came to an end she had not uttered a syllable of her confession. And she comforted herself with the sad reflection that Vincent would probably die before they were married, and that in that case her ministering care would have somewhat sweetened his last days.
The days passed by, and in the meantime the suspicion that Vincent cherished a secret passion for her grew more and more into a certainty, until she began as it were, involuntarily, to yield herself up to an absorbing pity for her poor ailing cousin. Her happiness, that had seemed so placid that it could not be broken, glided more and more from the vain grasp of her fingers, and a sense of nervousness and unrest became daily more diffused over her being, while in the meantime she lacked the courage to unbosom herself to Otto; for when she thought of Vincent, a mist appeared to come between herself and Otto, a mist that grew denser and denser and threatened to part them from each other. She shuddered at the thought, and after having passed half the day in her nervous unrest by Vincent’s side, she would long to be again with Otto, in whose placid temperament she hoped to find a healing balm for her perturbed spirit. Soon after four he came, they went for a walk together, he returned with her to dinner, in the evening they often stayed at home, they were much alone together, and when at night he was gone and she had retired to her room, she had to do her utmost to restrain herself from bursting into tears, for she found that she no longer drew from his presence that restfulness and peace which once it had brought her. On the contrary, now and then his calmness even irritated her, as something indifferent and phlegmatic, which, in her present mood, brimming over as it was with unrest, repelled her, especially when she contrasted him with Vincent, in whom she suspected a world of still, agonizing grief was hidden. Even Otto’s simple ease, beneath which only so recently she had seen such a wealth of love, irritated her now.
Would he never then burst forth in a storm of passion, in a tempestuous torrent about—about anything, whatever it was? Would he ever remain so calm, so placid, so eternally equable? did he then never feel conscious of something struggling with something else within his heart, something that boiled and seethed within him, and which must pour itself forth in a torrent of words? Could nothing move him, nor rouse him from that rest which seemed all but lethargy? Kind and affectionate, yes, that he was, but he was incapable of deep feeling; perhaps his calmness was nothing but egoism after all, an egoism which another’s grief was powerless to move!
Thoughts such as these made Eline feel wretched and unhappy. Oh, great heavens! they were the spectres, the grim spectres, that were fast crowding in around her. No, no, they should not drag her along with them, she would scare them away, away; but in vain, still they rose up, one after another, chilling her with their icy breaths of gruesome doubts, and she struggled against them—a fearful struggle! She forced herself to think again those sweet thoughts which had filled her with an idyllic happiness during her stay at the Horze; she forced herself once more to find back her placid peacefulness, her ethereal ecstasy—but alas, it was in vain! And when she began to feel conscious of that one sleepless night, when a deep silence prevailed throughout the house, and when she, with great staring eyes, was lying so lonely on her bed; when for the first time she felt conscious of that, in all its cruel truth, and felt that those days had passed away for ever, that they would never more smile upon her with their golden glory of light and joy, then at last she burst out in a wild, tempestuous sobbing, so tempestuous and wild as she had never sobbed before, and in her passionate outburst she flung herself upon her pillow as though that were her happiness, as though that were the bird that slipped through her fingers. She shook her head—no, no, she would, she must be happy again as before, she would, she would love her Otto, as she did before in the pine wood—love him! No, it was impossible, it must not, it should not be—she would, would force herself, with all the strength and energy of her will, to continue to love him, as she had done hitherto; she would still cling close to him, as she now clung to her pillow and the gruesome, grinning spectres should not be able to tear him from her arms. All remained silent in the house; only, there she heard the big clock in the kitchen down-stairs, tick, tick, unceasingly, and an intense terror seized her as she listened to that hard, metallic, rhythmic sound. A terror lest her happiness should not allow itself to be forced back into her soul; a terror lest some invisible power should push her down, down along some steep sloping path, while she would fain ascend upward, ever upward. And then followed a fury, a tempestuous fury, because she felt it so plainly, and yet would not feel, and because she remained too weak to make a strong, decided effort to resist the encroachment of the unseen powers that ever seemed to mock and taunt her.
The next morning Eline went early to see Vincent; she wanted to hand him a big letter that had come for him. He was lying as usual in his Turkish dressing-gown on the divan. Still, slowly and gradually, he was recovering; Dr. Reyer had even told him that he might take a little walk, but the rest had become dear to him, and he answered that he did not yet feel equal to walking. When Eline entered he gave her a friendly nod; he had grown used to her thousand little cares, and he felt grateful to her for them, and this gratitude brought a kindly glow into his eyes which Eline mistook for love. She handed him the letter and asked how he felt.
