CHAPTER IV.
When, the morning after her passionate outburst, Eline came down to breakfast, Henk had already gone out, bound for the stables, to look after his horses and hounds. In the breakfast-room there was no one but little Ben, eating, or rather playing with a slice of bread-and-butter. Betsy she could hear running to and fro with much animation, and giving her hurried instructions to the cook.
Frans and Jeanne Ferelyn, and Miss de Woude van Bergh and her brother, were coming to dinner that day.
Eline was looking very neat and dressy in a gown of dark gray woollen material, a gray ribbon round her waist, and a small golden arrow glittering at her throat. She wore neither rings nor bracelets. About her forehead curled a few fine locks, in frizzy garlands, soft and glossy as frayed silk.
With a friendly nod she walked round to where the child was seated, and lifting up his face with both hands pressed a loving kiss on his forehead. Then she sat down, feeling well at ease with herself, her senses agreeably soothed by the soft warmth thrown out from the glowing hearth, while outside the snow-flakes were silently wrapping a down-like mantle around them. With an involuntary smile of satisfaction she rubbed her slim white hands, and glanced at her rosy, white-tipped finger-nails; then casting a glance outside, where an old woman, almost bent double, was pushing a barrow of snow-covered oranges in front of her, she cut open a little breakfast-roll, the while listening, with amused indifference, to the angry dispute going on between Betsy and the cook.
Betsy entered, an ill-humoured expression in her heavily-shaded, twinkling eyes, her short thick lips compressed with annoyance. She carried a set of cut-glass dessert trays, which she was about to wash, as the cook had broken one of them. Carefully, notwithstanding her anger, she placed the trays on the table, and filled a basin with warm water.
“That fool of a girl! Fancy washing one of my fine glass dishes in boiling water! But it serves me right for trusting those idiots to do anything.”
Her voice sounded harsh and rasping, as she roughly pushed Ben out of the way. Eline, in unusually good humour, offered her assistance, which was readily accepted by Betsy. She had a great many things to do yet, she said; but all the same she sat down, watching Eline carefully washing and drying the dishes one by one, with light graceful movements, without moistening her fingers or spilling one drop; and she was conscious of the contrast between her own rough-and-ready way of doing things—the outcome of robust health—and Eline’s languid grace, mingled as it was with somewhat of fear of tiring or bespattering herself.
“By the bye, when I was at the Verstraetens’ yesterday, I heard they were not going to the opera this evening, as they were tired from last night; aunt asked me if I would like the box. Do you care to go to the opera?”
“And what about your visitors?”
“Jeanne Ferelyn is going early, because her child is unwell, and I wanted to ask Emilie and her brother to come too. Henk can stay at home. It is a box for four, you know.”
“Very well; I don’t mind.”
Well satisfied with herself, Eline was just putting down the last tray, when all at once a violent altercation broke out in the kitchen, accompanied by the silvery clattering of forks and spoons. It was Grete and Mina engaged in rather forcible argument. Betsy hurried out of the room, and very soon, curt commands and impudent answers followed each other in rapid succession.
Ben in the meantime remained standing open-mouthed, and somewhat drowsily, on the spot where his mother had pushed him, full of silent alarm at all the hubbub.
“Come, Ben, to auntie’s room,” said Eline, and smilingly she held out her hand towards him. He came, and both proceeded up-stairs.
Eline occupied two rooms on the ground floor, a bedroom and a boudoir. With the economy and good taste which were common to her nature, she had succeeded in imparting to these rooms a semblance of luxury, with somewhat of an artistic polish. Her piano occupied an angle in the wall; the heavy foliage of a giant azalea cast a softening shade over the low, damask-covered couch. In a corner stood a small table laden with innumerable precious trifles. Statuettes, pictures, feathers, palm branches, filled every nook. The pink marble mantelpiece was crowned with a miniature Venetian mirror, suspended by red cords and tassels. In front stood an Amor and Psyche, after Canova, the group depicting a maiden in the act of removing her veil, and a love-sick, light-winged god.
