Holland Fiction Series
ELINE VERE
TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH OF
LOUIS COUPERUS
BY
J. T. GREIN
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY EDMUND GOSSE
NEW·YORK
D. APPLETON AND CO.
1892
Copyright, 1892,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. [[iii]]
INTRODUCTION.
THE DUTCH SENSITIVISTS.
In the intellectual history of all countries we find the same phenomenon incessantly recurring. New writers, new artists, new composers arise in revolt against what has delighted their grandfathers and satisfied their fathers. These young men, pressed together at first, by external opposition, into a serried phalanx, gradually win their way, become themselves the delight and then the satisfaction of their contemporaries, and, falling apart as success is secured to them, come to seem lax, effete, and obsolete to a new race of youths, who effect a fresh æsthetic revolution. In small communities, these movements are often to be observed more precisely than in larger ones. But they are very tardily perceived by foreigners, the established authorities in art and literature retaining their exclusive place in dictionaries and handbooks long after the claim of their juniors to be observed with attention has been practically conceded at home.
For this reason, partly, and partly also because the mental life of Holland receives little attention in this country, no account has yet been taken of the revolution in Dutch taste which has occupied the last six or seven [[iv]]years. I believe that the present occasion is the first on which it has been brought to the notice of any English-speaking public. There exists, however, in Holland, at this moment, a group of young writers, most of them between thirty-five and twenty-five years of age, who exhibit a violent zeal for literature, passing often into extravagance, who repudiate, sometimes with ferocity, the rather sleepy Dutch authorship of the last forty years, and who are held together, or crushed together, by the weight of antiquated taste and indifference to executive merit which they experience around them. Certain facts seem to be undeniable: first, that every young man of letters in Holland, whose work is really promising, has joined the camp; and secondly, that, with all the ferment and crudity inseparable from prose and verse composed in direct opposition to existing canons of taste, the poems and the stories of these young Dutchmen are often full of beauty and delicacy. They have read much in their boyhood; they have imitated Rossetti and Keats; they have been fascinated by certain Frenchmen, by Flaubert, by Goncourt, particularly by Huysmans, who is a far-away kinsman of their own; they have studied the disquieting stories of Edgar Poe. But these influences are passing away, and those who know something of current Dutch belles-lettres can realize best how imperatively a ploughing up of the phlegmatic tradition of Dutch thought was required before a new crop of imagination could spring up.
Rejecting the conventional aspects of contemporary Dutch literature, I will now attempt to give some sketch of the present situation as it appears to a foreign critic observing the field without prejudice. The latest novelist of great importance was Madame Gertrude Bosboom-Toussaint, who was born in 1821. After having written a long series of historical romances for nearly forty years, [[v]]this intelligent woman and careful writer broke with her own assured public, and took up the discussion of psychological questions. She treated the problem of Socialism in Raymond de Schrijnwerker and the status of woman in Majoor Frans. Madame Bosboom-Toussaint died in 1886, just too early to welcome the new school of writers, with whom she would probably have had more sympathy than any of her contemporaries. Her place in popular esteem was taken for a short time by Miss Opzomer (A. S. C. Wallis), whose long novels have been translated into English, In dagen van strijd (“In Troubled Times”) and Vorstengunst (“Royal Favor”). She had genuine talent, but her style was heavy and tedious. After the new wind began to blow, although she was still young, she married, went to Hungary, and gave up writing novels.
Three authors of importance, each, by a curious coincidence, born in the year 1826, fill up the interval between the old and new generation. These are Dekker, Busken-Huët, and Vosmaer. Edward Douwes Dekker, whose novel of Max Havelaar dates from 1858, was a man of exceptional genius. Bred in the interior of Java, he observed the social conditions of life in the Dutch Indies as no one else had done, but his one great book remained a solitary one. He died in 1887 without having justified the very high hopes awakened by that extraordinary and revolutionary work. The career of Konrad Busken-Huët was very different. The principal literary critic of Holland in his generation, he aimed at being the Sainte-Beuve of the Dutch, and in his early days, as the dreaded “Thrasybulus” of journalism, he did much to awaken thought. His volumes of criticism are extremely numerous, and exercised a wholesome influence during his own time. He died in Paris in April, 1886. These two writers have had a strong effect on the prose style of the younger school of [[vi]]essayists and novelists. They lived long enough to observe the dawn of the new literature, and their relations with the latest writers were cordial if somewhat reserved.
What Douwes Dekker and Busken-Huët did in prose, was effected in poetry by Carel Vosmaer. This estimable man, who died in 1888, was well known throughout Europe as an art-critic and an authority on Rembrandt. In Holland he was pre-eminent as the soul of a literary newspaper, the Nederlandsche Spectator, which took an independent line in literary criticism, and affected to lead public taste in directions less provincial and old-fashioned than the rest of the Dutch press. Vosmaer wrote also several volumes of more or less fantastic poetry, a translation of Homer into alexandrines, and an antiquarian novel, Amazone, 1881. But Vosmaer’s position was, above all, that of a precursor. He, and he alone, saw that a new thing must be made in Dutch poetical literature. He, and he alone, was not satisfied with the stereotyped Batavian tradition. At the same time Vosmaer was not, it may be admitted, strong enough himself to found a new school; perhaps even, in his later days, the Olympian calm which he affected, and a certain elegant indolence which overcame him, may have made him unsympathetic to the ardent and the juvenile. At all events, this singular phenomenon has occurred. He who of all living Dutchmen was, ten or fifteen years ago, fretting under the poverty of thought and imagination in his fatherland and longing for the new era to arrive, is at this moment the one man of the last generation who is most exposed to that unseemly ferocité des jeunes which is the ugliest feature of these æsthetic revolutions. I have just been reading, with real pain, the violent attack on Vosmaer and his influence which has been published by that very clever young poet, Mr. Willem Kloos (De Nieuwe Gids, December, [[vii]]1890). All that cheers me is to know that the whirligig of time will not forget its revenges, and that, if Mr. Kloos only lives long enough, he will find somebody, now unborn, to call him a “bloodless puppet.”
Of one other representative of the transitional period, Marcellus Emants, I need say little. He wrote a poem, Lilith, and several short stories. Much was expected of him, but I know not what has been the result.
The inaugurator of the new school was Jacques Perk, a young poet of indubitable genius, who was influenced to some degree by Shelley, and by the Florence of the Dutch Browning, Potgieter. He wrote in 1880 a Mathilde, for which he could find no publisher, presently died, and began to be famous on the posthumous issue of his poems, edited by Vosmaer and Kloos, in 1883.
The sonnets of Perk, like those of Bowles with us a hundred years ago, were the heralds of a whole new poetic literature. The resistance made to the young writers who now began to express themselves, and their experience that all the doors of periodical publication in Holland were closed to them, led to the foundation in 1885 of De Nieuwe Gids, a rival to the old Dutch quarterly, De Gids. In this new review, which has steadily maintained and improved its position, most of the principal productions of the new school have appeared. The first three numbers contained De Kleine Johannes (“Little Johnny”), of Dr. Frederik van Eeden, the first considerable prose-work of the younger generation. This is a charming romance, fantastic and refined, half symbolical, half realistic, which deserves to be known to English readers. It has been highly appreciated in Holland. To this followed two powerful books by L. van Deyssel, Een Liefde (“A Love”) and De Kleine Republiek (“The Little Republic”). Van Deyssel has written with great force, but he has hitherto been the [[viii]]enfant terrible of the school, the one who has claimed with most insolence to say precisely what has occurred to him to say. He has been influenced, more than the rest, by the latest French literature.
While speaking of the new school, it is difficult to restrain from mentioning others of those whose work in De Nieuwe Gids and elsewhere has raised hopes of high performance in the future. Jacques van Looy, a painter by profession, has published, among other things, an exquisitely finished volume of Proza (“Prose Essays”). Frans Netscher, who deliberately marches in step with the French realists, is the George Moore of Holland; he has published a variety of small sketches and one or two novels. Ary Prins, under the pseudonym of Coopland, has written some very good studies of life. Among the poets are Willem Kloos, Albert Verwey, and Herman Gorter, each of whom deserves a far more careful critical consideration than can here be given to him.
Willem Kloos, indeed, may be considered as the leader of the school since the death of Perk. It was to Kloos that, in the period from 1880 to 1885, each of the new writers went in secret for encouragement, criticism, and sympathy. He appears to be a man of very remarkable character. Violent and passionate in his public utterances, he is adored by his own colleagues and disciples, and one of the most gifted of them has told me that “Kloos has never made a serious mistake in his estimate of the force of a man or of a book.” His writings, however, are very few, and his tone in controversy is acrid and uncompromising, as I have already indicated. He remains the least known and the least liked, though the most powerful, of the band. The member of the new generation whose verse and prose alike have won most acceptance is, certainly, Frederik van Eeden. His cycle of lyrical verse, [[ix]]Ellen, 1891, is doubtless the most exquisite product of recent Dutch literature.
For the peculiar quality which unites in one movement the varied elements of the school which I have attempted thus briefly to describe, the name Sensitivism has been invented by one of themselves, by Van Deyssel. It is a development of impressionism, grafted upon naturalism, as a frail and exotic bud may be set in the rough basis of a thorn. It preserves the delicacy of sensation of the one and strengthens it by the exactitude and conscientiousness of the other, yet without giving way to the vagaries of impressionism or to the brutality of mere realism. It selects and refines, it re-embraces Fancy, that maiden so rudely turned out of house and home by the naturalists; it aims, in fact, at retaining the best, and nothing but the best, of the experiments of the French during the last quarter of a century.
Van Deyssel greets L’Argent with elaborate courtesy, with the respect due to a fallen divinity. He calls his friends in Holland to attend the gorgeous funeral of naturalism, which is dead; but urges them not to sacrifice their own living Sensitivism to the imitation of what is absolutely a matter of past history. It will be seen that Dutch Sensitivism is not by any means unlike French Symbolism, and we might expect prose like Mallarmé’s and verse like Moréas’s! As a matter of fact, however, the Dutch seem, in their general attitude of reserve, to leave their mother-tongue unassailed, and to be as intelligible as their inspiration allows them to be.
To one of these writers, however, and to one of the youngest, it is time that I should turn. The first member of the new Dutch school to be presented, in the following pages, to English readers, is Louis Marie Anne Couperus. Of him, as the author of this book, I must give a fuller [[x]]biography, although he is still too young to occupy much space by the record of his achievements. Louis Couperus was born on the 10th of June, 1863, at the Hague, where he spent the first ten years of his life. He was then taken in company with his family to Java, and resided five years in Batavia. Returning to the Hague, where he completed his education, he began to make teaching his profession, but gradually drifted into devoting himself entirely to literature. He published a little volume of verses in 1884, and another, of more importance, called Orchideeën (“Orchids”), in 1887, Oriental and luscious. But he has succeeded, as every one allows, much better in prose. His long novel of modern life in the Hague, called Eline Vere, is an admirable performance. Of Noodlot (literally to be translated “Fate” or “Destiny”) our readers will judge for themselves at a later date. Such is the brief chronicle of a writer from whom much is expected by the best critics of his own country.
Edmund Gosse. [[1]]
ELINE VERE.
CHAPTER I.
They were close to each other in the dining-room, which had been turned into a dressing-room. In front of a mirror stood Frédérique van Erlevoort, with her hair hanging loose, looking very pale under a thin layer of powder, her eyebrows blackened with a single stroke of the pencil.
“Do hurry up, Paul! We shall never get ready,” she said, a little impatiently, glancing at the clock.
Paul van Raat was kneeling at her feet, and his fingers draped a long thin veil of crimson and gold in folds from her waist. The gauze hung like a cloud over the pinkness of her skirt; her neck and arms, white as snow with the powder, were left free, and sparkled with the glitter of the chains and necklaces strung across one another.
“Whew, what a draught! Do keep the door shut, Dien!” Paul shouted to an old servant who was leaving the room with her arms full of dresses. Through the open door one could see the guests—men in evening dress, ladies in light costumes: they passed along the azaleas and palms in the corridor into the large drawing-room; they smiled at the sight of the old servant, and threw surreptitious glances into the dining-room.
They all laughed at this look behind the scenes. Frédérique alone remained serious, realizing that she had the dignity of a princess of antiquity to keep up.
“Do make haste, Paul!” she pleaded. “It’s past half-past eight already!” [[2]]
“Yes, yes, Freddie, don’t get nervous; you’re finished,” he answered, and adroitly pinned a few jewels among the gauze folds of her draperies.
“Ready?” asked Marie and Lili Verstraeten, coming out of the room where the stage had been fixed up, a mysterious elevation almost effaced in semi-darkness.
“Ready,” answered Paul. “And now calmly, please,” he continued, raising his voice and looking round with an air of command.
The warning was well needed. The three boys and the five girls who did duty as ladies’-maids, were rushing about the room laughing, shouting, creating the greatest disorder. In vain Lili tried to save a gilt cardboard lyre from the hands of the son of the house, a boy twelve years old, while their two rascally cousins were just on the point of climbing up a great white cross, which stood in a corner, and was already yielding under their onslaughts.
“Get away from that cross, Jan and Karel! Give up that lyre, you other!” roared Paul. “Do look after them, Marie. And now, Bet and Dien, come here; Bet with the lamp, Dien at the door; all the rest out of the road! There’s no more room; look on from the garden through the window of the big drawing-room; you’ll see everything beautifully, at a distance. Come along, Freddie, carefully, here’s your train.”
“You’ve forgotten my crown.”
“I’ll put it on when you’re posed. Come on.”
The three girls hurried to get away, the boys squatted in a corner of the room, where they could not be seen, and Paul helped Freddie to climb on to the stage.
Marie, who, like Lili, was not yet draped, talked through the closed window with the fireman, who was waiting, muffled up, in the snowy garden, to let off the Bengal light. A great reflector stared through the window like a pale, lustreless sun.
“First white, then green, then red,” Marie called out, and the fireman nodded.
The now deserted dressing-room was dark, barely lit by the lamp which Bet held in her hand, while Dien stood at the door.
“Carefully, Freddie, carefully,” said Paul.
Frédérique sank down gently into the cushions of the couch; Paul arranged her draperies, her chains, her hair, her diadem, and placed a flower here and there. [[3]]
“Will that do?” she asked with tremulous voice, taking up the pose she had studied beforehand.
“You’re delicious; beautiful! Now then, Marie, Lili, come here.”
Lili threw herself on the floor, Marie leaned against the couch with her head at Frédérique’s feet. Paul draped both girls quickly in coloured shawls and veils, and twisted strings of gems round their arms and in their hair.
“Marie and Lili, look as if you were in despair. Wring your hands more than that, Lili! More despair, much more despair! Freddie, more languishing, turn your eyes up, set your mouth in a sadder expression.”
“Like that?”
Marie screamed.
“Yes, that will do! That’s better; now be quiet, Marie. Is everything ready?”
“Ready!” said Marie.
Paul arranged one or two more things, a crease, a flower, doubtful whether everything was right.
“Come, let’s start,” said Lili, who was in a very uncomfortable position.
“Bet, take away the lamps; Dien, shut that door, and then come here, both of you, one on each side of the folding doors of the big room.”
They were all in the dark, with beating hearts, while Paul tapped at the window, and joined the boys in the corner.
Slowly and doubtfully the Bengal light flamed up against the reflector, the folding doors opened solemnly, a clear white glow lit up the tableau.
Smiling and bowing, while the conversation suddenly changed into a muffled murmur, the guests pressed forward into the large drawing-room and the conservatory, blinded by a burst of light and colour. Men got out of the way of a couple of laughing girls. In the background boys climbed on the chairs.
“The death of Cleopatra!” Betsy van Raat read out to Mrs. Van Erlevoort, who had handed her the programme.
“Splendid! magnificent!” one heard on every side.
Ancient Egypt seemed to have come alive again in the white glow of the light. Between luxurious draperies something like an [[4]]oasis could be perceived, a blue sky, two pyramids, some palms. On her couch, supported by sphinxes, lay Cleopatra, at the point of death, an adder curling round her arm. Two slaves were prostrate in despair at her feet. The parti-coloured vision of oriental magnificence lasted a few seconds; the poetry of antiquity revived under the eyes of a modern audience.
“That’s Freddie,” said Betsy. “How lovely!” and she pointed out the dying queen to Mrs. Van Erlevoort, who was dazzled by all this luxury. Now, however, the mother recognized her daughter in the beautiful motionless statue lying before her.
“And that’s Marie, and the other—oh, that’s Lili—irrecognizable! What beautiful costumes! how elaborate! You see that dress of Lili’s, violet and silver? I lent her that.”
“How well they do it,” murmured the old lady.
The white glow of the light began to flicker, the doors were closed.
“Splendid, auntie, splendid!” Betsy cried, as Mrs. Verstraeten, the hostess, passed her.
Twice the tableau was recalled, first in a flood of sea-green, then in fiery red. Freddie, with her adder, lay immovable, and only Lili quivered in her forced attitude. Paul looked out from his corner with a beaming face; everything was going well.
“How quiet Freddie lies! And everything is so rich, and yet not overdone. Something like a picture of Makart’s,” said Betsy, opening her feather fan.
“Your daughter is tired of life very early, madam,” lisped young de Woude van Bergh, bowing towards Mrs. van Erlevoort, Freddie’s mother.
After the third repetition of the tableau Mrs. Verstraeten went to the dressing-room. She found Frédérique and Lili laughing while they got out of their Egyptian attire, looking for endless pins in every fold. Paul and Marie stood on the steps, and, lighted by two of the servants, pulled Cleopatra’s dress to pieces. Dien fussed about, picking up the dropped draperies and the fallen chains. The three boys rolled over one another on a mattress.
“Was it pretty, mamma?” cried Lili.
“Was it pretty, madam?” cried Frédérique, at the same time.
“Beautiful! They would have liked to see it again.”
“What again! I’m nearly dead already,” cried Lili; and she [[5]]tumbled into an arm-chair, throwing a great bundle off it upon the floor. Dien gave way to despair; at that rate she would never get done.