“Pretty well. I am getting on gradually,” he said wearily, but suddenly he raised himself up and quickly tore open the envelope. Eline was about to sit down at the piano.
“Ah, at last!” she heard Vincent exclaim almost joyfully.
“It is from New York, from Lawrence St. Clare!” said Vincent, quickly reading through the letter. “He has found something for me—a place at a good business house.”
Eline felt suddenly alarmed.
“And what do you think of doing?” she asked. “What do you mean?”
“To go as soon as I am better, but—but I am not, and I am afraid I shall not be yet awhile,” he concluded languidly.
“To go where—to America?”
“Yes—certainly.”
“Are you glad you can go, then?”
“Of course; why should I hang about here any longer now that I can get a situation?”
He scarcely thought of what he said. He fell back in the Persian cushions, and a maze of bright-hued visions rose before his mind. He remembered his former life of endless change, of ever-changing perspective and glimmering horizon—change was life, change it was that would cure, that would rejuvenate him.
Eline, however, felt deep pity for Vincent. Yes, indeed, he was very pleased that he could go, before her wedding most likely, so that he need not be witness of what to him was probably a very painful sight. Yes, indeed he loved her—and suffered accordingly.
“Vincent,” she said at last.
“Well?”
“Vincent, really—just think about it, don’t be too rash—you are still so weak. Suppose you should have a relapse? Ask Reyer’s advice first.”
“But, Elly, haven’t I always been as I am now? I never was robust, and—and you don’t want to keep me; besides, and what if I do stay here?” he asked with a smile.
To her that smile seemed sad and forced, and she reproached herself for endeavouring to keep him there. No, he must go; only, maybe perhaps things would change—change so that he need not go at all. She felt giddy, and it all began to dance and shimmer before her eyes—the thought that rose to her mind, she dared not think. It would be too terrible. Too terrible for Otto, too terrible also for herself. That day, when Otto came, Eline felt, instead of the usually so grateful warmth which his presence had at one time called forth in her heart, nothing but an icy indifference. Oh, God, how did that come about, how did that warmth chill down like that? She did not know, but so it was, and she had not the power to change it. She gave him a friendly nod, and held out her hand to him. She could not look him in the face, but her heart was deeply moved with pity. There he stood, Otto, by her side, his gentle, kindly glance fixed upon her, her hand in his, as he leaned against the back of her chair. Yes, there he stood by her side, he full of love, and she—she felt nothing but cold, chilly indifference! No, a thousand times no! it might not, it should not be, she would force herself, she pitied him too much.
“Nily—what is the matter, child?” he asked softly, as he felt the nervous, pressure of her fingers on his hand.
“Oh—nothing—nothing, only a headache, I think,” she answered faltering, and she looked at him for the first time that afternoon. His eyes looked deep into hers, and she was on the point of flinging herself in wild remorse on his bosom, to cling to him and never to release her hold. But again that unseen power withheld her.
“Is it no longer to be forced back? Will it never come?” she thought hopelessly. They remained alone, and it was some little time yet before dinner should be ready.
“Nily—little woman, tell me, aren’t you well?” he asked anxiously. “Your hand is cold.”
“I am a little feverish—we have been out driving in an open carriage with Vincent.”
“I hope you are not going to be ill.”
“Oh, no; it will pass over.”
She looked at him smilingly, and all at once, in a rush of despair, she flung both her arms round his neck.
“You are so kind, so loving,” she whispered in a broken voice. “You are so kind, and—I am so fond, so very fond of you.”
Vincent did not yet feel strong enough to join them at dinner that day. At table Betsy was telling Otto of the letter from America; Vincent was about to get a situation in New York.
“And when does he intend to go?”
“As soon as he is better. I shall be thankful enough when he is gone.”
Eline could no longer contain herself.
“Reyer says he must not think of such a thing for some weeks yet!” she said sharply, with an angry glance at Betsy. “But of course——”
“Of course what?”
“If it were not for the sake of decency, you would, ill as he is, turn him out of doors.”
“If I could—yes, I should certainly. And once for all, this I tell you, he shall never come here again. Fancy hanging about here like this!”