When Eline entered with Ben, the ruddy glow from the hearth shone on her cheeks. She threw the child a few tattered volumes of engravings, and he settled himself on the sofa, soon absorbed in the pictures. Eline entered her bedroom, the windows of which were still covered with daintily-formed leaves and flowers, the effect of the night’s frost. Yonder stood a toilette duchesse—a vision of tulle and lace—touched up here and there with the satin bows of old ball bouquets, and laden with scent phials of Sèvres and fine cut-glass. In the midst of all this wealth of pink and white the mirror glittered like a sheet of burnished silver. The bedstead was hidden among red draperies, and in the corner against the door a tall cheval glass reflected a flood of liquid sunshine.
For a moment Eline glanced round, to see if her maid had arranged everything to her satisfaction; then shivering in the chilly atmosphere she returned to her sitting-room and closed the door. With its semi-Eastern luxury the room was a most pleasant one, its comfort seemingly enhanced by the cold white glare reflected from the snow outside.
Eline felt as though brimming over with melody—a feeling which could only find adequate expression in song. She chose the waltz from Mireille. And she sang it with variations of her own, with modulations now swelling into a full, rich volume of melody, now melting away into the faintest diminuendo, with brilliant shakes and roulades clear as those of a lark. She no longer thought of the cold and snow outside. Then suddenly remembering that she had not practised for three days, she commenced singing scales, brightening her high notes, and trying a difficult portamento. Her voice resounded with a metallic ring, somewhat cold, but clear and bright as crystal.
Ben, though well used to these jubilant tones, which reverberated through the whole house, sat listening in open-mouthed wonder, without bestowing a further glance on his pictures, now and again giving a sudden start when some exceptionally shrill high si or do would penetrate his ears.
Eline was herself at a loss to account for her sadness of yesterday. How and whence came that fit of melancholy, without any definite cause? what was the overwhelming joy too that could have so suddenly chased those clouds away?
To-day she felt animated, happy, joyous; she was sorry that she had not seen the tableaux yesterday, and she feared that Mr. and Madame Verstraeten did not take her indisposition au sérieux. What a nice, pleasant man he was, Mr. Verstraeten, always full of fun! and Madame Verstraeten, what a dear good soul! She knew no one like her, so charming and kind. And then, seated at her piano, now practising a shake, then a chromatic scale, she allowed her thoughts to wander to other nice people amongst her acquaintances. Yes; all had their good qualities: the Ferelyns, Emilie de Woude, old Madame van Raat, Madame van Erlevoort, even Madame van der Stoor. As for Cateau she was a doll.
And the idea struck her that she would rather like to join that company of players. Yes; they had an admirable conception of the amenities of life. Frédérique, Marie, Lili, Paul and Etienne, ever gay, ever together, full of droll plans for their amusement. Indeed, it must be very nice, prettily arrayed in romantic costumes, to be the objects of general admiration. Paul had a very pretty voice, it would be splendid to sing duets with him. It quite slipped her memory that only a few days ago she had assured her singing-master that his voice was absolutely void of tone. But to-day she was in a pleasant humour, and sang a second waltz, that of “Juliette” in Gounod’s opera. She adored Gounod.
It had just struck half-past ten when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” she cried, and looking round she let her slender fingers rest on the keyboard. Paul van Raat entered.
“Bon jour, Eline. Hallo, young rascal!”
“What, Paul, you?” She rose, somewhat surprised to see him. Ben ran towards his uncle and hoisted himself up on his knees.
“How early you are! I thought you were coming to sing this afternoon. But you are welcome all the same; do you hear? Sit down and tell me about the tableaux,” Eline exclaimed with much animation; then, remembering her illness of the previous day, she continued in a languid voice—
“I was awfully sorry I was so ill yesterday. Had a terrible headache.”
“You don’t look much the worse for it.”
“It’s true, Paul, really. If I had been well, don’t you think I should have come and admired your talent? Come, tell me—tell me all about it,” and she drew him with her to the sofa and threw the pictures on the floor.
Paul had some difficulty in freeing himself from Ben, who clung to his legs.
“Come, let go, Ben. And is the headache better now?”
“Oh yes; quite gone. This afternoon I’ll go round to Mr. Verstraeten to give my congratulations. But, Paul, do tell me——”
“I was just about to tell you that I was not coming to sing this afternoon; do you hear, Elly? I couldn’t bring out a note; I am quite hoarse with the howling and screaming of yesterday. But we managed splendidly,” and he commenced describing the tableaux.