“Lili, rest yourself,” cried Paul, from the top of his steps in the other room; “you’ll get tired in that attitude. Aunt Verstraeten, tell Lili to rest herself,” and he threw some coloured carpets off the cords on which they had been hanging. Dien went on folding up.
“Dien, white sheets and white tulle this way, quick,” cried Marie. Dien misunderstood her, and came back with the wrong article.
Then all began to talk at once, and every one asked for something else, and there arose a very Babel of confusion. At the top of the staircase Paul made a gesture of despair, but no one took any notice.
“I am utterly worn out!” said he, crouching down in impotent rage. “No one does anything. It all falls to my lot!”
Madame Verstraeten, having in her turn begged Lili to rest herself, had gone to tell the servants not to forget the youthful artistes. As a result, the men soon came in, carrying big trays laden with glasses of wine and lemonade, pastry and sandwiches. The confusion only increased. The three boys were served with various good things on their mattress, over which one of the servants spilt a stream of lemonade. Up flew Marie, in a torrent of rage, and with Dien’s assistance quickly pulled the mattress away from under the boys, into the next room.
“Frédérique, do give a hand there,” cried Paul, in a voice shrill with irritation. As for keeping any further sort of control over the three lads, that he had given up as hopeless. Ere long, however, the noisy young customers were driven, loudly shrieking and stumbling one over another, out of the room by Dien.
Then there was a little more quietness, but everybody was doing something, except Lili.
“There’s a muddle!” she muttered to herself. Then she sat down and brushed her hair, wavy and blond cendré, and that done, she took up her powder-puff, and sprinkled a snowy layer over her arms.
Dien returned, very much out of breath, shaking her head, and with a kindly smile on her face.
“Dien, white sheets and tulle quickly,” Freddie, Marie, and Paul [[6]]all cried together. Paul came down from his place on the stairs, placed the big cross, the weight of which nearly crushed him, on the platform, and at the foot he laid the mattress and a snug arrangement of pillows.
“Dien, white sheets and tulle; all the tulle and muslin you can find.”
And Dien and the other servants brought it, one soft mass of white.
Madame Verstraeten sat down beside her niece, Betsy van Raat. She was married to Paul’s elder brother.
“What a pity Eline is not here! I had so depended on her to fill up the long intervals with a little music. She sings so nicely.”
“She was really not feeling well, aunt. She is very sorry, you may be sure, that she can’t be here, in honour of uncle’s birthday.”
“What is the matter with her?”
“I don’t quite know. Nerves, I think.”
“She really ought not to give herself up to these fits. With a little energy she could easily get over that nervousness.”
“Well, you see, aunt, this nervousness is the modern bane of young women, it is the fin de siècle epidemic,” said Betsy, with a faint smile.
Madame Verstraeten sighed and nodded.
“By the bye,” said she, “I suppose the girls will be too tired to-morrow evening to go to the opera. Would you care to have our box?”
Betsy reflected for a moment.
“I have a little dinner to-morrow, aunt; but still I should like the box. It is only the Ferelyns and Emilie and Georges who are coming, but the Ferelyns are going early because little Dora is not well, so I could easily go with Emilie and Georges, and be in time to see an act.”
“Well, that is settled then. I shall send you the tickets,” said Madame Verstraeten rising.
Betsy rose too. George de Woude van Bergh was just about to speak to her, but she took no notice. She thought him a terrible bore that evening; he had spoken to her twice, and each time said the same thing, something about the tableaux. No; there was no conversation in him at all. And to-morrow night too she would have to meet him again; what an enjoyable prospect! Aunt’s box [[7]]was quite a godsend. There stood her husband, in the conservatory, together with some gentlemen, Mr. Verstraeten, Mr. Hovel, Otto and Etienne van Erlevoort, they talking and he listening, his heavy body crushing the leaves of a palm, a somewhat stupid smile playing about his expressionless, good-humoured face. Oh, how he bored her! She thought him insufferable. And what a figure he cut in a dress coat! In his great-coat at all events he had a manly appearance.
Walking towards him she said, “Do say something to somebody, Henk. You look like a fixture in that corner there. Can’t you move? you do appear to enjoy yourself. Your necktie is all on one side.”
He muttered something and fumbled about his neck. She turned away and was soon at her ease in the midst of a noisy little group. Even melancholy Madame van Ryssel, Freddie’s sister, formed one of them. Emilie de Woude was unmarried and bore her thirty-eight years with an enviable grace: her pleasant, animate features charmed all who met her. She was much like her younger brother George, but about her there was something genial—a great contrast to his studied ceremoniousness.
Attracted by her amusing anecdotes, Emilie sat, the central figure in a joyous little group. She was just telling them of her recent fall on a patch of frozen snow, at the feet of a gentleman who had remained motionless, staring at her, instead of helping her to her feet.
“Just fancy my muff on the left, my hat on the right, myself in the centre, and right in front of me a man staring at me with open-mouthed amazement.”
There was the tinkling of a bell; Emilie broke off her story and ran away from her audience. The folding doors were opened, and there was a general rush to the front.
“I can’t see at all,” said Emilie, rising on tiptoe.
“Come here on my chair, miss,” cried a young girl behind her.
“You are a little dear, Toos, really. Will you allow me to pass by, Madame van der Stoor? your daughter has come to my aid.”
Madame van der Stoor, who, under a pseudonym, dabbled much in poetry, moved a step back, with an acrid smile about her lips. She felt a little disgusted at Emilie’s sans-gêne; she herself never [[8]]made an attempt to get a better view, it was not the thing to show an unfashionable interest in the entertainment.
Emilie and Cateau van der Stoor were soon standing on one chair, holding each other’s waists.
“Oh, how pretty!” cried Emilie, and then remained silent in rapt attention. From out of the billows of a foaming sea arose a rough-hewn cross of marble whiteness, round the base of which a fragile fair woman clung in mortal agony, whilst a heaving wave of tulle covered her feet; and with the fierceness of despair her slender fingers grasped the Rock of Ages.
“It is Lili,” was heard here and there.
“How graceful she is, that Lili!” whispered Emilie to Cateau. “But how can she hang there like that? How can she bear it so long?”
“She is surrounded with pillows; but still it must be very tiring,” said Toos. “Of course you can’t see anything of the pillows, miss.”
“Of course not. But it is very nice; I have never seen anything so poetic before.… Say, Toos, I thought you were going to take part?”
“So I am, but only in the last tableau, with Etienne van Erlevoort. I shall have to be going soon to dress.”
Quickly she got down from her chair. The light grew dim, the folding doors were closed. Applause rang throughout the room. But ere long the white vision of surging foam was repeated, and an angel hovered over the cross, and held out her hand to the swooning woman.
Stronger and stronger grew the applause.
“Of course Marie cannot keep a serious face again,” said Emilie, shaking her head. “She will burst out laughing in a moment.”
And really something like a smile seemed to be trembling about the little mouth of the angel, the nervous twitching of the eyebrows contrasting very oddly with the pathetic expression of her features.
Although it was evident enough that the artistes were tired, not one of them being able to remain perfectly motionless, the last tableau was received with enthusiastic cheers. It was encored again and again. The tableau consisted of an allegorical representation of the Five Senses, the parts being taken by the four young girls, attired in rich dresses—cloth of gold, brocade ermine[[9]]—and by Etienne, Frédérique’s youngest brother, who, in the garb of a minstrel, represented the sense of Hearing.
The tableaux were concluded.
It was now two o’clock, and Mr. and Madame Verstraeten received the thanks of their guests as they left them.
“Do you remain to supper with Cateau?” said Madame Verstraeten to Madame van der Stoor; “quite sans cérémonie, you know.”
Madame van der Stoor, however, feared it was too late; she would just wait for her daughter.
The artistes who had doffed their costumes entered the room and were overwhelmed with the thanks of those guests still remaining, while Emilie played a march on the piano. As an intimate friend she stayed to supper with van Raat and Betsy.
“You are coming to-morrow, are you not, Toos? the photographer is coming at two,” said Marie.
“Yes,” said Cateau, “I shall be here.”
Utterly worn out, the artistes flung themselves down in the comfortable chairs in the conservatory, where a dainty little supper was served.
“What was prettiest? What was prettiest?” all cried together
Then there was a general expression of opinion, to the accompaniment of clattering plates and forks, and the jingling of glasses.
CHAPTER II.
It was half-past two when the van Raats returned from the supper to the Nassauplein. At their house all was in darkness. While Henk drew the bolt across the door Betsy thought she would take a look at her sleeping boy, snugly ensconced in his little white cot up-stairs. She took up her candle and went up-stairs, whilst he, laden with papers, walked into the breakfast-room, where the gas was still burning.
Arrived in her dressing-room, she removed her cloak from her shoulders. In the small grate the flame curled upward like the fiery tongue of a dragon. There was something indefinably soothing [[10]]in the atmosphere of the room, something like a warm vapour, mingled with the sweet faint odour of violets. After giving a glance at her child, she sat down with a sigh of fatigue, in an arm-chair. Then the door opened, and Eline, in a dressing-gown of white flannel, her hair falling in thick waves down her back, entered.
“What, Elly, not in bed yet?”
“No, I—have been reading. Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Oh yes, it was very nice. I only wish that Henk had not been such an awful bore. He never said a word, and with his stupid face he sat there fumbling at his watch-chain until he could go and take his hand at whist.”
Then with a somewhat angry movement Betsy kicked her dainty little shoes from her feet.
Eline sighed languidly.
“Did you tell Madame Verstraeten that I was not well?”
“Yes; but you know when I come home at night I like to go to bed. We can talk to-morrow, eh?”
Eline knew that her sister when she returned home at night was always more or less irritable. Still she was tempted to give her a sharp answer, but she felt too unnerved for it. With her lips she lightly touched Betsy’s cheek, and quite unconsciously laid her head on her sister’s shoulder, in a sudden and irresistible longing for tenderness.
“Are you really ill, eh, or——?”
“No. Only a little—lazy. Good-night.”
“Pleasant dreams!”
Eline retired with languid steps. Betsy proceeded to undress.
Arrived in the hall, Eline experienced the uncomfortable feeling of having been an unwelcome visitor to her sister. All the evening, giving herself up entirely to a fit of indolence, she had been in solitude, and now she longed for company. For a moment she stood undecided in the dark corridor, and then carefully feeling her way she descended the stairs and entered the breakfast-room.
Henk, divested of his coat, stood by the mantelpiece in his shirt-sleeves, preparing his grog, by way of night-cap, and the hot fumes of the liquor filled the room.
“Hallo, girl, is that you?” he said, in a jovial tone, whilst in his sleepy blue-gray eyes and about his heavily fair-bearded mouth [[11]]there played a good-humoured smile. “Did you not feel terribly bored, left to yourself all the evening?”
“Yes; just a little. Perhaps you did even more?” she asked with a pleasant smile.
“I? Not at all. The tableaux were very pretty.”
Then with his back leaning against the mantelpiece he began sipping his grog.
“Has the youngster been good?”
“Yes; he has been asleep. Are you not going to bed?”
“I just want to look at the papers. But why are you still up?”
“Oh—just because——” With a languid, graceful movement she stretched her arms, and then twisted her heavy locks into a glossy brown coil. She felt the need to speak to him without constraint, but the words would not come, and not the faintest thought could she conjure up to take shape within her dreamy mind. Gladly would she have burst into tears, not because of any poignant sorrow, but for the mere longing of hearing his deep solacing tones in comforting her. But she could find no words to give expression to her feelings, and again she stretched forth her arms in languid grace.
“Is anything wrong, eh, old girl? Come, tell me what it is.”
With a vacant stare she shook her head. No, there was nothing to tell.
“Come, you can tell me all about it, you know that.”
“Oh—I feel a little miserable.”
“What about?”
Then with a pretty little pout, “Oh—I don’t know. I have been a little nervous all day.”
He laughed—his usual soft, sonorous laugh.
“You and your nerves! Come, sis, cheer up. You are such good company when you are not so melancholy; you must not give yourself over to these fits.” He felt conscious that his eloquence would not hold out to argue the matter further, so with a laugh he concluded, “Will you have a drop of grog, sis?”
“Thank you—yes, just a sip out of your glass.”
She turned to him, and laughing in his fair beard, he raised the steaming glass to her lips. Through the half-closed eyelids he saw a tear glistening, but she kept it back. All at once, with sudden determination, he set down his glass and grasped her hands.
“Come, girl, tell me; there is something—something has occurred [[12]]with Betsy, or—come now, you generally trust me.” And he gave her a reproachful glance with his sleepy, kindly, stupid eyes, like those of a faithful sheep-dog.
Then in a voice broken with sobs, she burst forth in a stream of lamentations, though without apparent cause. It was her heart’s inmost cry for a little tenderness and sympathy. What was her life to her? to whom could she be of the slightest use? Wringing her hands, she walked up and down the room sobbing and lamenting. What would she care did she die within the hour? it was all the same to her—only that aimless, useless existence, without anything to which she could devote her whole soul; that alone was no longer bearable.
Henk contradicted her, feeling certainly somewhat abashed at the scene, which for the rest was but a repetition of so many previous ones. To give a new turn to her thoughts he began to talk about Betsy, and Ben their boy, about himself—he was even about to allude to a future home of her own, but he could not bring it so far. She on her part shook her head like a sulking child, which, not getting what it wants, refuses to take anything else, and with a passionate movement she all at once threw her head on his shoulder, and with an arm round his bull-dog neck, she burst into a fresh torrent of sobs. Thus she went on lamenting in wild and incoherent words, her nerves overstrained by the evening’s solitude and the hours of brooding in her over-heated room. Over and over again she reverted to her aimless life, which she dragged along like a wretched burden, and in her voice there was something like a reproach to him, her brother-in-law. He, confused and deeply touched by the warmth of her embrace, which he certainly could scarcely return with such tenderness, could find nothing to stem that wild torrent of incoherent sentences but a few common-places.
Slowly, softly, like rose-leaves falling gently on the limpid bosom of a summer stream, she let her melancholy broodings glide away on the full low tones of his deep voice.
At length she stopped and heaved a sigh, but her head still rested on his shoulder. Now that she was somewhat calmer, he thought it right to show a little anger at her behaviour. What a folly it was, to be sure! What stupidity! What a fuss to get into about nothing! [[13]]
“No, Henk, really——” she began, and lifted her tear-stained face to his.
“My dear girl, what rubbish you talk about your aimless life, and all that sort of thing. What puts those things into your head? We are all fond of you——” and remembering his unspoken thought of before, he proceeded, “A young girl like you—talking about an aimless——Sis, you are mad!”
Then, as though tickled at the thought, and besides, thinking that the philosophic condition had lasted long enough, he suddenly gave her arm a sharp twist, and pinched her about the pouting lips. Laughingly she resisted; his movement had somewhat restored to her her broken equilibrium.
When a few moments later both went up-stairs together, she could scarcely restrain herself from bursting out in laughter, as he suddenly lifted her up in his arms to carry her, while she, fearing he would stumble, in a voice half beseeching, half commanding, said—
“Come, Henk, let me go; do you hear? Don’t be so foolish! Henk, let go!”
CHAPTER III.
Eline Vere was the younger of the two sisters, darker of hair and eyes, slenderer, with a figure less maturely developed. Her deeply-shaded dark brown eyes, and the ivory pallor of her complexion, together with the languor of some of her movements, gave her somewhat of the dreamy nature of an odalisk of the harem. The beauty with which she had been endowed, she prized like a precious jewel, and indeed she was at times half intoxicated with the glamour of her own fascinations. For several moments at a time she could stand looking at her own image in the glass, her rosy-tipped fingers gently stroking the delicate arch of the eyebrow or the long silken lashes, or arranging the wealth of brown hair about her head, in the wild luxuriance of a gay gitana. Her toilet afforded her endless employment, continuous and earnest meditation, in testing the effects, harmonious or otherwise, of the softened tints of satins, and the warmer colourings of plush, and [[14]]the halo of tulle and gauze, muslin and lace, that surrounded it all. In short, everything about her, from the faint clinging odour of violets, to the shimmer of soft draperies, was full of refined, charming suggestion.
Somewhat dreamy and romantic by nature, there were times when, in a fit of languor, she thought with a certain lingering regret of her childhood, recalling to mind all sorts of memories of those days, and treasuring them up like so many precious relics. It was then that consciously or unconsciously she imparted a fresh colour of sentiment to those faded recollections of days gone by. In this way, the most trivial episode of her childhood became idealized and suffused with a charm of poetry. Betsy, with her practical turn of mind, never missed an opportunity rightly or wrongly to discount anything that bore but the faintest resemblance to idealism; and Eline, in her transient state of half happiness, half melancholy, usually succeeded, after her sister’s practical demonstrations, in distinguishing the actual state of things from the luxuriant fantasies conjured up by her own imagination.
At times her memory went back to her father, a painter, of refined and artistic temperament, elegant, but without the strength of a creative faculty, married whilst but a youth to a woman many years his senior, and by far his superior in strength of will and individuality. To her master hand, his pliant nature readily yielded, for his was a fine-strung temperament which, like the chords of a precious instrument, would have trembled under her rude touch, just as that of Eline sometimes trembled under the touch of her sister. She recalled to mind that father, with his complexion of yellow ivory, and his bloodless transparent fingers, lying down in listless languor, his active brain thinking out some great creation, only to be cast aside after the first few touches of the brush. Her he had often made his confidante, and the trust he placed in her caused her childish nature to regard him with a mixture of affectionate devotion and worshipful reverence, so that in her eyes he assumed the appearance of a poetical, dreamy-eyed, long-haired Rafael. Her mother, on the other hand, had always inspired her with a certain amount of fear, and the remembrance of the disillusionizing trivialities of daily life, with which the figure of her mother became inseparably interwoven, rendered it impossible for Eline to idealize her in her thoughts. [[15]]
She remembered, after the death of her father, at a still early age, but still after many years of half-hearted effort and dismal failures, and after the demise of her mother, felled by a sudden attack of heart disease, spending the days of her early girlhood under the guardianship of a widowed aunt. Old-fashioned, reserved and prim, with saddened regular features, the ruins of a once beautiful woman, she well remembered those two bony hands in perpetual motion over four bright glistening knitting-needles. There she lived, in that big room, in nerveless ease and placid luxury, in a paradise of cosy comfort, amid a wealth of soft draperies and carpets, and all that was pleasing and soothing to the senses.