“But, Betsy—he is nearly dying!” cried Eline, trembling with rage.
“Oh, nonsense!”
“What’s nonsense? If you saw him as I do,” she screamed.
“Never mind, Eline, don’t let us fall out about Vincent. The fellow isn’t worth it. Why, you make a melodrama of it. Don’t make such an exhibition of yourself, for goodness’ sake.”
“Yes, I know; ‘Don’t make an exhibition of yourself.’ That’s what I always get treated to when I show a little feeling. But you—you have no heart—you——”
“Eline,” said Otto softly.
Gerard was coming in with the joint. The silence was painful.
“You have forgotten the gravy, Gerard,” said Betsy.
Gerard left the room.
“Yes, you—why you would tread a person underfoot if he were only ever so little in your way, if he upset you in the least in your brutal egoism! You think of no one but yourself, and you can’t even understand that everybody else is not equally despicable, and——”
“Eline!” said Otto again, as Gerard was coming in once more, this time with a gravy tureen.
“Oh, hold your tongue, do, with your ‘Eline! Eline!’ Qu’est-ce que me fait cet homme! Betsy ne veut pas le voir—mais je t’assure, que Vincent se meurt. Il s’est endormi dans ma chambre, pâle comme un linge, essoufflé par la fatigue, que lui a causé cette stupide promenade recommandée par Reyer. Et c’est pour cela, que je ne veux pas souffrir, qu’on l’accuse d’indiscrétion et de tout cela. S’il ne fut pas si malade, il ne resterait pas longtemps chez nous—j’en suis sure …!”
She spoke passionately, with eyes aflame with rage, and the French words fell from her lips sharp and cutting as needles, haughty and savage.
Betsy, too, was boiling with rage. Gerard left the room, but she made no reply and restrained herself.
“Nily, dear,” said Otto, “I bear Vincent no ill-will, although I don’t feel much sympathy with him, but still I shall be glad too when he is gone.”
“Indeed—you too, eh?” she hissed.
“May I finish?” he resumed, clasping her icy hand in his. “Yes, I shall be glad when he goes, at least if his presence in the house is able to excite you like this. You are quite beside yourself. You don’t know what you are saying, Nily; at least not with what force you are speaking.”
His quiet words drove her frantic.
“And you—you—with your eternal calmness, your eternal phlegmatic calmness!” she burst, nearly shrieking, as she rose from the table and flung down her serviette. “It drives me mad—that calmness! Great heavens, it drives me mad! Betsy crushes me with her egoism, and you with your calmness—with your calmness, yes, your calmness! I—I—I can’t bear it any longer—it suffocates me!”
“Eline!” cried Otto.
He rose and grasped her wrists, and looked her straight in the eyes. She expected something very terrible, that he would fling her down, strike her. But while he continued to hold her hands he only shook his head slowly, and his voice sounded full of sorrow, as he simply said—
“Eline!—for shame!”
“Great God! I—I am going mad!” she screamed in a fit of sobbing, and she tore herself away from his grasp, and rushed out of the room, as she went, dragging some glasses from the table, which fell with a tinkling noise in shatters on the ground.
Betsy trembled with rage, and wanted to run after Eline. Otto, however, stayed her.
“Let her be, I beg of you!” he entreated.
Henk too had risen, and when Gerard came in they all three felt very much confused before the servant, about the abruptly interrupted dinner, and about the shattered glass.
“Never mind—never mind, Gerard!” said Betsy almost humbly, “never mind. Clear the table.”
It was impossible for them to assume a nonchalant air. Gerard must have noticed that there was something wrong, though his face remained ever so calm and dignified.
Eline in the meantime had rushed up-stairs into her bedroom and thrown herself on her bed. Then she began to sob—but Vincent must not hear it. She sobbed and sobbed until it grew dark; then she heard Vincent walking in the adjoining room, but she lay still and wrung her hands and choked the sobs in her bosom.
Otto had sat down in the drawing-room, and was staring with moist eyes on the ground when Henk entered. He noticed a tear in Otto’s eye, and Henk was roused from his wonted quiet kindliness, and began to boil within him.
“Erlevoort!” said he, and laid his hand on Otto’s shoulder.
Otto lifted up his head.