It was all his idea, and much of it the work of his own hands; but the girls too had been hard at it for the last month—getting up the dresses, attending to a thousand trifles. That afternoon Losch was coming to take a photograph of the last group; so that, even had he been in good voice, he could not have come to sing. And how stiff in his joints he felt! for he had slaved away like a navvy, and the girls must be quite exhausted also. No; he had formed no part in the grouping, he was too busy making all the arrangements. He fell back a little on the rich damask cushions of the sofa, under the shading branches of the azalea, and stroked his hair.
Eline thought how much he resembled Henk, although he was ten years younger, more slender in figure, livelier, with more delicate features, and an expression of much greater intelligence. But a simple gesture or movement, a raising of the eyebrows, would now and again very distinctly illustrate that resemblance, and although his lips were thinner under his light moustache than Henk’s heavily-bearded upper lip, his laugh was deep and full as that of his brother.
“Why don’t you take painting lessons of a good master, Paul?” asked Eline. “Surely if you have talent——”
“But I have not,” he laughed. “It would not be worth the trouble. I just dabble a bit in it, just as I do with my singing. It amounts to nothing at all, any of it.” And he sighed at his Lick of energy to make the most of the little talent he might possess.
“You remind me of papa,” she said, and her words assumed a tone of sadness, as the idealized image of her father rose to her memory. “Yes; he had great talents, but latterly his health failed him, and he could not produce the great creation of which his soul was capable. I well remember that he was engaged on an immense canvas, a scene from Dante’s Paradiso I believe, when—when he died. Poor papa! But you are young and strong, and I can’t understand why you don’t do something great, something out of the common.”
“You know, I suppose, that I am going to be engaged at Hovel’s. Uncle Verstraeten has arranged it for me.”
Hovel was a barrister, and as Paul had, at a somewhat early age, and after a period of alternate studying and idleness, passed the law examination, Uncle Verstraeten thought he would be doing the young barrister a good turn if he recommended him to his friend. It had therefore been arranged that Paul should continue working at Hovel’s office, until he could go in practice for himself.
“At Hovel’s? A very nice man; I like his wife very much. Oh, that will be splendid, Paul.”
“I hope so.”
“But still, if I were a man I should try and become famous. Come, Ben, don’t be troublesome now; go and look at the nice pictures on the floor. Wouldn’t you think it splendid to be famous? Really, if I weren’t Eline Vere I should become an actress.” And she gave vent to a series of brilliant shakes, which fell from her lips like a sparkling chain of diamonds.
“Famous!” and with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. “What a silly idea, to be sure. Famous! No; I don’t want to be famous, not a bit. But for all that I should like to paint well, or sing well, or something.”
“Then why don’t you take lessons, either in painting or music? Shall I speak to my master?”
“No, thanks; not that old growler of a Roberts, if I can help it. And besides, Eline, it isn’t really worth while; I should never be able to keep it up whatever it was. I am subject to sudden fits, you see. Then I think I can do anything, then I am anxious to hit upon some great subject for a picture——”
“Like papa,” she interrupted with a sad smile.
“At other times the fit moves me to make the most of what voice I have; but before long all those grand ideas have died their own death of sheer inanition, and then I continue in the same old jog-trot as before.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Henceforth I shall go and hide the aspirations of my genius in law cases,” he answered with a laugh, as he rose from his seat. “But now I must be off to the Princesse-gracht, to the Verstraetens’. So don’t expect me this afternoon; we have several details to arrange yet before Losch comes. Adieu, Eline; bye-bye, Ben.”
“Bon jour; I hope you’ll soon get over your hoarseness.”
Paul went, and Eline once more sat down at the piano. For a while she sat thinking what a pity it was Paul had so little energy, and from him her thoughts reverted again to Henk. But she felt altogether too light-hearted this morning to do much philosophizing, and, full of exuberant spirits demanding an outlet, she continued her singing, until the mid-day gong summoned her and Ben down-stairs.