The two sisters growing up side by side under the same training, under the same surroundings, developed within themselves a somewhat similar mental and moral condition, which, however, as years went by followed the bent of their different temperaments. In Eline, who, of a languid and lymphatic nature, felt the need of tender support, and gentle warmth of affection, and whose nerves, delicate as the petals of a flower, even in their soft, velvet-clad surroundings, were often too rudely handled by the slightest opposition, there developed a kind of timid reserve, which filled her mind with thousands of small tokens of a secret grief. Then when her measure of half-imaginary sorrows was full, it would relieve itself in one overwhelming, foaming wave of tearful passion. In Betsy’s more sanguine nature there grew, nurtured by Eline’s need of support, a desire for domineering, by means of which she could force her whole psychological being into that of her pliant sister, to whom, after the first shock, it always brought a feeling of rest and contentment. But neither Eline’s fear of wounding her fine-strung temperament, nor Betsy’s over-ruling egoism, could ever have led to a tragic crisis, as the sharp contrasts of each character became, in the soft enervating atmosphere of their surroundings, blended and dissolved in one dull tint of neutral gray.
After one or two dances, where Eline’s little white-satined feet had glided along in rhythmical accompaniment to a dazzling harmony of brilliant light and colour, soft strains of melody and dulcet tones of admiration, she received two offers of marriage, each of which she declined. Those two proposals remained still in her [[16]]memory as two easily-gained triumphs, but at times the recollection of the first would call forth a faint sigh from her bosom. It was then that she met Henri van Raat, and ever since she asked herself how it could possibly be that such a mass of stolidity as she called him, with so little resemblance to the hero of her dreams, appealed so strongly to her sympathies, ay, to such an extent that frequently she was overtaken with a sudden, irresistible impulse to be near him. The heroes of her dreams bore some resemblance to the idealized image of her father, to the conceptions of Ouida’s fanciful brain. But they had nothing in common with van Raat, with his sanguine, equable, complacent temperament, his soft sleepy gray-blue eyes, his laboured speech and heavy laugh. And yet in his voice, in his glance, there was something that attracted her, as in his unstudied bonhomie. In all this she found support, so that at times she felt conscious of the vague desire to rest her weary head on his shoulder. And he too felt conscious, with a certain pride, that he was something to her.
But this pride vanished, however, the moment that Betsy came between them. Towards Eline’s sister he felt conscious of such a moral inferiority, that often he was at a loss to reply to her light and airy banter. At such times, she thought it an exquisite pleasure, cruel as it was, to draw him out, and tempt him to say things for which she overwhelmed him with false admiration, only to ridicule them afterwards to his face, which usually had the effect of reducing his sluggish mind to abject confusion. Then she would burst out laughing, and the sound of that full hearty laugh, full of mockery and self-confidence, fired his imagination even more than did the tender feminine charm of Eline’s presence. Hers was the charm of a weeping soft-eyed siren, raising her arms in tempting languor from out of the blue of ocean, only to be again drawn to the depths below with irresistible force; that of Betsy’s, however, was the impetuous witchery of a gay Bacchante, enchaining his senses with tangled vines, or dashing her brimming, foaming cup in his face, and intoxicating him with the wild impetuosity of her joyous nature.
And so it came about—how he could not really say—but one evening in the dim light of late autumn, he as with a sudden impulse asked her to be his wife. It had indeed been a strange evening to him. The one thing he had felt conscious of was that [[17]]he was as though driven to it, as though hypnotized by an indefinable something in Betsy’s eyes; he could not but ask her what he eventually did. She, calm and collected, accepted his offer, taking care to conceal her inward joy at the prospect of having a home—and more especially a dominion of her own—under an outward appearance of calm indifference. She longed for a different atmosphere than that of the staid stuffiness of the big room, with the stately old furniture and dignified surroundings. But when Eline came and offered him her innocent congratulations, he became suddenly aware of such an inward surprise and dissatisfaction with himself that he could find no speech in answer to her sisterly good wishes. And Eline, rudely shaken as she was by this rapid succession of events, shrunk back in sudden terror of Betsy into her melancholy reserve, at the same time making every effort—only resulting in the loss of her own peace of mind—to resist the domineering influence which she had so long allowed her sister to exercise over her mind.
Betsy and Henk had been married a twelvemonth when aunt died. It was then that, urged by her, he had looked out for some occupation, for with his eternally calm good-natured indolence he often bored her much in the same way as a faithful dog, which, ever to be found at his master’s feet, receives many a kick which a less devoted creature would have escaped. He too felt in a vague way that a young fellow, be his income ever so comfortable, ought to do something. However, although he sought, he found nothing, and in the meantime his ardour had considerably cooled down, now that Betsy herself did not longer worry him about it.
And certainly he did not trouble her very much. In the morning he was generally away, taking what exercise he could on horseback, followed by his two gray boarhounds; in the afternoon, yielding to his wife’s requests, he accompanied her on sundry calls, or when relieved of that duty, he visited his club; the evenings being generally spent by him in accompanying his butterfly wife to concerts and theatres, where he did duty much after the fashion of Becky Sharp’s faithful sheep-dog, a burdensome but indispensable adjunct. He adapted himself as well as he could to this much too excited a life; he knew his will was not strong enough to resist that of Betsy, and he found it suited his temperament much better quietly to dress and accompany his wife, than to disturb the domestic [[18]]peace by an intrusion of his own ideas. Then again the few evenings she spent at home afforded him, with his instinctive love of sociability, a certain sensuous dreamy happiness, which in the end did more to win his love than when he beheld his wife beyond his own reach, the most brilliant figure in the grandest ballroom. That only made him peevish and morose. To her, however, the few evenings she spent at home were a terrible bore. The singing of the gas-flame made her drowsy, and from her corner on the sofa she would cast many an angry glance at her husband, as he sat turning the pages of the illustrated paper or lazily sipping his tea. At such a moment she would feel an irresistible impulse to urge him on in heaven’s name to look for some occupation, to which he, astonished at being aroused in such a way from his dolce far niente, would reply in incoherent heavy sentences.
She, however, was at heart very happy. For was it not glorious to be able to spend as much as she chose on her dress? And at the end of the week she would ofttimes remember, with a smile of happiness, that she had not spent a single evening at home.
Eline meanwhile had passed the year in melancholy solitude at Aunt Vere’s. She read much, feeling especially charmed with Ouida’s luxuriant phantasmagory of an idealized life, sparkling with a wealth of colour, and bathed in the golden sunshine of Italian skies, vivid and glowing as a glittering kaleidoscope. She would read and literally devour those pages until, dog-eared and crumpled, they would flutter out of her grasp. Even at her aunt’s sick-bed, where with a certain feeling of romantic satisfaction she sat watching night after night, she would read them, again and again.
In the atmosphere of that sick room, permeated as it was with an ætherealized odour of drugs, the virtues and prowess of the noble heroes, the spotless beauties of the arch-wicked or divinely righteous heroines, became endowed with an irresistible charm of tempting unreality; and Eline often felt a passionate longing to be in one of those old English mansions, where earls and duchesses were engaged in such exquisite love-making, and had such romantic meetings under the moon-lit trees of a grand old park. Aunt died, and Henk and Betsy invited Eline to make their house her home.
At first she refused, overcome by a strange sadness at the thought of the relationship of her brother-in-law to her sister. But with an immense exercise of will power she at length conquered [[19]]those feelings. Had she not always wondered at the mysterious attraction she felt for Henk? And now that he was her sister’s husband, there suddenly arose to her mind such an insurmountable obstacle between them, an obstacle raised by the laws of decency and custom, that she could, without any risk, give herself over to sisterly sympathy, and therefore she thought it very childish to allow the memory of the past, and feelings that she never really had understood, to stand between her and the prospects of a comfortable home.
In addition to this, there was the fact that her guardian uncle, Daniel Vere, who lived in Brussels, and was a bachelor, was too young a man to offer a girl in her teens a home with him.
In the end, Eline waived her objections, and with the stipulation that she should be allowed to contribute a trifle towards her board, took up her abode at her brother-in-law’s. Henk had at first refused to agree to such a condition, but Betsy remarked that she could quite understand it; had she been in Eline’s place she too would have done the same for her own independence’ sake. From the sum settled on her by her parents Eline derived a yearly income of about £160, and by putting into practice the lessons of economy she had been taught by her aunt, she managed to dress as elegantly on that, as did Betsy who always had a well-filled purse at her disposal.
And thus three years of monotonous existence passed by.
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 [[20]]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 [[21]]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. [[22]]
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 [[23]]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 [[24]]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. [[25]]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 [[26]]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 [[27]]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. [[28]]
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 [[29]]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. [[30]]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 [[31]]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 [[32]]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 led there. She suffered much from the cold, and numbered the months she would still have to pass in Holland. She told Emilie of her life at Temanggoeng in the Kadoe—Frans was Comptroller first-class—in the midst of a menagerie of Cochin-China fowls, ducks, pigeons, a cow, two goats, and a cockatoo. “Just like Adam and Eve in Paradise,” remarked Emilie. Then she told them how each morning she used to look after her Persian roses and her pretty azaleas, and gather her vegetables from her own garden, and how her children, immediately on their arrival in Holland, were taken ill and began to cough. “’Tis true, in India they looked rather pale, but there at least they were not obliged to be in constant fear of draughts and open doors.” And she was sorry that, owing to the expense of the voyage, she had had to come away without her baboo, Saripa. She was now in service at Samarang, but she [[33]]had promised to come back to her “as soon as we are home again,” and she was to bring her over some pretty frocks from Holland.
Emilie listened attentively, and did her best to set her talking; she knew how those Indian reminiscences could draw Jeanne out of her usual quiet reserve. Betsy considered her out of place in company, so when she did ask her, it was always together with her husband, and if possible, with one or two others. The fact was, she thought her a bore, generally ill-dressed, and her conversation flat and uninteresting, but still she could not help occasionally inviting her, more with a kind of pity than anything else.
While Frans Ferelyn was speaking to Henk about his forthcoming promotion to Assistant Resident, and Georges was listening to Jeanne telling him about Frans’s horse one day stepping right into their room to fetch his pisang, Betsy lay back in her chair, thinking how long Eline was. She would have liked to have dined early, so as not to be so very late at the opera, and she inwardly hoped that the Ferelyns would not be indiscreet and stay too long. Amusing they certainly were not, she thought, and she rose, concealing her impatience, to fix a bunch of peacock feathers in one of the vases, a few of the knick-knacks on the little centre table; then with her foot she arranged the tiger-skin rug in front of the flaming hearth, all the time feeling annoyed at Eline’s delay.
At length the door opened and Eline entered, and Jeanne could not help noticing how pretty and elegant she looked in her pink rep silk frock, simple but rich, with a neat little bow here and there on her V-shaped corsage, on the short sleeves, and at the waist. In her light-brown, back-combed hair she wore a touffe of wavy pink feathers with a small aigrette; her nimble feet were encased in small pink shoes; a single string of pearls encircled her throat. In her hands she held her long gloves, her fan of pink ostrich feathers, and her binocle set in mother-of-pearl.
Ferelyn and de Woude rose, and she shook hands with them, and kissed Emilie and Jeanne, at the same time inquiring about little Dora. She noticed how all, even Henk and Betsy, took stock of her, from head to foot, struck as they were with the rich simplicity of her dress: and when Jeanne spoke to her about her child, she smiled upon the struggling little woman, all conscious of the effect of her brilliant charms.
At table, Eline chatted pleasantly with de Woude, next to whom [[34]]she was seated. Betsy sat between her two gentlemen guests, Emilie between Henk and Frans, Jeanne between Eline and Henk. In the somewhat sombre dining-room, with its antique furniture, the table glistened with snowy damask, with silver and fine glass, whilst the rays of gas-light glinted on decanters and glasses, making the dark-red or amber-coloured wine appear to quiver under the glow of its radiance. From amid a nest of flowers in a silver basket rose the prickly crown of a splendid pine.
De Woude commenced telling Eline about the soirée at the Verstraetens’, and in glowing terms described how well Miss van Erlevoort had looked her parts, successively as Cleopatra and the sense of Sight. With Emilie, Frans, and Betsy the conversation turned on India. In this Jeanne joined every now and again, but she sat too far away, and her attention was diverted by de Woude’s chattering and the little shrill laugh of Eline, who was engaged in a mild flirtation.
Henk drank his soup and ate his fish in silence, occasionally addressing a short monosyllable to Jeanne or Emilie. And Jeanne grew more and more silent, as much from feeling ill at ease, as from fatigue at her long talk to Emilie after a day full of worries. She felt very much out of place, next to that coquettish couple. Eline in full toilet, de Woude in his evening dress, to which her own little black dress offered a shabby contrast. Still, she was glad she sat next to Henk, and in her own malaise she was conscious of a vague sort of sympathy for him, who was as much out of place there as herself.
And she could not help comparing herself with Eline and Betsy: she, struggling with her three children and her husband’s slender furlough allowance; Eline and Betsy, on the other hand, unhampered, and ever moving in a whirl of pleasures and excitement. Where was the old, happy friendship that united them in one bond, when all three used to go hand-in-hand to school, Eline with the cape of her mackintosh filled with cherries, and she herself under Betsy’s leadership giving free vent to her childish spirits in naughty answers to the governess? She felt herself repelled by that young wife, with her self-conscious, indifferent manner, and her domineering tone towards her husband; repelled also by that young girl, who appeared to her frivolous and vain in her conversation, full of brilliant nothings; and by that dandy. Eline, especially, she could not understand; in her she found something uncommon, something [[35]]indefinable and puzzling, and certain attributes which seemed ever at war with one another. Her laughter about nothing at all wearied her, and she wondered how it was that a girl who, as they said, sang so divinely, could have such an unpleasant and affected laugh. Oh! if they would but be silent for a moment!.… And in her heart she longed to be back once more in her humble apartments, with her little Dora. Why had she accepted that invitation? ’Tis true Frans had insisted, now that the child was out of danger, that she should have some change and relaxation, but this dinner-party gave her no relaxation; on the contrary, it made her nervous and confused, and she declined Henk’s offer of sweetbreads and asparagus which he recommended her.
“Did I hear aright, Miss Emilie; is Mr. de Woude a brother of yours?” Frans asked softly. It was the first time that he had met either Emilie or Georges, and he was as much struck by their resemblance as by the contrast between them.
“Certainly,” whispered Emilie; “and I am proud of him too. He is an awful swell, but a nice boy; he is engaged at the Foreign Office. Be careful, don’t you think bad of him!” she laughed, and held up her finger threateningly, as though she read Ferelyn’s thoughts.
“I have scarcely exchanged more than half a dozen words with Mr. de Woude as yet, so I should be sorry to express any opinion about him so soon,” he said, a little alarmed at Emilie’s brusqueness.
“That’s right; most people get a very different opinion of Georges after they have known him some time, from that formed when they first met him. You see, like a loving sister, I take my brother’s part. Just fill my glass, please.”
“Yes; you champion him even before he is attacked!” resumed Ferelyn smiling, as he filled her glass; “but thus much I can see already, that he is a spoilt pet of the ladies, not only of his sisters, but also of Madame van Raat and Miss Vere.”
Betsy joined in the conversation with Eline and Georges, feeling attracted by the latter’s lively manner, as he chatted away, skimming over all sorts of subjects; a conversation without substance, without actual wit, but light as foam, airy as soap-bubbles, sparkling as firework crackers. In such a conversation she was in her element; serious talk, be it ever so spirited, was too burdensome for her; but this tintinnabulation of sparks and foam-flecks, [[36]]like wine glistening through crystal beakers, charmed her exceedingly. She thought Georges much more amusing than he was yesterday at the Verstraetens’, where he had twice observed that the effect of red light was more flattering than that of green. To-day he did not repeat himself, but rattled on, interrupting her with laughing impudence, and rounding off his sentences with truly French vivacity.
Several times Eline tried to lead Jeanne into that circle of sparkling nothings, but in return Jeanne had only smiled a faint smile, or just answered with a single monosyllable, and at length Eline gave up the attempt to draw her out. The conversation grew more general; Emilie joined in with her easy nonchalance and airy banter; and Frans, in the midst of this charmed circle, could not help throwing in a stray spark of fun, although his eyes frequently rested with an anxious look on his quiet little wife.
To Jeanne it seemed as though the dinner would never come to an end. Although she had not the slightest appetite, she did not like to continue refusing, so she took of the truffled chicken, of the gâteau Henri IV., of the pines, and the choice dessert; her wine, however, she merely touched with her lips. Henk, next her, ate much, and with evident gusto, wondering why she helped herself to such small portions. De Woude ate but little, his continued talking prevented that; but Emilie did her share, and was not sparing with the wine.
It was past eight when they rose, and the ladies retired to the drawing-room. Frans joined Henk and de Woude in a cigar, as Jeanne had expressed her desire to stay another half-hour. Betsy had asked her to do so; she could not let her guests go so soon, and there would be plenty of time for the opera.
“Is Dora often ill, Jeanne?” asked Eline, as with a rustle of her red silk she sat down on the sofa beside her, and took her hand. “Last time I saw her nothing ailed her, and even then I thought she was looking very pale and delicate.”
Jeanne gently withdrew her hand, and felt something like irritation at such a question after the conversation at table. She made but curt reply. But Eline persisted, as though she intended by her present amiability to make good her former neglect; and she managed to impart such a sympathetic tone to her voice, that Jeanne felt quite touched. Jeanne began to express her fears that Doctor Reyer had not examined her little girl as carefully as he [[37]]might; and Eline, whilst sipping her coffee, listened with evident interest to her maternal plaints. Emilie and Betsy had meanwhile gone into the adjoining boudoir, to look at some fashion-plates.