“Erlevoort! come, old chap, be a man! Sissy is sometimes an awkward little craft to manage, but she is not bad at heart! You must not take notice of what she said to you, do you hear? She was only angry with Betsy, because she rather likes Vincent, and so by accident you got your share of it. But you must take no notice of it. That’s the best way to punish her.”
Otto did not answer; his mind was too much filled with doubt that Henk’s kindliness could have cheered him. He recollected how he had once told Eline that she had but one single fault, that she did not know herself, that there were hidden treasures within her, that he would arouse those latent gifts, but now he saw but too well that he had not the power to do so, that he only irritated her, and—that he drove her mad!
“She can be confoundedly hasty at times!” resumed Henk, as he walked inwardly enraged up and down the room. “But any one whom she likes, and whom she can look up to, can lead her easily enough, and then—Shall I go and have a talk to her?”
“I should—let—her be!” replied Otto, speaking with difficulty. “I dare say she will herself——”
He tried to think himself in her place, and to guess how she now felt. But it was in vain, he could not think, he still smarted too much under the blow she had given him. Never had he heard her utter such words before, in that strident, shrieking voice; never before had he seen her features so distorted—even to ugliness—by her passions; and try as he might, he could not collect his thoughts under that great torturing grief that cut him to the quick.
It pained Henk to see his weary, hopeless attitude. And suddenly he felt himself nerved to action. No, he would not permit it, that Eline should thus treat Otto with contempt, he would not permit it. With a firm and elastic step he left the room. Henk went up-stairs and entered Eline’s boudoir. He found no one there, for Vincent, tired as he was after his first trip, had already gone into his bedroom, quite unconscious of the storm that had been raging down-stairs. Henk knocked at Eline’s door.
“Eline!” he called.
There was no answer, and he quietly opened the door. On the floor lay Eline, her slight form quivering with inaudible sobs, her face hidden in her hands. He waited for a moment, but she did not move.
“Eline, get up!” he said curtly, almost commandingly.
Savagely she lifted herself up, and savagely she shrieked—
“What is it? What do you want here? Go away.”
“Get up.”
“I won’t; go away, go away! I tell you, go away!”
He bent over her and grasped her wrists, full of a passion that made the blood rush to his face. He hurt her, and she gave a cry of pain.
“Confound it! Will you get up?” he hissed between his teeth, almost beside himself with rage, while he drew her up savagely. His flushed face, his flaming eyes, and hissing voice terrified her. Falteringly she let him pull her from the floor.
“What do you want?” she asked once more, but calmer this time, and with apparent haughtiness.
“I shall tell you what I want. I want you to go at once—at once, do you hear—to Erlevoort and ask his pardon. Perhaps you don’t remember what you have been saying in your mad passion, but you have offended him deeply, you have insulted him. Go, and at once!”
She looked at him in much alarm. His determined, commanding tones made her tremble, and she was speechless with terror as she saw him, with his big powerful form, pointing to the door.
“You will find him down-stairs in the drawing-room. Are you going now?”
She trembled all over, but she would not let him triumph.
“I won’t.”
“If you won’t, I shall drag you down the stairs until you lie at his feet. I swear I shall do it, I swear I shall!” he hissed syllable by syllable into her face.
She stepped back in alarm.
“Henk!” she cried, shocked that he durst say such a thing to her.
“Are you going?”
“Yes—yes, I will go, but—Henk! Oh, don’t, don’t speak like that to me! Why should you? Great heavens! am I not unhappy enough already?”
“That is your own fault, your own doing, but that is no reason why you should make another unhappy too, especially Erlevoort.”
“Yes, yes, you are right,” she sobbed, quite broken at last. “I will go, but come with me, come with me, Henk.”
He supported her as he took her from the room and led her down the stairs. But when she entered the drawing-room she felt frightened. There was no one there but Otto, who was seated on the sofa, leaning his head in his hands. For a moment she stood still, undecided what to do, but Henk looked at her, and his glance and also the sight of Otto’s silent despair caused her to hesitate no longer. She fell on her knees before him and wanted to say something, but she was unable to utter a single word for violent sobbing, which at length seemed to melt away in a copious stream of tears. She laid her throbbing, glowing head on his knees, and took his hand, and sobbed and sobbed until her heart nearly broke. He did not speak either, and looked her deep in the eyes.
At last, with a great effort, she could just say, while Henk remained standing like her judge behind her—
“Forgive me, Otto, forgive me, forgive me.”