Paul had told his mother that he would not be home that afternoon for coffee, as he would be at the Verstraetens’. He lodged at Madame van Raat’s, in the Laan van Meerdervoort. Madame van Raat, an elder sister of Madame Verstraeten, was a stately dame, with pensive, light-blue eyes, and hair of silver gray, dressed in old-fashioned style, whilst over her whole being there was suffused, as it were, a calmness, a placid resignation, that unmistakably spoke of former days free from troubles and disappointments. As walking exercise was becoming irksome to her, she was mostly to be found seated in her high-backed arm-chair, the dull-gray head drooping on her bosom, the blue-veined hands folded in her lap. Thus she continued to lead a quiet, monotonous existence, the aftermath of a placid, all but cloudless life, by the side of her husband, on whose portrait she frequently allowed her eyes to dwell, as it hung before her yonder, in its smart general’s uniform; a good-looking, frank, manly face, with a pair of truthful, intelligent eyes, and an engaging expression about the firm, closed mouth. To her, life had brought but few great sorrows, and for that, in the simplicity of her faith, she felt piously grateful. But now, now she was tired, oh! so tired, her spirit quite broken by the death of that husband to whom, to the last, she had clung with an affection constant and calm as the bosom of a limpid stream, into the placid waters of which the impetuous waves of her youthful love had flowed away. After his death, she began to worry over every trifling circumstance, petty vexations with servants and tradespeople. All these she connected, until to her mind they formed an unbroken chain of irksome burdens. Yes, she felt she was growing old; time had little more to give her, and so, in silent egoism, she mused her life away in the long-vanished poesy of the past. She had had three children: her youngest, a girl, was dead.
Of her two sons, her favourite was Henk, who, strong and big, reminded her the most of his father, whilst in her eyes his sleepy good-nature had more of open, frank manliness, than Paul’s finer-strung fickleness and airy geniality. Paul she had always found too unsettled and nervous: formerly, in his constantly interrupted studies at Leyden—at last, thanks to a little moral pressure on the part of Uncle Verstraeten, crowned with promotion—as well as now with his staying out late at night, his rage for painting, tableaux-vivants and duets, or his fits of indolence, when he would lounge away a whole afternoon on the sofa, over a book he did not read.
Before his marriage, Henk, being of a more staid and homely character than Paul, felt himself better at ease in his mother’s house; although he was quiet, his silence never irritated her; it was like the silence of a faithful dog, watching with half-closed eyes over his mistress. She felt so at her ease with Henk. She disliked being alone, for it was in solitude that the memories of the past contrasted in their rosy brightness too sharply with the leaden-gray that was the prevailing hue of her present life, and Paul she saw but rarely, except when hastily swallowing his dinner, in order to keep an appointment. She seldom went out, unaccustomed as she had grown to the noisy traffic of the streets, and the hum of many voices.
Henk was her pet, and with her mental vision unimpaired, wherever at least her son was concerned, she regretted his marriage with Betsy Vere. No; she was not a fit wife for her child, and knowing that, she could not bring herself to give him her hearty approval or her parental blessing, when he told her of his engagement. Still, she refrained from opposing her beloved son in his choice, fearing lest she should be the cause of unhappiness; it was therefore under a false assumption of frankness, at which she was surprised herself, that she had concealed her ill-feeling against the intruder, and welcomed her as her daughter. All the same, she felt deeply concerned about Henk. Madame Vere she had known slightly; passionate and domineering, she never found anything attractive in such a personality, and this daughter reminded her too much of that mother. Although, in her eyes, Henk was possessed of much more firmness of character than Vere, of whom she could not think but as a pallid, ailing sufferer, only too glad to allow his wife to think and act for him; although Henk, as she thought, had all the frank manliness of character of his father, and would not allow himself to be domineered over; still, happy as she had been with van Raat, it would never be his lot to be. And at that thought she would sigh and her eyes would grow moist; her mother’s love, despite her blindness to his failings, was the instinct which gave her an inkling of the truth, and if she could have taken his place, she would gladly have given up her own former happiness to her son, and have suffered for him.
Her thoughts ran away with her as she saw Leentje, the servant, laying the cloth for lunch for herself alone, and with a weary resignation at the hateful loneliness of her days, she sat down. To-morrow would be to her as to-day; what remained of her life was but an aftermath of summer, and though autumn and winter might be free from storms, yet the only promise they held out was that of a barren, soulless lethargy. To what end did she live?
And so weary did she feel under the leaden pressure of this soul-killing loneliness, that she could not even muster up the energy to scold Leentje for her clumsiness, although she could not help noticing the damage that was done to one of her old china dishes.