“Poor girl! what a lot of cares and worries you have, and scarcely three months in Holland yet! You only arrived in September, did you not?” asked Eline, as she placed the little china cup on the round table in front of her.
Jeanne was silent; but all at once she rose up, and in her turn grasping Eline’s slender fingers, she remarked, in her longing for affection—
“Eline, you know I have always been pretty straightforward and frank; may I ask you something?”
“Of course you may,” answered Eline, rather surprised.
“Well, then—why we are no longer to each other what we were formerly, when your parents were still living? It is now four years since I married and went to India, and now that we have returned, now when I see you again, all seems so different between yourself and me. I have no acquaintances, and but few relations in the Hague, and I should so much like to keep my old friends to myself.”
“But, Jeanne——”
“Yes; I know you think it foolish of me to talk like that; but at times I feel so terribly depressed with all that flummery and false excitement, I do so long to unburden myself to some dear true friend—for of course I cannot say all I wish to my husband.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, he has enough of his own worries; he is ill, and—peevish.”
“But, Jeanne, I really don’t see what change has come between us.”
“Perhaps it is only my fancy after all. You see, formerly we used to be oftener together, now you move in such a different circle. You go out a good deal, and I—well, you see, we have become much estranged from one another.”
“But considering that we have not seen each other for four years——”
“But we kept up the correspondence.”
“What value is there in three or four letters in the course of a year? Doesn’t it seem natural that one’s ideas change, as one gets older, and is placed in different circumstances? [[38]]Yes; I have had my cares and worries too. First it was dear papa, then Aunt Vere, whom I attended in her illness——”
“Are you happy here? can you get along with Betsy?”
“Oh yes, admirably, or I should not stay with her, of course.” Eline, with her usual reserve, deemed it unnecessary to say more about it.
“You see, there is no need for you to trouble yourself about anything,” Jeanne continued; “things come about just as you wish them; you are free and unfettered, and live only for your pleasures—it is all so different with me.”
“But surely all that does not justify you in saying that we have become estranged from each other. In the first place, I think ‘estranged’ is a most unpleasant word, and secondly, it is not true, whatever word you may use.”
“Oh yes.”
“Oh no. I assure you, Jeanne dear, if I can be of service to you in any way, you will find me quite at your disposal. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, I do, and I thank you very much. But, Eline——”
“Well?”
Several questions rose to Jeanne’s lips. She felt eager to ask her to tell her more about herself, to be more free and open with her; but the studied cordiality of the smile that hovered about the delicate lips, and was reflected in those dreamy, almond eyes, effectually silenced her. And she felt a sudden regret at her frankness towards such a coquette of a girl deftly playing with her fan; it was mere waste of time in talking to her. Why had she allowed herself to yield to the first impulse? for they were entirely unsuited to one another.…
“Well?” Eline repeated, at the same time fearing what the next question might be.
“Another time, when we are alone again!” stammered Jeanne, and she rose, dissatisfied, annoyed with herself, feeling ready to burst into tears, after that unsociable dinner and fruitless conversation. Betsy and Emilie were just leaving the boudoir.
Jeanne thought it was time to be going. The three gentlemen came in, and Henk assisted her with her cloak. With a forced cordiality she took her leave, thanking Betsy for her invitation, and again she shivered with annoyance when Eline kissed her cheeks.
“What an awful bore she is, that Jeanne!” said Betsy, after the [[39]]Ferelyns had gone. “She scarcely opened her mouth. What were you talking about together, Eline?”
“Oh—about Dora, and her husband, nothing else.”
“Poor girl!” said Emilie pityingly. “Come, Georges, just fetch my cloak.”
Mina, however, was just coming in with the ladies’ wraps, and de Woude put on his ulster, whilst Henk rubbed his big hands, well pleased at the prospect of spending the evening at home after a nice dinner. The carriage had already been waiting outside in the thawing snow for the last half-hour, with Dirk the coachman and Herman the footman seated on the box, half smothered in their big fur capes.
“Oh, Frans, never ask me to accept another invitation of the van Raats!” said Jeanne, in an imploring voice, as, on her husband’s arm, she shiveringly went splashing along the muddy streets, while, with her little hands benumbed with cold, she constantly endeavoured to keep her cloak fastened, each time that a gust of wind blew the ends open. “Really I don’t feel at home any more with them, with Betsy and Eline.”
He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. They plodded on with their mud-bespattered shoes, in the flickering light of the street lanterns, whose dull rays were reflected with monotonous regularity in the numerous puddles they had to pass.
The third act of Le Tribut de Zamora had just commenced, when Betsy, Emilie, Eline, and Georges entered their box. There was a full house, and their arrival broke in upon the silence that prevailed in the listening auditorium; there was a rustling of silk and satin; a hundred eyes and opera-glasses were directed to their box, and here and there the question was whispered, “Who are they?”
Emilie and Eline sat down in front, Betsy and Georges behind them, while Eline laid down her fan and her pearl-rimmed binocle. Then she slowly commenced to untie her white plush, red satin-lined cloak, and as a cloud of pink and white it glided from her shoulders, and de Woude folded it over the back of her fauteuil. And in the triumph of her beauty it did her good to see how she was stared at and admired.
“What a number of people there are here this evening! we are [[40]]fortunate,” whispered Emilie. “There’s nothing, I think, so wretched as to see an empty house.”
“You are right!” said Betsy. “Look, there are the Eekhofs, Ange and Léonie, with their mamma. They were at the Verstraetens’ too yesterday; next week they are giving a soirée dansante.” And she nodded to the girls.
“The new baritone from Brussels, Théo Fabrice, sings this evening,” said de Woude to Eline. “You know that since the débuts commenced, two have been dismissed; he makes the third.”
“How terribly long those débuts are this winter!” remarked Eline, in an indifferent tone.
“The tenor robusto was all right from the first, but they say Fabrice is very good too. Look, there he comes.”
The chorus of Ben-Saïd’s odalisques was ended, and the Moorish sovereign entered his palace, leading Xaïma by the hand. But Eline paid little attention; she glanced round the theatre, and gave a friendly nod of recognition as her eyes met those of some acquaintance, and she did not cast another glance in the direction of the stage until Ben-Saïd and his slave were seated under the canopy, and the ballet commenced. That attracted her, and her eyes followed the danseuses, as, gliding along on the tips of their toes, they ranged themselves in groups beneath the Moorish arches, and under the uplifted veils and fans of silver fringe, their forms encased in corsages of glossy satin, and all a-glitter with the spangles on their gauze-like frocks.
“A pretty ballet!” said Emilie, yawning behind her fan, and she leaned back cosily in her fauteuil, somewhat under the generous influence of her choice dinner.
Eline nodded her head, and while at the back of her she could hear Betsy and Georges whispering together, she still followed the clever gyrations of the première danseuse, as with graceful movements she hovered beneath the waving fans of the dancers on the tips of her pointed, satin-clad feet, a dazzling aigrette of diamonds in her hair.
With her dreamy, idealistic nature, Eline was passionately fond of the opera, not only because it afforded her the opportunity of being the object of general admiration, not only because of the music, or that she was anxious to hear one or another aria sung by some celebrated prima donna, but also because of the intricate, romantic-coloured plot, the somewhat rudely-painted melodramatic [[41]]effects, full of hatred and love and revenge, the conventionality of which did not trouble her, and in which she did not even look for any truth. There was no need for her to forget for one moment that they were but actors and actresses whom she saw before her, and not knights and noble ladies; that she was seated in a crowded, brilliantly illumined theatre, looking at painted scenes, and listening to the harmony of a visible orchestra, and not living with hero and heroine through some more or less poetic period of the middle ages; but none the less did she enjoy herself, if the actors did not sing too badly, nor play with too much prosy conventionality.
Betsy, on the other hand, went to the opera with the object only of seeing and being seen; Eline’s intense enjoyment she would have voted childish in the extreme, but Eline enjoyed in secret, for she suspected Betsy’s opinion, and so left her sister in the belief that she, like herself, found no pleasure in the theatre but to see and to be seen by friends and acquaintances.
The ballet was at an end. Ben-Saïd and Xaïma descended from their throne, and he sang the recitative—
“Je m’efforce en vain de te plaire!”
and then the air:
“O Xaïma, daigne m’entendre!
Mon âme est à toi sans retour!”
The new baritone’s voice was full and sonorous, more like that of a basso cantante, and in his song he enveloped it as with a veil of melancholy.
But in his rich Moorish dress he had a heavy appearance; and neither in his attitude nor in his acting did he succeed in imparting even the merest semblance of amorous homage, and he looked at the prima donna, in her dress of cloth of silver, and her long pearl-clad fair hair, with more of threatening rage in his glance than with the humility of a tender devotion.
Eline was not insensible to the shortcomings in his acting; but still, the very contrast between the expression of haughty superiority in his demeanour and the tone of humility in his voice pleased her. She followed every note of the song, and when at the sudden fortissimo of Ben-Saïd’s metallic organ, the actress appeared to tremble with terror, Eline asked herself the question—
“Why is she so frightened, I wonder?—what is the matter? He does not look so bad.” [[42]]
And during the applause that followed the song she glanced round the theatre, when by accident her eye fell upon a group of gentlemen standing just at the entrance to the stalls. She noticed how they stared at her box, and with her graceful languor she was about to draw back a little, when she saw one of them look at her with a smile of recognition. For a moment she looked at him with wide-opened eyes, and in her surprise did not return the salutation, but with a quick movement she turned round, laid her hand on Betsy’s shoulder, and whispered in her ear—
“Just look, Betsy; do you see who is standing there?”
“Where? who?”
“There, in the stalls—Vincent—don’t you see?”
“Vincent!” Betsy repeated, amazed in her turn. “So it is, Vincent!”
They both nodded to Vincent, who laughingly fixed them with his glass, upon which Eline hid her face coquettishly behind her fan.
“Who is it? who is Vincent?” asked Emilie and Georges.
“Vincent Vere, a first cousin,” Betsy answered. “Oh, such a silly boy; nobody ever knows where he is; sometimes you don’t see him for months at a time, then all at once he stands before you again. I had no idea at all that he was at the Hague. Eline, for gracious sake, don’t fidget so with that fan.”
“I don’t want him to stare at me,” said Eline; and with a graceful turn of her shapely arm she held her fan before her face.
“When did you see your cousin last, Madame van Raat?” asked Georges.
“Oh, more than eighteen months ago. I think he was going to London, where he was to be a reporter on a paper, or something of that sort. Fancy, they say he was in the Foreign Legion in Algeria for some time, but I don’t believe it. He has been everywhere, and he never has a sou.”
“Yes; now I remember, I have seen him before,” said Emilie, with a yawn. “A curious customer.”
“Yes, that he is. But you see here, at the Hague, where he has relations, he knows he must be on his best behaviour, so we tolerate his presence.”
“Yes,” remarked Emilie, very philosophically, “you generally find a black sheep like that in every family.” [[43]]
Eline smiled, and slowly closed her fan.
The third act came to an end without her understanding much about the scena with Manoël, but the grand duo between Hermosa and Xaïma afforded her a clue: it was the mutual recognition of mother and daughter after the air—
“Debout, enfants d’Ibérie!”
and the curtain fell amid thunders of applause, and the two actresses were called to the front, and each received her share of bouquets.
“Mr. de Woude, do tell me what the plot is really about?” asked Eline, turning to Georges. “Je n’y vois pas encore clair.”
But Betsy proposed to go into the foyer, and so they rose and left their box. In the foyer, seated on a divan, Georges related to her the plot of the opera, to which Eline listened with more attention than she cared to show. Now she knew why Xaïma shuddered in Ben-Saïd’s presence, and she would have liked to see the auction of maidens in the first act, and the sale of Xaïma as slave in the second.
All at once they observed Vincent, who was coming up the steps of the foyer, and approaching them free and unconcerned, as though he had seen his cousins but yesterday.
“Hallo, Vincent, have you dropped from the clouds again?” exclaimed Eline.
“Hallo, Eline; hallo Betsy! charmed to see you once more. Miss van Bergh and Woude, I think?” and he shook hands with them.
“I admire your memory; I had forgotten you,” answered Emilie.
Betsy introduced them: “Mr. de Woude van Bergh, Mr. Vere.”
“Very pleased. And how are you?”
“A little astonished,” laughed Eline. “I dare say you are off again to-morrow, aren’t you? To Constantinople, or St. Petersburg, or somewhere, I suppose.”
He looked at her, with a smile in his pale blue eyes, like faded china, behind their pince-nez. His features were handsome and regular, rather too handsome for a man, with their finely-chiselled Grecian nose, the small mouth, about which there generally lurked somewhat between a sneer and an audacious smile, lightly shaded by the thin, fair moustache; but the charm of the handsome face was [[44]]completely spoilt by the unhealthy yellowish tint, and the expression of lassitude that was suffused over it. Of slender form and delicate proportions, he looked tasteful in his dark, plain clothes, whilst none could fail to note the smallness of his feet, and the finely-shaped hand, with its slender, white fingers, the hand of an artist, and which reminded Eline very much of her dead father. He sat down beside them, and in a languid voice told Eline that he had arrived at the Hague the previous day, on a business matter. His last employment had been at Malaga, in a wine business; before that he had been engaged in an insurance office in Brussels; previous to that he had for some time been a partner in a carpet manufactory in Smyrna, but the firm failed. Nothing would do. Now he was tired of all that rushing about; he had given proof enough of energy and perseverance, but fate was against him; whatever his hands touched seemed to bring him ill-luck. He expected, however, to obtain a situation in a chemical manufactory in Java, but he must first have some more information. To-morrow morning he hoped to call on van Raat, whom he wanted to see. Upon this Betsy asked whether he was coming to coffee, as van Raat was never at home in the morning, only in the afternoon. He gladly accepted the invitation, and then commenced talking about the opera.
“Fabrice? oh, that is the baritone, is it not? Yes; a nice voice, but an ugly, fat customer.”
“Do you think so? No; I think he shows off very well on the stage,” observed Emilie.
“No, Miss de Woude, you don’t mean that.”
Emilie abided by her opinion, and Eline laughed at their disagreement. The tinkling of the bell warned them that the fourth act was about to commence, and Vincent took his leave, although Georges politely offered him his seat in the box.
“No; thank you very much; I don’t want to rob you of your place, I am comfortable enough in the stall. Au revoir. To-morrow then, eh? Adieu, Betsy, Eline; au plaisir, Miss de Woude; good evening, Mr. de Woude.”
He bowed, pressed Georges’ hand, and slowly went away, lightly swinging his bamboo walking-stick in his hands.
“A strange boy!” said Eline, shaking her head.
“I am continually in fear that he will do something to scandalize us,” Betsy whispered into Emilie’s ears; “but up to now he has [[45]]kept himself quiet enough. Besides, you see I want to be nice and friendly to him, so as not to make him an enemy. I am a little afraid of him, one never can tell what a fellow like that may do, you see.”
“I can’t say he is a prime favourite of mine,” said Emilie, and they rose to return to their seats.
“Come, Emmie, you only say so because he did not say any nice things about Fabrice,” Georges chimed in, in a teasing voice.
Emilie shrugged her shoulders, and they passed into the vestibule.
“Oh, there is no fifth act! I thought there were five acts,” said Eline, with some disappointment, to de Woude, who told her the end of the plot.
The fourth act commenced, and Eline felt much interested in the moonlit garden scene, in Manoël’s cavatina, in his duet with Xaïma, and in the trio with Hermosa; but her interest grew when the Moorish monarch appeared at the gates of his palace, and commanded his guard to seize Manoël, whilst, deaf to his entreaties, he dragged Xaïma away with him, in a sudden burst of passion. The last scene in the opera, where Ben-Saïd is murdered by the mother, who comes to her child’s rescue, affected her much more than she would have cared to confess. In his scenas with the two female characters, the new baritone played with an amount of fire and power which lent the melodrama a glow of poetic truth, and when, fatally wounded, he sank down on the steps of the pavilion, Eline fixed her glasses, and gazed at his dark face, with the black beard and drooping eyes.
The curtain fell, but the four actors were re-called, and Eline saw him once more, bowing to the audience with a calm, indifferent expression, in strong contrast to the beaming smiles of the tenor, the contralto, and the soprano.
The audience rose, the doors of the boxes opened. Georges assisted the ladies with their wraps, and they proceeded through the corridor, and down the steps, until they reached the glass doors, where they waited until their carriage was announced.
“I shouldn’t think that the Tribut is one of Gounod’s best operas; do you, Eline?” asked Emilie, when they were in their carriage. “It is not to be compared with Faust or Romeo and Juliette.” [[46]]
“I don’t think so either,” Eline answered cautiously, afraid to show how much she was affected; “but it is so difficult to judge music on hearing it for the first time. I thought some of the melodies very pretty. But then, you must bear in mind that we only saw half of it.”
“Yes; it’s very nice just to go and see a couple of acts; but to have to sit out a whole opera I think an awful bore, I must admit,” said Betsy yawning.
And Georges hummed the refrain—
“Debout, enfants d’Ibérie.”
The de Woudes were taken home first to the Noordeinde, and Betsy and Eline rode on, snugly ensconced in the satin cushions of the landau, to the Nassauplein. They spoke a little about Vincent, and then both were silent, and Eline let her mind wander musingly to the waltz in Mireille, to her dispute with Betsy that morning, to the group of the Five Senses, to Madame van Raat and de Woude, to her pink dress, and Ben-Saïd.
CHAPTER V.