He nodded his head, slowly and softly, not quite satisfied with her remorse, feeling, so to speak, disappointed with something in her manner, which was not what he had expected, but he bent over her, drew her towards him, and kissed her forehead.
“Forgive me, Otto, do forgive me.”
He softly clasped his arm around her, and pressed her for a moment to his bosom, while she still continued her sobbing, and he closed his eyes in order to prevent the tears from penetrating through his eyelashes. For he knew it, he felt it—it was all over.
The evening passed by somewhat gloomily, although Henk, in his frank, kindly tones, assured him that it was all right again. Of Eline he took his leave with a sad smile. Eline then begged Betsy’s pardon in presence of Henk. Betsy gave her a little nod of approval and said nothing. And afterwards when Henk told her how he had forced her to go to Erlevoort, she looked at him almost with admiration—for she would never have thought that in a struggle with Eline her husband would prove the stronger of the two.
Some weeks sped by, and day by day Eline found herself more and more unhappy, for she felt that all was over, that she could not force herself to love Otto, and she nearly died with grief under the reproach of his sad smile. And one afternoon she kept her room, and told Mina to say that she was ill, and was not coming down-stairs. Otto asked if he might come and see her in her room, but she sent word that she was tired and needed rest. And gradually, but distinctly, a determination became fixed in her mind: she must do it, she owed it to his happiness and her own. The next day she would not receive him either, much as Henk urged her to do so. She only shook her head slowly; she could not do it. She was ill. Reyer? No, she did not want him. And she kept to her room, while Otto dined down-stairs with Betsy, Vincent, and Henk, and left early.
That evening she remained for a long time lying on her sofa, staring into the darkness. At last she lit the gas, closed the curtains, and sat down at her writing-table. It must be. Calmly and determinedly she commenced to write, stopping every now and then, and reading every word to herself—
“MY DEAREST OTTO,
“Forgive me, I beg of you, but it cannot be otherwise. Ask yourself the question if I can make you happy, or if I would not make your life a burden to you. I thought I could have made you happy, and that thought I shall always cherish, for it has comprised my greatest happiness in the past. But now——”
As she wrote the words the tears started to her eyes, and suddenly she burst into a violent sobbing and tore up the paper. She did not feel capable of giving him such pain. Great God, she could not do it! But what then should she do? Let matters rest where they were until perhaps in the end some catastrophe occurred to compel a parting? No, no, a thousand times better to part in friendship with a last sad farewell! But already she had caused him so much pain against her will, she wished in future to give him as little pain as possible, and now—oh! to be swayed thus to and fro in such a struggle as that, alone and forsaken, without any one to support her, without really knowing what she wanted or what was her duty! She was too weak for it, for such a struggle as that. She took up a fresh sheet of paper, however, and once more began to write—
“MY DEAREST OTTO.”
A few lines followed easily enough, very similar to the first letter which she had torn up. But how should she tell him further, how? Still, all at once her pen rushed along over the paper, savagely forming as it went letters that were all but illegible, but still she wrote on page after page of wild, almost incoherent sentences, in which she over and over again bitterly reproached herself for the way in which she had treated him, and finally released him from his engagement. The long, rambling letter, full of repetitions, and blurred with her tears, she concluded with the pathetic prayer that when one day he should have found a girl who was worthy of him, and who would love him disinterestedly, he would still not quite forget her. Her whole being went out to him in that final entreaty.
“Then think sometimes of me, without hatred or bitterness, and have a little pity for your poor Nily.”
The letter was written, the envelope sealed, and after much painful hesitation she at length summed up courage to ring for Gerard, to whom she handed it to post. Then a wild terror seized her, and she had a sensation as of icy water running down her back.
Now Gerard was in the street, she thought, now he had reached this house, now that, now he approached the letter-box in the Nassaulaan. And it seemed to her as if she could hear the letter falling into it with a thud, like that of a coffin falling down an open grave. She was on the point of swooning away, for in the terribly overstrung state of her nerves, it seemed to her as though she were surrounded on all sides by tangible terrors and hideous spectres. And all at once, as if awakening from a nightmare, she felt conscious of what she had done, a deed that was irrevocable! She felt herself trembling and quivering all over as in a fever. To-morrow, to-morrow early, Otto would receive the letter, th