Much earlier than she was wont to go out, Eline went to the Verstraetens’ that afternoon. It was near the end of November, and winter had already set in with extreme severity. There was a sharp frost; the snow, still white and unsullied, crackled under Eline’s light, regular tread, but her feet preferred to feel the smoothness of the clean-swept pavement; the delicately-gloved hands were hidden away in the small muff. At times bestowing a friendly nod, from under her veil, on some passing acquaintance, she proceeded along the Java-straat to the Princesse-gracht. She still felt in a happy humour, which was quite undisturbed by the little tiff she had had with Betsy about some trifling question with the servants. These little bickerings were not of such rare occurrence lately, although they always irritated Henk beyond measure.
But Eline had not taken much notice of Betsy’s words, and had replied to her with less sharpness than was her wont; she did not care to allow such trifles to spoil her good-humour: life was too dear to her——
And feeling glad that she had curbed her temper, she turned the corner of the Java-straat.
At the Verstraetens’ there still prevailed an unusual disorder. Dien was loth to admit her, but Eline took no notice, and passed inside to the large reception-room, where she found Madame Verstraeten, who apologized for being in her dressing-gown. Losch, the photographer, half hidden under the green cloth of his apparatus, was taking a view of the group representing the Five Senses. The girls, Etienne, and Paul smiled their welcome to Eline, who said it was splendid still to be able to see something of the tableaux. But now, in the chill snow-reflected daylight, the scene no longer created the vivid, glowing impression of the previous evening, nor had it the same wealth of colouring, with which a plentiful application of Bengal fire had endowed it. The draperies hung in loose and crumpled folds; Frédérique’s cloth of gold had a smudged, faded tint, her ermine had more the appearance of white and black wool. Etienne’s fair wig was decidedly out of curl. Lili, representing the sense of Smelling, lay half dozing in her pillows.
“I am afraid it won’t come to much,” said Marie, as Losch was arranging her draperies; but Toosje van der Stoor thought otherwise and remained lying motionless, with a terribly cramped feeling, owing to her difficult attitude.
Eline, unwilling to disturb the artistes in their grouping, sat down beside Mr. Verstraeten. He laid away his book and removed his eye-glasses, and with his sparkling brown eyes glanced with unfeigned pleasure at the graceful girl.
“Do you know,” she said, as she unhooked the little fur-lined cloak, “do you know, I am really jealous of that little group there. They are always together, always happy and jolly, and full of fun and amusing ideas—really I feel quite old by the side of them.”
“Just fancy that!” answered Madame Verstraeten, laughing. “You are of the same age as Marie, three-and-twenty, aren’t you?”
“Yes; but I was never spoilt as Marie and Lili are being now, and yet I think I should not have minded a bit. You know, of course, when I was a child—papa was mostly ill, and naturally that threw a damper over us; and afterwards at Aunt Vere’s house—aunt was a dear, good woman, but much elder than papa, and not very jolly certainly——”
“You must not say anything about Aunt Vere, Eline!” said Mr. Verstraeten; “she was an old flame of mine——”
“And you must not laugh at her; I was very fond of her; she really was a second mother to us, and when that long illness ended in her death, I felt the loss keenly, I was as alone in the world. You see, all these things were not exactly calculated to make my youth a very gay one.” And she smiled a saddened smile, whilst at the thought of all she had been deprived of, her eyes glistened with moisture. “But when you look at Paul and Etienne, and the girls, it’s nothing but laughter and pleasure—really, enough to make me jealous. And that Toos, too, she is a dear child.”
The artistes came down from the platform. Losch had finished. Paul and Etienne, with Freddy, Marie, and Cateau came forward, whilst Lili went to bed, thoroughly exhausted with the excitement of the last two days.
“Good morning, Miss Vere,” said Cateau, as she held out her little hand to Eline.
Eline felt a sudden, indescribable, unreasoning sympathy for that child, so simple and so unconsciously engaging, and as she rose to go, she was obliged to hide her emotion by playfully embracing the child.
“Good-bye, darling,” she said dotingly. “I am going, Madame Verstraeten; there is still plenty left for you to do, now that all that excitement is over. Ah! yes—I promised Betsy to ask you for the tickets. May I have them?”