About a week after the tableaux-vivants, Lili Verstraeten was sitting in the small drawing-room, where the representation had taken place. The room had long since resumed its usual appearance, and in the grate burned a cheerful fire. Outdoors it was cold; there was a bleak wind, and it threatened rain. Marie had gone shopping with Frédérique van Erlevoort, but Lili had preferred to stay at home, and so she settled herself cosily in a big, old-fashioned, tapestry-covered arm-chair. She had taken Victor Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris with her, but she did not wish to force herself to read, if she did not care for it, and the book, in its red calf cover and with gilt edges, lay unopened in her lap. How nice it was to do nothing except dream the time away! how stupid of Marie and Freddie to go out in such wretched weather! What did she care about the weather! let it pour and blow outdoors as much as it liked, indoors it was beautiful; the clouds subdued the light, the low hanging curtains allowed it but [[47]]a modest access. Papa sat reading in the conservatory, where it was lightest; she could just catch a glimpse of his dear gray head, and she noticed how quickly he turned the pages; yes, he was really reading, not like her, who had taken her book just for a make-believe. She never felt ennui, though she did nothing at all; on the contrary, she enjoyed those musing thoughts, rose-leaves wafted along by gentle breezes; soap-bubbles, bright and airy, which she loved to watch, floating on high, and the rose-leaves blew away, the bubbles broke, but she wished neither her rose-leaf to be an ivy plant, clinging closely to her, nor her bubbles to be a captive balloon. Mamma was still up-stairs, ever active—ah! she could not lighten mamma’s work; she would do everything herself, though Marie occasionally helped a little. She inwardly hoped no visitors would come to disturb her in her dolce far niente. How jolly it was! How nice to watch the flame curling and twisting round the live coal! The grate was a miniature hell, the peat-blocks were rocks, and between them there were yawning precipices, all fire and glowing embers—it was like Dante! The souls of the damned hovered about the brinks of the precipices, shuddering at the fiery mass.… And, smiling at the wildness of her own fantasy, she averted her eyes, somewhat dazed with staring into the fire. But a week ago, on that very spot yonder, they had posed before their applauding acquaintances. How different it all looked then! The scenes, the lyres, the cross, and all the rest of the paraphernalia were stowed away in the lumber-room. The dresses were nicely folded up by Dien, and put away in boxes. But it had been a jolly time, what with the consultations beforehand with Paul and Etienne, the rehearsals, and so forth. How they had laughed! what trouble they had taken for the sake of a few moments’ entertainment!
Papa still read on, turning page after page. How the rain beat against the window-panes! how it rushed down the pipe! Yes; Freddie and Marie were out for their enjoyment … how grand it was to be snug and safe from all the wet. And her feet sought the soft warmth of the hearth-rug; her fair head nestled deeper into the cushions of the old chair.
Freddie was to go to a dance that evening. How could she stand it, going out night after night! Yes; she was very fond of it herself—a nice dance, a sociable soirée; but she liked staying at home too; to read, to work, or to—do nothing. But as for ennui, she [[48]]did not know what it was, and her life flowed on like a limpid rivulet. She was so entirely in love with her darling parents; she only hoped things would ever remain as they were; she would not mind being an old maid.… Quasimodo, Esmeralda, Phœbus de Châteaupers—oh, why had she not taken Longfellow with her? she did not care about the Cour des Miracles, but she longed for Evangeline or the Golden Legend—
“My life is little,
Only a cup of water,
But pure and limpid——”
How poetic she was getting! she laughed at herself, and looked out into the garden, where the dripping bare branches were swaying to and fro in the wind. There was a ring at the bell, and light footsteps and laughter echoed through the hall. Freddie and Marie were returning home, they would go up-stairs she supposed; no—they were coming this way, and entered the room, their wet wraps removed, but bringing with them a rush of wind and a chill dampness.
“Well, I never!” cried Marie; “my lady seated by the fire warming herself. That’s right!”
“Would my lady like a pillow for her back?” asked Freddie teasingly.
“Yes; you laugh as much as you like,” murmured Lili with a smile, and she nestled herself more snugly in the chair. “I am warm and jolly here, and my feet are not cold and damp. You go and splash in the mud by yourselves!”
Freddie went to speak to Mr. Verstraeten, and Marie thought she would like a refresher, and she set about making a cup of tea. So the girls sat down; yes, Lili would like a cup of tea too, although she had not been out mud-splashing.
“How dark it is here, Lili! how could you see to read? Why, it’s enough to blind you, peering away in the dark like this!” cried Marie.
“But I have not been reading,” replied Lili, enjoying her dolce far niente.
“My lady has been musing,” mocked Freddie.
“Ah,” said Lili with a smile, “it’s grand, doing nothing at all—just dreaming the time away.”
And they all three burst out laughing at such a confession of [[49]]shameless laziness, when Madame Verstraeten came down, looking for her bunch of keys.
Frédérique said she had to go soon; she was asked to a dance at the Eekhofs’ that evening, and there were one or two things she had to see to yet, and Madame Verstraeten thought Lili much more sensible than Freddie and Marie, who were foolish enough to go shopping in such weather.
Again there was a ring at the bell.
It was Paul, bringing with him such a marked odour of wind and damp, that he was sent out of the room again to wipe his feet better.
“There’s weather!” he sighed, as he sat down.
Madame Verstraeten left the young people to themselves, and sat down beside her husband, who, however, on hearing that Paul had come, rose and walked to the back drawing-room.
“Morning, uncle.”
“Ah! morning, Paul; how are you?—how is your mother?”
“Mother is very well. I lift her reading a book that Eline had sent her.”
“And how is it—have you paid a visit to Hovel yet?”
“No, uncle, not yet.”
“But do so then. Don’t delay too long about it; Hovel wants to make your acquaintance.”
“Paul, it’s four days ago that you said you were going to Hovel,” cried Marie. “How can you be thinking so long about it? It isn’t such a great journey.”
“I intended to go to-morrow.”
“Then go to-morrow, about half-past six. You are sure to find him at home then. I should advise you not to fail,” said Uncle Verstraeten, and in his usually so friendly dark brown eyes there gleamed something like annoyance, when he turned to go back to the conservatory.
“Paul, Paul,” said Frédérique, shaking her head, “how can you be so lazy? You are even lazier than Lili.”
“Oh, to-morrow will be quite time enough,” grumbled Paul, as he finished drinking his cup of tea.
“Yes; but you’re very lazy, all the same. And I tell you frankly that we don’t think it nice of you at all, any of us.”
“Go on, grandmother, give me a good sermon; that’s right.” [[50]]
“Grandmother or no grandmother, that’s my opinion. And you see, I think it’s a great pity that you should be like that; you could do a great deal more if you only had a little energy. Mark my words, now, if you don’t better yourself you will grow just like Henk—a dear good fellow, but good for nothing. You know very well that I am not altogether in love with Betsy, but I can quite understand that she must sometimes feel terribly bored with that brother of yours, doing nothing all day long.”
“Don’t you say anything against Henk now; Henk is a thorough good fellow,” cried Marie. “And besides,” Marie continued, “you have much more ability than Henk; and that’s just why I think that laziness and want of energy are doubly inexcusable in you.”
“Come, Marie,” said Lili, rising, “don’t go firing away like that at Paul, poor boy! You go to Hovel to-morrow, do you hear?” she whispered in his ear; “then it will be all right.”
He laughed, and promised to better himself under the able guidance of the three of them.
“And as I have evidently been placed under the guardianship of my cousins and Miss Erlevoort,” said he good-humouredly, “may I ask if they’ll allow their little protégé another cup of tea?”
The heavy rain had ceased, but the wind still shook the dripping branches.
It was half-past five when the door-bell rang once more.
“Half-past five!” exclaimed Frédérique. “I must go; I ought to have gone long ago; I have some bows to fix on my dress. Oh! I shall look bewitching to-night, all in flot de tulle! Where are my parcels, Marie?”
“There goes the bell; I wonder if there are any visitors,” said Lili.
Frédérique was about to go, when Dien came in to say that Mr. de Woude van Bergh was there.
“What! that unspeakable bore!”
“Oh, he’s not so bad,” said Paul.
“Well, I don’t care; I’m going to close the folding doors. I don’t wish to see him!” she continued, and she was just about to suit the action to the word.
“Come, Lili, don’t be so silly; come this way,” said Marie.
“No, thanks; you go by yourself,” she answered and closed the doors, just as de Woude entered the front drawing-room, where Marie received him. [[51]]
Paul and Frédérique laughed, and took leave of Lili, and all three passed through the dining-room to the hall.
“Good-bye; give my regards to uncle and aunt, and tell uncle that I shall go to Hovel to-morrow for certain,” said Paul.
“Remember me to them also, and tell them I really had to go,” said Freddie.
“All right; much pleasure to-night in your flot de tulle. Boo! how cold it is here in this hall!”
Paul and Freddie left, and Lili returned through the dining-room. And Georges de Woude, what had he come for? No; she could not bear him at all. So affected and formal. How could Paul see anything in him? Paul she thought ever so much nicer and manlier. And how Marie did lecture him! he was a good boy, too; and what if he were a little lazy—he had money, and might just as well enjoy himself a little now; later he could look out for a situation, and he would soon find one, that was certain. Yes; she would tell pa Paul had promised to go to Hovel to-morrow, and he always kept his word.
She sat down once more in the old chair, and poked the fire. She warmed her fingers and rubbed her little hands, soft as satin. Through the closed doors she could hear the sound of voices, amongst which that of Georges prevailed—he seemed to be telling them a long story. She must have a look for one moment, and she rose and cautiously pushed one of the doors aside a little. Yes; that would do; pa and ma she could not see, but Marie she could just see in the face, and of Georges she got a back view. What fun it would be if Marie were to catch sight of her; but no, she appeared to be all attention for that little fop. Lili could just admire his shining white collar, and the tails of his coat—superfine, all of it! There—Marie looked up—there—she just caught sight of her through the crack in the door: “Hallo! bon jour;” she shook her finger at Marie, then she curtseyed and made grimaces, until Marie had to compress her lips, so as not to burst out laughing.
As it was getting dark, Frédérique hurried home to the Voorhout. On arriving, she rushed up the broad staircase. She nearly stumbled over Lientje and Nico, two children of Madame van Ryssel, her eldest sister, who since her divorce from her husband had been living with her four children at Madame van Erlevoort’s. [[52]]
“Miss Frantzen, do look after the children, they will fall!” said Frédérique, out of breath, to the bonne, whom she met on the first landing, searching high and low for the youngsters.
“Do you know where Ernestine and Johan are?” asked Miss Frantzen.
“No; I have only just come home,” answered Frédérique, quite indignant, and she hurried further, flew into her room, threw off her cloak, and with nervous fingers proceeded to open one of the little parcels she had brought with her in her muff and her pockets.
“I shall never be ready!” she muttered, and she drew aside the green damask curtains from her bedstead, disclosing her ball dress, spread out on the bed—a diaphanous cloud of light-blue tulle.
That morning Frédérique’s dress had been sent home from the dressmaker, but she wanted to add a bow here and there herself, although she almost feared to touch it, lest she should tangle the filmy, web-like stuff.
“Oh, what shall I do!” she cried; then a sudden thought seemed to strike her, and she rushed out of the room, and on the landing she cried—
“Tilly, Tilly, Mathilde!”
One of the doors opened, and her sister, Madame van Ryssel, entered in some alarm.
“Freddie, what is the matter? why do you scream so? is the house on fire?”
“No; if it were I shouldn’t call for your help. But do help me a bit, or I shall never be ready.”
“Help you? what with?”
“With my ball-dress. I want to put on a bow or two. It’s so bare at the side, and I bought some ribbon.”
Madame van Ryssel was about to reply, when the door of Madame van Erlevoort’s room opened, and the old lady came out to ask what was the matter. At the same moment a shrill burst of laughter and a sound of children’s voices re-echoed from the landing, there was a loud tripping of little feet, and a girl of seven came half tumbling down the stairs, followed by a lad of six.
“Mamma, mamma!” the child cried, as she jumped down the last steps.
“I say, Tine, Johan, what a noise you are making! What are you doing, you two?” asked Madame van Ryssel severely.
“Jo is always teasing me; Jo wants to tickle me, and he knows I [[53]]can’t bear it,” panted the girl, and she hid herself behind her grandma’s petticoats, whilst Frédérique caught hold of Johan.
“I told you before that I won’t have all that running and noise in the house!” resumed Madame van Ryssel. “I wish you would remember that grandma cannot bear it.”
“Never mind,” said Madame van Erlevoort kindly, “they were only playing; eh, Tine?”
“Look out, do you hear, or I’ll tickle you!” cried Frédérique, and she tickled Johan under his little arms, so that he fell, struggling and crowing, on the floor.
“Mais comme vous les gâtez, toutes les deux! ne les choyez donc pas, quand je suis fâchée. Je perdrai tout mon pouvoir, si vous continuez ainsi!” exclaimed Madame van Ryssel despairingly, as she glanced over the banisters, for down below Madeline and Nikolaas were giving Miss Frantzen a terrible trouble and would not go up-stairs with her.
“Lientje, Nico!” cried Madame van Ryssel in her severest tones.
“Come, Mathilde, do leave the children alone for a moment, and come and look at my dress!” Freddie implored.
“I can’t keep them in order any longer, really,” said Mathilde, with a sigh of despair.
“Make haste, Freddie; we dine rather earlier to-day,” said Madame van Erlevoort.
The street door was being opened; it was Otto and Etienne van Erlevoort who were coming home, and their cheerful voices mingled with the laughter and screams of the children, the chiding tones of Miss Frantzen, and the barking of Hector, Otto’s dog.
“Come, Mathilde, do just have a look at my dress,” Freddie pleaded, in coaxing tones.
Mathilde thought it best to give up all attempts at exerting her maternal influence in that Babel of confusion, and yielded to Frédérique’s coaxing.
“Really, I mean it, I have no more control over them——”
“Come, children, don’t fight any more now; be good!” said Madame van Erlevoort to Ernestine and Johan. “Come with us down-stairs, ’tis enough to freeze you here.”
Madame van Erlevoort had always been used to excitement and hubbub, and it never seemed to upset her. Herself mother of seven children, she had always been surrounded by noisy laughter, [[54]]turmoil and excitement, and she could not have understood how a large family could have existed in any atmosphere that was calmer than her own. From the first, her house had been filled with the shrill voices, the boisterous laughter, and the continual running to and fro of her children, until they grew up, in all the joyful freshness of their youthful spirits. Then with the death of her husband, Théodore Otto, Baron van Erlevoort ter Horze, member of the Second Chamber of the States General, commenced a period of unwonted calm and peacefulness, which grew even more so when her four children, one after another, left her house and got married. The first to go was Théodore, the eldest, who now managed their estates in Gelderland, and who, in the midst of his numerous family, lived at the Huis ter Horze the life of a gentleman-farmer and of a youthful patriarch combined. He was followed by her third daughter, Mathilde, whose brief married life had been very unhappy; after her, the two eldest girls, Cathérine and Suzanne, left their mother’s home, the former married to an English banker, Mr. Percy Howard, living in London, the other to Jonkheer Arnold van Stralenburg, Recorder at the Court of Justice at Zwolle.
Thus Madame van Erlevoort was left with her two sons, Otto, assistant clerk at the Ministry of the Interior, Etienne, studying for the bar at Leiden, and her youngest child, Frédérique; and without the novel charm and refreshing emotions of her grandmothership, the comparative calm by which she was surrounded would certainly have made her ill with ennui, used as she was to the tripping of light feet and the song and laughter of clear young voices.
A few years after her marriage, Mathilde with four children returned to Madame van Erlevoort, the children being assigned to her on her divorce from her husband. Since then, van Ryssel had been living abroad, and little more was heard of him.
Madame van Erlevoort sympathized deeply with her daughter, who had so long and with such dignity sustained her part of neglected and misjudged wife, and she received her with the greatest love, inwardly happy in the new, fresh-budding life which the four grandchildren had brought into her house. She spoilt them all, as she had never spoilt her own children. Try what she would to be cross with them, their wildest pranks failed to provoke her anger, whilst Mathilde they often drove to desperation, for [[55]]she feared what would become of them with so much indulgence. She begged Madame van Erlevoort not to oppose her when she meted out some well-deserved punishment; Madame van Erlevoort promised readily enough, but as quickly forgot her promise on the first opportunity; whilst Frédérique, herself a spoilt child, always thought Mathilde right in her complaints, but for the rest did little to encourage a firm discipline. It was only from Otto that Mathilde could now and then expect a little support, and accordingly it was for Uncle Ot alone that the four young rascals had any respect. With his mother’s kindliness of disposition he combined his father’s common sense and practical nature, and in the unruffled calm of his demeanour he appeared older than he really was; but over his manly features there lay such a charming geniality, there was so much that was sympathetic and trustful in his bright dark eyes, that his earnestness and his sound sense attracted rather than appeared too severe in a young man of eight-and-twenty. Etienne, on the other hand, was all gaiety and thoughtlessness, and his mother’s idol, in fact her nature seemed to bask in the glow and sunshine of his character. Frédérique loved both her brothers passionately, but Otto she was fond of nicknaming papa, whilst with Etienne she would romp about much as Lientje did with Nico, and Tina with Johan.
Madame van Erlevoort wished to dine a little earlier that day, intending to have her siesta before going to dress. In the evening she was going with Freddie and her two sons to the ball at the Eekhofs’, whilst Madame van Ryssel stayed at home, a quiet, saddened young woman, whose smile but faintly lit up her wax-like face, and who lived but for her children.
By Mathilde’s express desire, the four noisy customers always dined in a separate room, with Miss Frantzen. As for Madame van Erlevoort, there was nothing she would have liked better than to have sat at table with the whole batch of them, Miss Frantzen included, not caring one iota whether her damask table-cloths were swimming in gravy, her glass ware broken to bits, or the preserves mauled about by a set of greasy little fingers. Thus Mathilde had been unable to prevent the children, who dined earlier and whose meal was over sooner, from running in one after another into the dining-room, to the despair of Miss Frantzen, whose round face and terrified eyes would then appear at the half-open [[56]]door. This sort of thing Madame van Erlevoort in her kindliness having tolerated once or twice, soon became the rule, and Mathilde was obliged with a sigh to resign herself to the inevitable. As for Etienne and Frédérique, they only helped to make the youngsters noisier than ever. Otto also played with them, and Mathilde with a smile shrugged her shoulders; she could not help it, let things go as they would.
“No, thank you, Otto, nothing more,” said Frédérique, at the dinner-table. “I can never eat when I am going to a ball; you know that.”
“Is it still like that?” asked Otto. “I always thought that it was only very young girls who could not eat at their first entrée into society. Are you still so nervous? Poor girl!”