It was still early, only half-past two, and Eline thought what a long time it was since she had visited old Madame van Raat, and she knew that the old lady liked her, and was always glad to have a chat in the afternoon. Henk never failed to visit his mother every morning after his ride, and the two boarhounds, whom his wife had banished from his home, followed him undisturbed up the stairs in his mother’s house. As for Betsy, of her the old lady saw very little; Betsy was well enough aware that Madame van Raat did not care for her. Eline, however, had succeeded in winning her affections, by means of a certain most engaging manner she had when in the company of aged ladies; in the tone of her voice, in her little attentions, there was a something, a delicate flavour of respect, which charmed the old dame.
Eline returned through the Java-straat to the Laan van Meerdervoort, and found Madame van Raat alone, seated in her high-backed chair, her hands folded in her lap. And in the young girl’s eyes she appeared such a picture of mute sadness; over the rich faded furniture there hovered such a melancholy shadow of past comfort; the whole apartment was filled with such an atmosphere of sorrow, and about the folds of the dark green curtains there hung such a mist of melancholy, that on entering, Eline felt her heart grow cold within her, as though a voice had told her that life was not worth living.
But she struggled against the feeling. She recalled those thoughts which in the morning had brought her such lightness of heart. She smiled, and her tone assumed that vague respect, mingled with somewhat of love and pity, and with much animation she spoke about Paul, about the tableaux, about that evening’s dinner, and the opera—and promised Madame van Raat to send her some books, nice light literature, in which one looked at the world through rose-coloured glasses.
It pained her to chatter in this way; she would much rather have sat and cried with the old dame, in sympathetic melancholy, but she controlled herself, and even plucked up courage to touch upon a more serious subject. With her engaging, respectful manner, she took Madame to task for having been discovered by her with moistened eyes, which now she would not own; she was not inquisitive, but she would so gladly console and cheer her, if she could; and why did she not again make her her confidante, as she had done before, and so on.
And the old lady, already placed at her ease by this charm of manner, smilingly shook her head; really, there was nothing the matter at all; she only felt a little lonely. Ah, it was her own fault, she feared, for there was very little in which she still took any interest. Other old people read the papers and continued to take an interest in things generally; but not she. Yes, it was all her own fault; but Eline was a dear girl; why could not Betsy be a little like her?
And with increased animation, she began to talk about her dear husband; over there was his portrait.…
It was past four when Eline hurried away; it was growing dark, it was thawing, and the lowering clouds threatened to fall upon her and choke her. That old lady had been happy, very happy.… and she, Eline, was not happy, even at her age—oh! how would she feel when she too would be old, ugly, and shrivelled up! To her even the memories of the past would bring no comfort, nor yet the solacing thought that happiness did exist, that she had tasted its sweets; to her all would be dull and leaden as the clouds above! “Oh, God, why live, if life were void of happiness?—why, why?” she whispered, and she hurried on to dress for dinner.
It was to be a simple, homely little dinner. At half-past six the Ferelyns came, and shortly after, Emilie and Georges. Betsy received them in the drawing-room, and asked Jeanne how the child was.
“She is much easier now, the little dot; the fever is gone, but still she is not quite better. Doctor Reyer said she was getting on. It’s very nice of you to have invited us; a little change is really necessary for me. But you see, I took your word for it that it would be quite a family party, so I haven’t dressed for it.” And with some misgiving her eyes wandered from her own plain black dress to Betsy’s gown of gray satin.
“Really, there is no one else coming but Emilie here, and her brother. But you told me you would be going home early, so we have arranged, later on, to look in at the opera, in Uncle Verstraeten’s box. So you need not be uneasy, you were quite right to come as you are.”
Henk, looking jolly and contented, entered in his smoking-jacket, and on seeing him Jeanne felt more reassured than by all Betsy’s protestations. With Emilie, lively as ever, she was on the most intimate terms, and it was Georges alone, with his immaculate shirt-front, and his big gardenia, who made her feel somewhat uneasy at her own simple dress.
Frans Ferelyn, an East-Indian official, was in Holland on furlough, and his wife was an old school-mate of Eline’s and Betsy’s.
Jeanne seemed a homely little woman, very quiet and depressed under her domestic troubles. Delicate, emaciated, and pallid, with a pair of soft brown eyes, she felt crushed under the double burden of pecuniary embarrassment and anxiety for her three ailing children, and she felt an irresistible longing for India, the land of her birth, and for the quiet life she l