“Freddie, what have you been doing to your dress? I hope you have not spoilt anything?” asked Madame van Erlevoort, with some anxiety.
“No, ma; I took Mathilde’s advice and did not touch it at all. Ah! you shall see me this evening,” she continued to Otto; “I shall look quite ethereal in my blue tulle—just fit to be blown away, you know. Hallo! there they come, the young Vandals!”
This was meant for the four little van Ryssels, who now came storming into the room, Nico with an ear-splitting trumpet in his mouth. They came to eat their orange with wine and sugar. Madame van Erlevoort took Nico next to her and gave him his plate full of fruit, and ere long the young rascal was sucking away at the luscious morsels, varying the repast with an occasional blare from his trumpet.
Ernestine, Johan, and Etienne were picking their hardest from one dish, and amid loud laughter their forks got jangled one in another, whilst Freddie told Otto who were coming to the Eekhofs’ that evening.
“There are the Hydrechts, Eline Vere, the van Larens, Françoise Oudendyk. Don’t you think Françoise prettier than Marguerite van Laren? Eh, Otto, which of the two are you going to mash? Oh, Nico! my nerves! Nico!”
Tootterootoo, too, went the trumpet.
“Nico, you will drive me crazy with that blaring noise. Put that thing down now, and eat properly. There, it’s all running down your jacket!” cried Mathilde.
“Oh, he is only making a little music; eh, little dot?” said Madame [[57]]van Erlevoort, and she drew her arm round the child, who, without much respect for his grandma, blew his trumpet right into her ear.
After dinner Freddie and Etienne romped about with the children, whilst Madame van Erlevoort retired to her boudoir, and Otto sat down to smoke his cigar beside Mathilde, who took up some embroidery. Rika, the servant, cleared the table, much hampered in the process by Nico, and in fear and trembling for the safety of the tray upon which she had placed the dirty plates and glasses. At last the clock struck eight, and Miss Frantzen came to fetch the children.
“Ciel de mon âme!” cried Frédérique, half smothered on the sofa between Ernestine, Johan, and Lientje, and with an effort she extricated herself from the labyrinth of arms and legs that twined itself about her like an octopus. “I must get up-stairs; Mathilde, will you help me?”
“Yes; I am coming,” answered Mathilde, rising. “And you, children, you be off to bed, quick!”
“No, I won’t; I want to see Aunt Freddie look pretty first,” cried Ernestine, in a little whining voice. “And I want to help auntie, too.”
“Auntie can do without your help, and pretty she always is. Come now, go up-stairs, all of you, with Miss Frantzen; allons, like good children.”
Freddie ran off, and as Madame van Erlevoort was asleep, Mathilde could for once exert her influence, and the four of them were bundled off up the stairs, with an admonition on each step, as Nico wanted to run down again, and Lientje remained sitting on the floor, playing with Hector.
“I am coming directly, Freddie!” cried Mathilde; “as soon as the children are up-stairs.”
Freddie was already in her room, brushing out the wavy masses of her hair. Mathilde was to dress it: she did it so deftly. And she set about arranging everything—her fan, her gloves, her handkerchief, her pale-blue satin shoes. A nervous blush suffused her clear pale face, as she looked at herself in the mirror and smiled, until in each cheek there formed a little dimple. “Yes; it would be all right,” she said. In half an hour Mathilde came back with Martha, the chamber-maid, and Frédérique sat down in front of the glass, in her white under-bodice and blue shoes. [[58]]
“Just as simple and fetching as last time you did it, Tilly,” coaxed Frédérique, as Martha handed her the comb, the curling-tongs, or a hairpin, as they were wanted. “Oh! it’s quite cold here! Do wrap something round my shoulders, Martha!”
Martha wrapt a fur cape about her. With deft fingers, Mathilde had soon completed her task.
“There!” said she, and arranged the frizzy fringe in front. “Simple, tasteful, and fetching—are you satisfied?”
Frédérique looked at herself, and with the tips of her fingers she just touched her hair.
“Rather!” she said. “And now—my flot de tulle.”
The fur cape was thrown on the floor, and Martha arranged the confused mass of garments which were spread about the room. Mathilde lifted up the cloud of delicate azure, and light as a sigh she let it glide about Freddie’s shoulders.
“There’s something fairy, something naiad-like about me!” said Freddie, raising her arms, and Tilly and Martha knelt down and drew open the folds of silky gauze. “La, la, la——” and Freddie’s little feet kept time to the tune she hummed.
“Freddie, Freddie, do be quiet now! Martha, a pin; here, that bow is undone.”
“How do I look, Martha?”
“Sweetly pretty, miss.”
“Doesn’t it look bare at the side, Tilly?”
“Oh, dear, no; ’tis all bows and ribbons. Come, Freddie, do sit still a moment, now.”
All at once the door opened slowly, with a creaking sound.
“What now?” cried Mathilde impatiently, and her anger rose when she caught sight of Ernestine, shivering in her white nightgown, making her appearance behind the door, a little frightened, but with an elf-like impudence.
“Oh, ma, I want so much——”
“But, Tine, ’tis enough to get your death of cold, running about like that! I don’t know how you can be so disobedient.”
“Get into my bed, Tine, quick; but mind my bodice!” cried Freddie. “Never mind, Tilly, let her alone,” she whispered.
Tine crept into the bed, and nestled herself like a dove in the blankets, and her little fingers passed over the blue satin of Frédérique’s corsage, which was lying on the pillow.
Mathilde shrugged her shoulders with a sigh, resigned as usual, [[59]]but the bodice she took away. Madame van Erlevoort appeared in the open door, rustling in silk moiré.
“Oh, how nice mamma is looking!” cried Frédérique excitedly; “you will see, Tilly, I shall be the last again to be ready. Make haste a bit, do!”
Mathilde laced in the satin bodice, and Madame van Erlevoort smiled in admiration at her airy Undine. But what was that shuffling sound behind her? Looking round, she caught sight of Johan and Lientje, both numbed with cold, and in their nightgowns.
“No; this is really too bad. ’Tis enough to drive one mad,” cried Mathilde, and she left Frédérique standing with her bodice half-laced, and rushed away to the young rascals. “How can you be so naughty, all of you, and worry ma so! To-morrow you will all be ill. Come, up-stairs at once!”
She spoke with much annoyance, and the children half began to cry; but Madame van Erlevoort came to the rescue.
“Never mind, Mathilde, let them stop a little while.”
“In my bed—get in, quick!” cried Frédérique, laughing her hardest; “but don’t you touch my tulle; hands off there!” and she drew back in fear from the outstretched hands of the little Vandals, who were burning to tumble the filmy gauze, and pull at the long bows.
Mathilde could see well enough for herself that Freddie’s bed was the best place for the children, and so for the thousandth time she gave in, as with a sigh she set about lacing up Freddie’s corsage. Johan and Lientje quickly crawled alongside Tine under the quilt, and with eyes asparkle with life and fun, they all three sat staring at the blue fairy.
“Are you going to put something over all this, auntie?” asked Johan, “or will you keep as you are, naked like that?”
“Go on, you stupid boy!” cried Tine indignantly, and she gave him a push, so that he tumbled over Lientje, and in a few moments Frédérique’s bed was a chaos of woollen blankets, fair curls, pillows, and bare pink legs and arms, all tumbling and wriggling about to the accompaniment of loud screams and yells.
Madame van Erlevoort and Frédérique nearly cried with laughing at the scene, to the great confusion of Mathilde, who, do what she would, could not manage to get the laces tied, and Madame van Erlevoort called Otto and Etienne, who in evening dress and overcoats [[60]]were coming down-stairs, to go in and have a look at the scene.
“Get in here with us, Uncle Eetje; come along, do!” screamed Johan; but Etienne declined the honour; he was much too pretty now to romp about like that.
“You look like a fairy queen, Freddie!” said Otto smiling; “fit to——”
“To be blown away, eh? But, Tilly, aren’t you finished yet with those laces?”
“Well, Freddie, you won’t stand still for one minute.”
At last Tilly was ready, every one was ready, and Madame van Erlevoort went down-stairs, as the carriage had just arrived.
“Now, children, stop in bed, and don’t run about in the cold,” cried Mathilde commandingly, while Frédérique, with Martha’s help, wrapped her sortie about her, Otto took charge of a fan, and Etienne of a glove.
“Come, Freddie, mamma has gone down-stairs long ago,” said Otto, and he beat the fan impatiently on his hand.
“Freddie, haven’t you forgotten anything?” asked Mathilde.
“I say, where is your other glove, Freddie, or are you only going to wear one?” cried Etienne as loud as he could, to make himself heard above the noise and the din the children were making in the bed.
“Oh! how you are worrying me, all of you!—I have already got it half on, my second glove! Martha, my handkerchief! Thanks; everything right? Yes? Well, good-bye, you pets!”
“Freddie, you have forgotten something!” cried Etienne.
“What is it, then?”
“Your umbrella, here.”
“Silly boy! Mamma is waiting in the carriage, and you delay me with stupidities! Well, good-bye, Tilly! good-bye, dearies! yes, Otto, I am coming.… Good-bye, Tilly, thanks for your assistance. Good-bye, Martha!”
“Much pleasure, miss.”
“Much pleasure, Freddie.”
Freddie went, followed by Otto and Etienne. Ernestine sprang out of the bed, followed by Johan and Lientje.
“Here, children, come here!” cried Mathilde.
She threw some wraps about them, shawls, blankets, whatever she could find. [[61]]
“And where is Miss Frantzen, that you have all come in here like this?” she asked, dissatisfied.
“In her own room, with Nico, ma; Nico is asleep,” said Tine. “Come, ma, don’t be angry,” and she raised her little arms fondly up to her mother.
Mathilde smiled, and allowed herself to be embraced.
“Come away now, all of you, to bed,” she said, somewhat conciliated.
“There’s a state Miss Frédérique’s bed is in,” said Martha, shaking her head; “I can just go and make it all over again, naughty rascals!”
“Good rascals!” cried Lientje.
Mathilde took her up in her arms, and Tine and Johan followed, stumbling as they went over their strange garments, and screaming with laughter at the success of their ruse.
“Hush! hush! or you will wake Nico!”
Miss Frantzen knew nothing about it; she was sitting near Nico’s bedside, with Hector at her feet, and engaged in knitting, and was not a little upset when she saw the caravan approaching. Those naughty children, to slip away slily like that; she was under the firm impression that they were all nicely asleep in the next room!
The three were put to bed, shivering and numbed, but mad with fun, and Miss Frantzen requested them not to talk any more, but to go to sleep.
And Mathilde bent down over the cot of her Nico, lying there with closed eyes in the blankets, the moist lips half open, and the little fair curls straggling over the pillow. Pet of a boy he was!… And the rest too, real darlings, terrible worries to be sure they were, and quite uncontrollable, especially with such helpers as mamma and Freddie. But still, how happy she was that she had them, the four of them.
And she bent down and just touched Nico’s little lips and felt his soft, warm breath on her cheek like a caress, and her tears fell on his forehead, so transparent and white, so soft .… the darling boy.… [[62]]
CHAPTER VI.
Now and then old Madame van Raat came to drink a cup of tea at her son’s, in the Nassauplein; she was brought there in her brougham about half-past six, and was taken home about half-past nine.
This time Betsy was still up-stairs, probably with Ben, as Eline assured the old lady, although she knew that Anna the nurse usually put the child to bed.
She took Madame van Raat into the boudoir, where the soft light of wax candles fell from a small crystal chandelier on the violet plush of the chairs and couches, and was reflected through the many-coloured glass drops in the mirror opposite.
“And Henk?” asked the old lady.
“Oh, he is still dozing,” laughed Eline. “Stay, I’ll just go and call him.”
“No, no; let him be, poor boy!” said Madame van Raat. “Let him sleep, and have a little chat with me, child.”
She took her place on the sofa and looked smilingly at Eline, who sat down on a low settee by her side. Eline took the old lady’s thin, dry hand in hers.
“And how are you? All right? You are looking like a young girl to-day; so smooth I don’t see a single furrow on your forehead.”
Madame van Raat allowed herself, as usual, to be fascinated by that caressing voice, that sunny smile, and sympathetic expression.
“You naughty girl! to make fun of my old age! Elly, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” and she threw her arms round Eline’s neck and kissed her forehead. “And how is it with Betsy? is she not very troublesome?” she whispered.
“Oh—really, Betsy isn’t so bad; she is only a little—a little hasty, just in her way of speaking, you know. All the Veres have hasty tempers, I as well; only papa I never remember to have seen in a temper; but then papa was a man without his equal. Betsy and I get along splendidly. Of course you can’t help a little bickering now and then, if you are always together like that; I think if I even lived with you that could not be helped.”
“Well, I wish you would come and try it.”
“Come, I should be much too troublesome to you. Now you [[63]]think me very nice, because you don’t see me very often; but if you were to see me every day——” and she laughed lightly.
“Did you ever see such a girl? Just as if I had a temper!”
“Oh no, I didn’t mean that; but really, au fond, Betsy is an affectionate girl, and I assure you Henk has a charming wife in her.”
“Maybe; but—but if I had had the choice, I think I know whom I should have chosen for my son’s wife, Betsy, or—somebody else.” She laid her hand on Eline’s head and gave the girl a look full of meaning, a faint, sad smile about the pinched mouth.
Eline felt a little frightened. Madame van Raat’s words called to mind her own old thoughts; thoughts long passed and nearly forgotten, in which she had felt that sudden longing for Henk, the vague desire to lean on him for support. Ah, those thoughts! they seemed so far off and hazy, as though they were but mere ghosts and shadows of thoughts. They had lost all charm, they even assumed something grotesque, that all but made her smile.
“Oh, my dear madam,” she murmured, with her rippling laugh, “who knows how unhappy he would have been then, whilst now—he is a little under the slipper, ’tis true, but Betsy has rather small feet.”
“Hush—hush!” whispered Madame van Raat, “there’s some one coming.”
It was Henk, who opened the door of the boudoir, and was surprised to find it so late. Eline laughed at him, and asked him if he had had sweet dreams.
“You eat too much, that’s it that makes you so lazy in the evening. You should see what a lot he eats!”
“There, mother, do you hear how your son is talked to in his own house, even by his little sis-in-law? Oh, you don’t know what a troublesome child it is!”
“You had better not say any more about that; your ma won’t hear anything against me, not even from her beloved Henk—eh? Just you dare to say that I am wrong!”
She looked at the old lady with so much childlike freshness in her bright eyes, and in her bearing, and such a warm glow of sympathy seemed all at once to emanate from her whole being, that Madame van Raat could no longer restrain herself from embracing her.
“You are a dear,” she said, happy in the genial warmth of the affection of old age for the bright sun of youth. [[64]]
Betsy, when she came down, apologized for having been detained so long, and asked if mamma would not rather drink tea in the drawing-room—there was more room there.
“Paul was coming too, later on,” said Madame van Raat, as Eline placed a marble footstool under her feet. “Then you must have a little music together, Elly, will you?”
“Yes—with pleasure.”
Madame van Raat brought out her glasses and her crochet-work, while Betsy sat down in front of the tea-tray, glittering with silver and china. She talked about all the doings of the day; of the ball at the Eekhofs’ the other night, which she had enjoyed very much.
“And you as well, Elly?” asked the old lady.
“Yes, first-rate. I had a splendid dance, and the cotillon was very, very jolly.”
“And you, Henk?”
“Oh, Henk!”
Betsy and Eline both laughed. Eline exclaimed that he was much too stout to dance; a minuet he might perhaps do very nicely, and of course she was aware that was coming into fashion again. Madame van Raat joined in the laughter, and Henk, quite unconcerned, sat drinking his tea, when there was a ring at the bell, and Paul entered.
He told them that he had just come from the Prince-gracht, from Hovel’s; he wanted to call on him last night, but he had met Vincent Vere in the Hoogstraat, and so he had postponed his visit to go and drink a glass of wine in Vincent’s lodgings, with a few acquaintances. Hovel he thought a very nice man indeed, and he had arranged to begin his work at his office the following Monday.
Madame van Raat involuntarily heaved a sigh of gratitude that the long-talked-about visit had at last been paid. The last time she had seen her brother-in-law, Verstraeten, she thought she could detect something like annoyance when he spoke of Paul, and in matters relating to her youngest son she depended a good deal on the aid of Verstraeten, who had been Paul’s guardian during his minority.
As she heard Paul speaking, Betsy felt as though there was something very incongruous about the way Henk “fooled” away his time with his horse and his dogs. But what was she to do? she had [[65]]spoken to him so repeatedly, and certainly the present moment, with Madame van Raat there, was hardly the time to mention it.
“Come, Paul,” Eline cried, all at once, “shall we sing something?”
Paul expressed his readiness; he rose; Eline sat down at the piano. Every Thursday they practised duos together, and she already prided herself on her répertoire. Paul had never had a lesson, and hardly knew how to play; but Eline gave him a hint now and then, which he followed faithfully, and she asserted that whatever he might be able to do with his voice, he owed to her. He opened his mouth properly and kept his tongue down, but really he ought to take some lessons of Roberts. A fellow couldn’t be expected to sing without some study.
“What shall we have? Une Nuit à Venise?”
“Right you are, Une Nuit à Venise.”
She opened a music portfolio, bound in red leather, with “Eline Vere” in golden letters on the cover.
“But don’t bring out your high sol so loud here,” said she. “Take it in your medium register, and not from the chest. It will sound much sweeter. And begin very softly, swelling here and there; and keep in good time with me towards the end—the refrain, you know. Now, nicely, Paul.”
She played the prelude to Lucantoni’s duet, whilst Paul gave a little cough to clear his voice, and both commenced together, very softly—
“Ah viens la nuit est belle!
Viens, le ciel est d’azur!”
His light tenor sounded a little shaky, but still it went very well with the resonant ring of her pure soprano. It was a pleasure to her to sing together like that, when Paul was in voice, and would listen to advice. It seemed to her as though she sang with more feeling when another voice accompanied hers, and that she felt more, especially in the repetition of such a phrase as—
“Laisse moi dans tes yeux,
Voir le reflet des cieux!”
words into which she infused something of the glow and languor of an Italian’s love. To her mind the duet assumed a more dramatic form. In her imagination she saw herself, with Paul as tenor, [[66]]gliding along in the radiant moonbeams in a gondola on a Venetian canal. To her mind’s eye she saw herself in the rich dress of a young patrician, Paul in the garb of a poor fisherman, and they loved each other, and half-dreaming, half-singing, they went gliding along the water—
“Devant Dieu même
Dire; Je t’aime
Dans un dernier soupir.”
There was the refrain! She feared—ah, she feared that Paul would break down. No; Paul kept time with her. That was splendid! and their voices died away in unison—
“Dans un dernier soupir.”
“Lovely, lovely, Eline!” cried Madame van Raat, who had been listening attentively.
“You are in good voice,” said Betsy.
“Now you must sing by yourself, Eline,” cried Paul, pleased with his success.
While the duet was being sung, Mina had come in with the papers, the Vaderland and the Dagblad, and Henk was soon absorbed in them, turning over the sheets as noiselessly as possible.
“But, Paul, don’t you want to sing any more?” asked Eline. “Something else; or are you tired?”
“I had rather you sang alone, Eline.”
“Oh no, if you aren’t tired, I should like another duet Really, I think it’s splendid to sing together like that. Would you venture the grand duo in Romeo?”
“Really, Eline, I don’t know it very well yet, and it is so difficult.”
“Oh, you knew it well enough the other day; if only you will sing soft and low, and not force your notes. There—you see, the whole of this passage with your medium register; don’t shout, whatever you do.”
With an anxious look he asked her for a little more advice about the piece, and she told him what to do.
“Come now, will you venture? But don’t shout; that’s frightful, and—if we do break down, what of it?”
“Well, if you like to try, I don’t mind.”
Eline’s face glowed with pleasure, and she played the soft prelude to the grand duo in the fourth act. [[67]]
“Va! je t’ai pardonné, Tybalt voulait ta mort!”
she sang, with splendid delivery, and Paul answered with his recitative; then together they warbled—
“Nuit d’hyménée, o, douce nuit d’amour!”
Once more the dramatic form of the duo rose before her: Juliette’s departure; Romeo, in his brilliant dress, lying on the cushions at her feet. And it was no longer Paul, but Fabrice, the new baritone, who was the Romeo, and she let her head rest on his shoulder—
“Sous tes baisers de flamme
Le ciel rayonne en moi!”
Paul’s voice was growing very shaky and uncertain, but Eline scarcely heard it. To her imagination it was Fabrice, with his deep voice, who sang; and her song sounded full and ringing, quite forgetful as she was that she entirely eclipsed the tenor.
There—there was the warbling of the lark at daybreak, as in alarm she asked—
“Qu’as tu donc—Roméo?”
“Ecoute, o Juliette!”
replied Paul in firmer tones, after his rest.
But to her it was not the voice of the lark, but the soft tones of the nightingale; not the first rays of the morning sun, but the silvery gleam of moonlight, and still it was Fabrice, and still the orchestra resounded in the chords she struck on her piano, as, without speaking, they sank in each other’s arms. At times, in the brief intervals, the stern reality dispelled Eline’s vision, and no longer was it the stage and Fabrice she beheld, but Paul, turning the pages. But again she revelled in the luxury of her fancies; Juliette saw the danger of Romeo’s prolonged stay, she urged him to go, and he answered—
“Ah! reste encore, reste dans mes bras enlacés!
Un jour il sera doux, à notre amour fidèle!
De se ressouvenir de ces douleurs passés!”
This was a passage in which Paul’s lyrical weakness appeared most; and Eline, awakening out of her reverie, heard smilingly with what melancholy he repeated it. She felt ashamed at having eclipsed him in her ecstasy; she would be more careful.
And she sang the finale less with overpowering despair than with [[68]]soft languor, so that Paul’s high chest-notes made better effect than at first; but the vision was gone, the stage, the audience, Fabrice, all had vanished.
“Adieu, ma Juliette!”
sang Paul; and she answered, with a light cry, in which he joined—
“Toujours à toi!”
“Oh, how grand to sing like that!” cried Eline in ecstasy, and she rushed to Madame van Raat, and embraced her with sudden impetuosity. “Doesn’t Paul sing nicely, eh? Isn’t it a shame that he will take no lessons? You ought to make him.”
But Paul declared that Eline gave him lessons enough, and that she would be the death of him with her difficult duos; but Eline again assured him that he had acquitted himself splendidly.
Betsy gave a sigh of relief after the stormy parting of the Veronese lovers, which under the low ceiling and plush draperies of her drawing-room had sounded much too heavy and loud in her ears. To her thinking it was a terrible hullabaloo! Why didn’t Eline rather sing something light and jolly from one or another opéra bouffe?
Eline and Paul having sat down, the conversation grew more general about the on dits of the day, the busy stir in the streets before St. Nicholas’, until it struck half-past nine, when Mina came to say that the carriage was there.
“’Tis time for me,” said Madame van Raat, slowly rising from her seat; and Eline ran away, humming as she went, to fetch her things from the boudoir, a fur circular, a woollen shawl, a cape. She let herself be snugly muffled up by her young favourite, and carefully placed her glasses and the crochet-work in her reticule. Then she kissed them all, bending over them with the slow movements of tired old age, and Henk and Paul assisted her into the soft satin cushions of the brougham.
The carriage rolled away; and in Madame van Raat’s ears there still resounded the echo of singing voices; she smiled sadly as she wiped the vapour from the window to look outside where the snow was lying, dirty and bespattered in the light of the street lanterns, and thought of the time when she used to go to the opera with her husband. [[69]]
Paul stayed a little longer; and then, after a good glass of wine after his duos, he hurried off. When he had gone Eline went up-stairs to put the room in order a little, as she told Betsy. It was chilly in Eline’s sitting-room, but the cool air was refreshing to her cheeks and hands, heated by the faint atmosphere of the drawing-room. She threw herself on the Persian cushions, raised her hand, and stroked the leaves of the azalea. And she smiled, whilst her eyes grew large in a dreamy stare as her thoughts flew back once more to Fabrice with his beard and his splendid voice. What a pity that Betsy did not care more for the opera! They went but very rarely, and yet she was so passionately fond of it. Yes; she would give Madame Verstraeten to understand, in a genteel way of course, that she would not mind being invited now and then to accompany her; Mr. Verstraeten never went himself, and Madame generally invited some one or another to a place in her box, sometimes Freddie, sometimes Paul—why not her?
All at once she jumped up as a thought suddenly struck her; last night Fabrice had appeared in William Tell. She ran out of her room and leant over the banisters of the stairs.
“Mina, Mina!” she cried.
“Yes, miss,” answered Mina, who was just passing along the hall with a tray full of wine-glasses.
“Just bring me the papers, if master and mistress have read them, will you?”
“Yes, miss.”
She went back and threw herself on the sofa again. And she laughed at herself as she felt her heart beating with suspense. The idea! what could it matter to her, after all? There was Mina, coming up the stairs. She brought the Vaderland and the Dagblad.
“If you please, miss.”
“Thank you, Mina,” said Eline indifferently, and languidly she took the papers.
But scarcely had the servant closed the door behind her when she opened the Vaderland, and with sparkling eyes began to look for the art and literature column. Then she read:
“THE FRENCH OPERA.
“After his performances in Hamlet and Le Tribut de Zamora, no one could doubt that Mr. Théo Fabrice would find favour in the eyes of the subscribers to the French Opera, and we cannot but [[70]]wonder that there were even three votes recorded against the brilliant baritone. Again, in William Tell, Mr. Fabrice gave ample proof of his fitness to fulfil the post of baritone at the Grand Opera here, and we sincerely rejoice in his appointment. With a powerful and well-cultivated organ, the artist couples great histrionic ability. In the duo with Arnold (Act I.) and in the grand trio, in the scena with Jemmy, Fabrice gave striking evidence of a perfection rarely to be met with on our stage.”
And Eline smiled and nodded approvingly. It was true enough—and she read the article to the end, rejoicing in his success; and then she turned to see what the Dagblad said about him.
CHAPTER VII.
The Ferelyns occupied the upper part of a small house over a grocer’s shop in the Hugo de Grootstraat. There they lived in a cramped, depressing atmosphere of economy; Frans had had but little left him by his parents, and he was therefore compelled with his wife to live on small salary while on furlough. They settled in the Hague, the city in which both of them had lived since their childhood, where they had first met one another, where they had expected still to find their former friends and their old associations, although Frans had expressed the opinion that they would do better to make their stay in a smaller town. But Jeanne’s father, Mr. van Tholen, was also living in the Hague on his pension, leading a solitary life, little visited by his friends, and gradually forsaken by his children, as they married or went into situations. It was therefor that Jeanne persuaded her husband, notwithstanding their slender purse, to stay in the Hague. She would be economical, she promised, and she kept her word, although by nature she was not much inclined that way.
So they remained in the Hague, in spite of many disappointments. In the four years that they had not seen each other, Jeanne found her father much aged, more discontented and irritable than she had known him before. The days of yore were past and gone, [[71]]thought she: her happy youth in the old, sunny home, with her mother and her brothers and sisters; her innocent pranks with school-mates; her girlish dreams under the lilac and jasmine in their garden; her engagement days, full of ideal fantasies, with Frans. The souvenirs which she had hoped to find in Holland were scattered far and wide like shrivelled leaves, and much as she had longed in the burning Indies for the damp and fog of her fatherland, she now, bowed down under her disappointments and under her forced economy, looked forward to a return to that matter-of-fact, easy-going life she had enjoyed in the Kadoe with her cow, her fowls, and her goat. And yet, plucky in spite of the thousand and one little troubles that beset her daily life, she struggled on. Doctor Reyer visited her Dora every other day; but she fancied she saw a nervous haste in the popular young physician which made him count every minute of his visit. He stayed a moment, laid his ear on Dora’s little chest, assured her that her cough was going, impressed upon Jeanne not to allow the child to leave the house, and left in his brougham, whilst he made a note in his pocket-book with his gold-cased pencil, and glanced through the list of his patients. Frans, with his severe headaches and his low fever, he had referred to a physician in Utrecht, to whom he had minutely described the patient’s case; and Frans had gone to Utrecht and returned, much dissatisfied at the vague way in which the physician had spoken to him. Whenever Doctor Reyer came to visit Dora, Frans went out, feeling annoyed with him and his Utrecht physician, who between them had been unable to cure him; and he buried his headaches and his continued cold shiverings in a gruff solitude within the four walls of his little private office on the first floor. Something like a twinge of conscience came over him when he heard Jeanne up-stairs talking to the doctor; and Dora, in her peevish little way, was crying in her efforts to escape the ordeal of examination; but he did not move; all doctors were quacks who could talk very wisely, but could not cure him when one was ill.
Jeanne conducted the doctor down-stairs, talking the while, and Frans in his office heard Reyer ask after him, heard her say something and call the servant to show him out. Then, as the carriage rolled away, she came in.
“Do I disturb you?” she asked, in her soft, subdued voice. [[72]]
“No, certainly not; why?”
“Why did you not come up-stairs for a moment, Frans? Reyer asked after you.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“What is the use?” he said with irritation. “They send you to their Leiden or Utrecht celebrities, who make you pay a tientje[1] for a two minutes’ talk.”
“But what do you want, then? You can’t expect to be cured by magic of a complaint from which you have suffered for the last two years. I think you ought to do more for your health than you have done in the three months we have been here. You have come to Europe for that purpose, have you not?”
“Certainly; but first I must find some one in whom I can place more confidence than Reyer. Reyer is a doctor à la mode, a recommendation of the van Raats, very polite and gentlemanly, but much too superficial and hasty for me. Why, he is gone ere you have seen him.”
“But you don’t speak to him frankly. I ask him about Dora and force him to stay longer, and really, now that he knows us better, he seems to take greater interest in us. And everybody says he is clever; it is not only the van Raats who believe in him.”
“Well, I shall see; there’s plenty of time yet. Sometimes you are just like a drop of water on a stone, continually drip, drip, drip. You are for ever hammering, hammering away at that doctor story,” he cried, impatient and dissatisfied with himself, and he opened his writing-case, as though to give her to understand that he had no more time.
She went, and gently closed the door behind her. Up-stairs in the nursery she found their only servant, a young girl of sixteen, in a dirty apron and unkempt hair, making the beds; while Dora, with the two boys Wim and Fritsje, were playing in the next room.
“I will close the door, then you can air the room, Mietje,” said Jeanne, and she closed the folding doors, and with a smile sat down beside the children, at a table near the window, covered all over with little socks, pinafores, frocks, all to be repaired. Oh! what tiresome, wasteful children they were, to be sure! She sighed, and her small thin hand fumbled about the things, and her eyes filled with tears. Why was she not stronger? how she [[73]]would have enjoyed getting through all her household duties! Now she found it so hard to lift herself out of the listlessness into which she felt herself sinking, as into a yawning abyss; from the lifeless languor which seemed to encircle her as with velvet arms; and yet—there was so much to be done she durst not yield herself up to idle dreaming, nor rake up her old, wide-scattered recollections, like so many burnt-out cinders, and forget herself in her longing for the illusions of former days. Stern reality stared her in the face, in the shape of a great rent in Dora’s woollen frock, and in the washing that was waiting to be counted before being sent to the laundry.
And yet even now, while her hand went fumbling about the little socks and vests, she let herself be drawn deeper and deeper into the soft down of her listlessness; she bestirred herself with no energy to set about her work, and she did not hear the shrill quarrelling voices of the children.
She would so gladly have infused a flood of sunshine, a wealth of harmony into her humble home; but she was no fairy, and she felt herself so weak even now, and already no longer able to withstand life’s small troubles, so that she dared not hope for a much rosier future. Indeed, when she thought of the future at all, it was not without fear and trembling, as a vague terror shaped itself into an indefinable form before her mind’s eye, so dread and awful that she could find no words with which to depict it.
Her head fell on her hand, and now and again a tear dropped on the linen in front of her. Oh! how sweet would be her slumbers, if but the caress of one who loved her might be hers, one in whose affection she would have felt herself safe from all danger! And she thought of her Frans, and how he had asked her to be his in their garden, under the blossoming lilac; and now she worried him, and had become like a drop of water on a stone—drip, drip, drip.
Ah! she knew it; she had not made him happy; she was a great disappointment to him, but it was not her fault if he thought to find more in her than she possessed; a stupid, simple, weak little woman, with a great need of much, very much love and tenderness, and with something of sentimental poesy in her little soul.
And sighing, she raised herself, and told the children not to make so much noise, papa was down-stairs and had a headache.
Then she looked about on the table after her work-basket, but [[74]]she had left it in the sitting-room, and so she ordered Dora, like a big girl, to look after her little brothers for a while. She usually spoke to the child as though she were a grown-up daughter, and Dora often helped her, very pleased that ma found her so useful. And Jeanne went down-stairs to the sitting-room, and began looking for the basket, when Frans came in.
He had heard her coming down-stairs, and wanted to see her for a moment, as a feeling of self-reproach overmastered him. He approached her unawares, softly, on the tips of his slippered feet. He took her gently by the arms.
She felt frightened for a moment, and when she looked up she saw in his eyes that very tenderness for which she longed, and with a little smile in which there almost lurked something like fear, he asked her—
“Are you angry?”
Her eyes suddenly grew moist, and she nestled her head on his shoulder, and laid her arm round his neck, and shook her head.
“Really not?”
Again she shook her head, laughing amid her falling tears, and she closed her weeping eyes and felt his moustache on her lips as he kissed her. How quickly he repented when he had been unkind, and what a luxury it was to forgive him!
“Come, don’t cry then; it wasn’t so bad as all that.”
She gave a sigh of relief and clung closer to him.
“If only you are a little gentle and kind to me—oh, then I feel myself so—so strong, then I feel equal to anything.”
“Darling little woman!”
Again he kissed her, and under the warm love of his lips she forgot the icy cold of the fireless room, which caused her to shiver as she clung to his arms. [[75]]
[1] Dutch gold coin, of the value of ten florins. [↑]
CHAPTER VIII.
It was the fifth of December, and from early morn a mysterious stir and excitement, a joyous whispering, an anxious stowing away from peering eyes, had prevailed all day at the van Erlevoorts.
A little after seven in the evening the Verstraetens arrived; the two cousins, Jan and Karel, who had taken part in the tableaux, accompanied them; then came the van Raats and Eline, followed by old Madame van Raat and Paul; Henk, however, and Jan Verstraeten did not enter the drawing-room, but mysteriously disappeared in a little cupboard where Marie and Lili had already laid a parcel of costumes.
In the large drawing-room Madame van Erlevoort received her guests, who met with a jubilant welcome from the little van Ryssels and from Hector, and neither Mathilde nor Miss Frantzen could succeed in their efforts to stop the ear-splitting noise.
“Now, why did you not bring Ben with you?” Madame van Erlevoort asked Betsy, indignantly.
“Really, madam, Ben is too young; he is only three, you must remember, and it will be so late to-night.”
“He could have ridden home with our Martha. It’s a pity; I had something for him just to suit him,” said Madame van Erlevoort, in a tone of disappointment.
In the opposite drawing-room, where the girls, with Otto, Paul, and Etienne, were talking and laughing, there was a stir, and the young van Ryssels looked up with nervous curiosity. Martha had just come in, and she had smilingly said something to Frédérique.
“Now, children and all good folks,” cried Frédérique, with a dignified face, “silence! Santa Claus has arrived and wants to know if he may enter. Do you agree, mamma?”
They all kept themselves as serious as possible, with many a furtive glance at the little van Ryssels.
Meanwhile, Santa Claus made his appearance in his white gaberdine, and long red cloak bordered with gold lace. His hair and beard were long and white, and on his head he wore a golden mitre. With much dignity he made his entry into the room, leaning on his staff, and his black page behind him, dressed in a costume which those who had witnessed the recent tableaux at the [[76]]Verstraetens’ would probably have recognized. The three women-servants and Willem followed them by way of rear-guard, and remained in the room looking on.
The grown-up people all bowed, with a self-conscious smile, before my lord bishop.
Santa Claus muttered a greeting, and all but stumbling over his immensely long gaberdine, he walked up to the sofa, where old Madame van Raat and Madame Verstraeten were seated, surrounded by Madame van Erlevoort, Mr. Verstraeten, Mathilde, Betsy, and Otto. No one troubled himself to rise from his seat, and Madame van Erlevoort welcomed the illustrious guest with a most familiar smile.
“Why doesn’t grandma get up?” whispered Ernestine wondering, as she raised her delicate intelligent little face to Marie’s. “I thought she would have got up when such an old, strange gentleman came in.”
“Mais, écoute donc, comme elle est fine!” Marie whispered to Eline, who stood next to her.
But Eline did not hear; she stood laughing with Paul and Etienne at Santa Claus, whose gaberdine was certainly coming down, and already quite covered his feet, whilst a streak of fair hair became visible between his gray locks and his mitre.
Now Santa Claus raised his deep, full voice, and as, with an energetic wrench, he pulled up his gaberdine into his girdle, he motioned the little van Ryssels to come to him. They did not feel quite sure of the business, but when Santa Claus took one of the bags from his little servant’s hands, and opening it began to scatter its contents about, the youngsters’ faces grew radiant with joy, they forgot their terror, and one and all they threw themselves, tumbling over Hector, on the floor, to scramble for what they could find—ginger-nuts, figs, nuts, oranges, chocolate.
“Scramble away, scramble away,” Santa Claus cried encouragingly, “we’ve got a lot more; look here! Come, you big boys, don’t you want something too?”
The cousins Verstraeten did not wait for a second invitation, and joined in the scramble.
“Will you save them for me, grandma?” screamed Nico, and poured a torrent of sweet-stuff into his grandma’s lap; “then I’ll go and fetch some more!” [[77]]
“Nico, Nico!” remonstrated Mathilde.
“Never mind,” said Madame van Erlevoort kindly.
Santa Claus and the little page shook out their big sacks, which had been growing limper and limper by degrees, and turned them inside out, as a proof that they were quite empty.
“Oh, now we are going to the dining-room!” cried Ernestine, and she jumped up and clapped her little hands with pleasure.
“Oh yes; to our little tables!” Johan chimed in.
Every one rose, and they followed the Saint and the children to the small drawing-room, and the girls giggled at Santa Claus’s falling wig, but the Saint called out to the servants and Willem—
“Quick, throw open the doors; make haste!”
The folding-doors were opened, and the children stormed into the well-lit room, where, instead of the dining-table, there now stood four small tables; on each of them lay a name in letters of chocolate, on each of them rose a tower of toys.
The Verstraetens and the van Raats whispered to the servants, and their gifts to the youngsters were brought in also, one by one—hoops, whips, balls, tin soldiers, and a cow that gave milk.
Meanwhile Santa Claus and his little slave took their departure, and as it was close upon half-past eight, Mathilde considered it time to stop the fun. But even with Miss Frantzen’s assistance she was not to achieve her object very quickly. The children got muddled in their attempts to collect their toys and dainties; from Ernestine’s pocket a shower of nuts fell on the floor; Johan’s tin soldiers could not be got into their box again, and Lientje with her hoop and Nico with a trumpet rushed along the room followed by Hector, without troubling themselves much more about the rest of their property, which was scattered all around.
“Come, children,” cried Mathilde, “make haste now; ’tis getting bed-time.”
But they heard nothing; the little van Ryssels, mad with joy, ran up and down, scattering about in wildest disorder the toys which the others had gathered together, and Frédérique joined in the fun, and took Nico on her back, whilst he made a horse of her, and struck her on the back with his whip.
The little Verstraetens, too, ran after Tina and Johan, along the marble hall, making a furious stampede with their boots.
Mathilde clasped her hands in despair. No one took any notice of her. Miss Frantzen was assisting the servant with the toys, and [[78]]the young girls were laughing with Paul and Etienne. Fortunately she caught sight of Otto, who was speaking to Betsy and Madame Verstraeten, and she walked towards him and took his hand.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Otto, do help me; the children must really go to bed, and they won’t even listen to me. Mamma is not a bit of help either.”
Madame van Erlevoort, in fact, was at that moment in the other room, very busy filling Lientje’s toy tea-service with milk, water, and sugar, and old Madame van Raat and Mr. Verstraeten stood looking on with much amusement.
“Oh, I see; Otto is to act the bogey man again,” he said good-humouredly.
“No, no bogey man; but really I shall go crazy if you don’t come to my assistance. Did you ever see such uncontrollable creatures as those children of mine, Betsy? Are you coming, Otto?”
Betsy laughed.
“You had better just go and assert your authority as uncle, Mr. van Erlevoort,” said Madame Verstraeten.
Otto accompanied Mathilde, first to Freddie.
“Come, Freddie, Nico must go to bed. Come, Nico, quick; to-morrow you may ride again on auntie’s back. Down, Hector!”
“You have nothing to do with my back, do you hear?” said Freddie; “do you hear, little grandpapa? Come, Niek, little grandpapa says we must leave off.”
Nico obeyed, pouting, as he asked for his trumpet. Otto went into the hall, where he checked the two eldest in their mad race.
“Come, Tine and Jo; mamma wants you to go to bed now. Don’t be disobedient now, or you will make mamma cross.”
“What a lot we’ve got this year, uncle!” cried Ernestine, out of breath.
Mathilde came into the hall, leading Nico and Lientje by the hand.
“Just fancy, there was mamma, quietly playing at tea-parties with Tine,” she said, and her despairing face made Otto smile. “Really if it were midnight, mamma would——”
“Ma, dear, mustn’t we say good-night first to everybody?” screamed Johan.
“No, no!” cried Mathilde, quite terrified, and grasped the little [[79]]hands close; “I shall wish all the people good-night for you. Thank you, Otto.”
She gave him a friendly nod, and he nodded back with his genial smile and his frank eyes.
And Mathilde took the children up-stairs.
“Then you can bear all that noise and turmoil?” asked old Madame van Raat of Madame van Erlevoort, and she looked at her smilingly, but wondering, with her sad, lack-lustre eyes.
There was a sudden calm after the exodus of the children. They left the dining-room, where the toys were still scattered about; the apartment was closed, and the guests went into the double drawing-room, where Madame van Erlevoort poured out tea.
“Can I bear it, madam? I feel myself live again under it; it rejuvenates me. I need the life of youth about me. I never spent a drearier time than when my daughters and my son Théodore were married, and yet I still had three children left me. But I must see those little beings fluttering about me; there is nothing that keeps one in a brighter condition like their wild gaiety. May I pour you out another cup?”
Madame van Raat handed her cup, and envied Madame van Erlevoort her youthful vivacity with her gray hairs. She compared her with herself, and her own melancholy solitude, the effect of which she felt doubly keen, after her former life of cloudless happiness, and her present existence stood out in cruel contrast to the joy-surrounded old age of that happy grandmamma.
“And you don’t know how sorry I am that I see so little of Théodore’s six. The boy is in love with country life, and won’t hear of it when I attempt to persuade him to come and live in the Hague.”
“Your daughter in England has only one child, has she not?” asked Madame Verstraeten and Madame van Stralenburg.
Madame van Erlevoort bent down to Madame Verstraeten, and whispered something mysterious in her ear, whilst in reply to Mr. Verstraeten, who nodded to her smilingly, she archly winked her eye.
Thereupon Madame van Erlevoort related how the little van Ryssels had placed their shoes aside the previous evening, when Henk and Jan Verstraeten came in, both smiling, and Henk with a very red face. Mathilde too came back, and many nice things were related about the children. All at once there was a furious ringing at the house-bell. [[80]]
All eyes turned to the door as it opened. Willem, Truitje, and Rika between them dragged a big box into the room, towards Madame van Erlevoort.
“Oh!” exclaimed Frédérique; “that is the box from London!”
Madame van Erlevoort informed Madame van Raat that every year at St. Nicholas, her son-in-law Howard sent her a big box containing something for everybody. Willem, armed with crowbar and pincers, and assisted by Etienne, removed the screws and nails. Every one was on the watch, and the shower of presents commenced.
Eline made a little heap of her presents. Oh, how she was being spoilt, she declared, radiant with smiles. From Martha’s hand she took another packet; slowly she broke the string, cautiously looking about for a seal, or some stray letter or cipher, to give her a clue to the sender. But she found nothing of the kind, the address ran simply—“Mdlle. E. Vere.” It was a gray leather case; she opened it, wondering who could have sent it. Inside the case, resting on the gray velvet, lay a fan of beautifully-carved mother-of-pearl. She took it up, and slowly opened it; she looked at it in admiration.
“Bucchi!” she softly said, as she read the name of the painter at the bottom; “Bucchi!”
The fan was, in fact, painted by the Italian artist, a fantasy of roses and fairies on a groundwork of ivory satin.
“From whom can this come?” she said. “How splendid!”
Every one rose, every one crowded round Eline, who carefully held the fan open, and the costly gift attracted general admiration. Eline was astonished. From Madame van Raat she had had a scent set, that she knew; from Henk and Betsy——
“Betsy dear, must I thank you for this?” she asked, rising.
Betsy shook her head.
“Parole d’honneur—not me, Eline.”
Of course she had had a bracelet from Betsy and Henk; but who, then, sent this fan?
“Would it be from—Vincent perhaps?” she asked.
“From Vincent? No, no; what put that into your head now? What young man would make such a present? Let me look at it.”
Eline handed her the fan.
“’Tis really magnificent,” said Betsy. [[81]]
Eline shook her head, quite at a loss for a clue. Meanwhile the fan was passed from hand to hand, and Eline carefully scanned every one’s face, but she could gather not the least sign from any of them. But suddenly Frédérique raised her head, with a look of surprise on her face. She quickly recovered herself, and with apparent indifference approached Eline.
“May I see the case one moment?” she asked.
Eline handed her the case, and Frédérique eagerly scrutinized and felt the gray leather and the gray velvet.
“Have you got the slightest idea who could have sent me that?” asked Eline, and she raised her arms in mock despair.
Frédérique shrugged her shoulders, and laid the case down.
“No—I really don’t know,” she said, somewhat coolly, and she looked with some curiosity into Eline’s hazel eyes.
An indefinable antipathy seemed to her to radiate from out of those gazelle-like eyes, and to lie hidden in the mock despair at the unknown giver. She cast not another glance at the universally admired fan, and during the remainder of the evening she was quieter than ever she had been before.
The torrent of presents had ceased. Madame van Erlevoort asked her guests to leave her two terribly disarranged drawing-rooms, full of paper, straw, bran, and rubbish, when Willem once more opened the doors of the dining-room, and the table, ready laid for supper, looked bright and inviting enough.
It was a gay and lively supper-party. Mr. Verstraeten kept Madame van Erlevoort and Betsy, between whom he was seated, amused with his jokes, and Mathilde, next to Betsy, often joined in the laughter. Henk, seated between his mother and his aunt, wanted nothing; whilst Otto and Eline were busily engaged in conversation, and Etienne chattered noisily with Lili and Marie.
“Freddie, how quiet you are, chère amie,” said Paul, as he took possession of a lobster salad, seeking in vain to set his little neighbour, generally animated enough, a-talking. “Didn’t receive enough presents to your liking, perhaps?”
“Quiet? am I quiet? How can you say such a thing?” answered Freddie, and she began to chatter with an overpowering animation, which sounded like an echo of Etienne’s. But still there was something artificial about it; her laugh was not always a hearty one; and every now and then she stole a furtive glance at Eline, as she [[82]]sat there, brilliant in her beauty, in lively chat with Otto. Yes, there was something very fascinating about her, something of a siren’s charm; her beautiful dreamy eyes half closed, as she laughed, while the soft line of her delicate lips faded away in two small dimples. And those beautiful hands, peeping out so white from amid the black lace and the dark red bows of her bodice, and that coquettish-looking diamond, one single brilliant stone, trembling like a drop of crystal in the black tulle round her throat. Yes, Frédérique thought her bewitching; but still, she could not help it, she thought her antipathetic; and almost with anxiety her eyes followed those of Otto, whose glance seemed riveted to the siren.
Meanwhile, however, she continued laughing and talking with Paul, with Etienne, and Lili, and Marie, and old Madame van Raat declared across the table that the family’s arch-elf of fun was thoroughly sustaining her reputation.
The champagne streamed into the glasses, and Mr. Verstraeten drank a toast to the ever-youthful hostess, with her beautiful white hair, and thanked her with a kiss for the jolly evening. Eline and Otto drank together to some toast of which Frédérique could not catch the words, and which she would gladly have given her best present to understand; but still she did not ask.
“Etienne, what a noise you’re making!” she cried, with some impatience, to her brother, who, with all the strength of his lungs, sang something about—
“Buvons jusqu’a à la lie!”
while his glass nearly spilt its contents over Lili’s plate. But when she had said so much, she was sorry for it; why should not others enjoy themselves, if she could not?
The supper was over, the carriages were waiting for the guests, who left one by one, laden with the presents each had received. Mathilde felt tired, and soon went up-stairs, whilst Madame van Erlevoort and Otto were packing the presents together.
“What a state the rooms are in!” said Frédérique, as she kicked a cardboard box aside. Then she approached the table; ah, where was the fan? Eline had taken it away with her. Then she kissed her mother and Otto, playfully rumpled Etienne’s hair, and took her presents up-stairs.
Slowly she undressed herself, so slowly that the chill air made [[83]]her shiver. And as she, trembling with cold, crept under her blankets, she once more saw Eline before her, in all her bewitching grace, in her black lace, smiling at Otto. It all began to whirl before her eyes, like a confused kaleidoscope—Henk, in his dress as Santa Claus, with his falling gaberdine, and Jan Verstraeten as the little page, the box from London, the fan by Bucchi.
CHAPTER IX.
It was a few days after St. Nicholas’ Eve when Eline went out one afternoon, taking little Ben by the hand. The previous evening she had been, together with Madame Verstraeten, Marie, and Lili, to the opera, to see Il Trovatore, and that morning she had asked her old grumbler of a singing-master to accompany her in
“La nuit calme et sereine.”
He shook his head; he did not care for those bravura arias of the Italian school, about which Eline was often at variance with him; she thought Bellini, Donizetti, Verdi most graceful and melodious music, as though written for her ringing soprano. He on the other hand considered them childish with their rippling airy little tunes, and was never tired of dwelling upon the richer depth of Wagner. But she had him completely under her thumb, and he played whatever she wished him to.
“Come, Ben, walk properly, there’s a good child!” said Eline to the sturdy little chap. “Come, keep up with auntie. Isn’t it nice to go into all the nice shops?”
Last evening, when at the opera, during the cavatina of the Comte de Luna, Eline had an idea rising in her mind. In the window of a photographer’s she had noticed some portraits of Fabrice in various characters and dresses, and a sudden desire overtook her to possess one. So now she was on her way to buy one of the portraits. And she smiled to herself as though she enjoyed the secret pleasure of it, as she pictured him with his big heavy frame, his fine head of hair, and his black beard. How glorious to be an actor! [[84]]
From Fabrice her thoughts wandered back to her new fan, which she had used last evening. Betsy thought she had acted very foolishly in taking it with her before she knew the giver, but she had taken no notice of her sister’s objections; on the contrary, she thought there was something fascinating in that uncertainty which had a peculiar attraction for her romantic nature; indeed she had already formed quite a little romance for herself out of the little incident. Fabrice had noticed her in the Verstraetens’ box; he was quite captivated by her; in future it was only to her that he sang, and his heart was filled with disappointment whenever he did not see her at the opera. It was he who had sent her the fan with its modest superscription, “Mdlle. E. Vere”; he had seen her use the fan last night, and one time or other he would be sure to betray himself by a glance or a certain note in his song.
She smiled at her own romancing, at the wildness of her fantasy. She remembered last summer at the picture academy to have seen several fans by Bucchi, and now she also recollected with what admiration she had gazed at them, and how she had expressed the desire to possess one. Who could have had the delicate attention to meet her in that desire? With whom had she been to that exhibition? With Emilie de Woude, with Georges perhaps—surely Georges could not have—or her dancing-master, who had proposed to her, but whom she had refused? Oh! it was too stupid; no, she would think no more about it—one day she would know.
By way of the Parkstraat and the Oranjestraat she had reached the Noordeinde and was close to the picture-shop, when all at once the thought struck her—would not the shopkeeper think it absurd for a young girl to purchase such a portrait? No; she would never summon up courage. But already she stood before the window, behind which masses of engravings, photographs, groups of statuettes in marble and terra-cotta, and numbers of various objects of art were displayed in elegant confusion; actors and actresses, singers and painters, with their names attached: Estelle Desveaux, Moulinat, Théo Fabrice.
“Come, Ben,” she said, and gently pushed the child inside. There were some ladies in the shop, selecting photographs, and they looked at her. She could not help it, but really she thought she blushed under her white tulle fall.
“May I see some of your New Year’s cards, like those in your [[85]]window?” she asked the shopkeeper. “Don’t touch those statuettes, Ben.”
A number of cards were shown her. She looked at them attentively, took them up with the tips of her well-gloved fingers, and laid a few aside. Then she looked round her, noticed a heap of portraits, and with her languid indifference she took them up. Fabrice’s were among them.
Which should she take? This melancholy-looking one in the black velvet costume and lace collar, representing Hamlet; that one as Tell? No, this one, as Ben-Saïd, the character in which she had first seen him. But she would also take that one of Moulinat, the tenor, and of Estelle Desveaux, the contralto; then it would not be remarked that she had come expressly for Fabrice. But then she might just as well take another of Fabrice, as Hamlet.
“Will you let me have these cards, and these four portraits?”
“Shall I send them to you?”
“Oh no, I will take them. How much is it altogether?”
She paid the money, took the envelope in which the shopman had enclosed them, and left the shop with Ben, under the firm impression that the ladies, who were still engaged with the photographs, looked at her as though they would read her inmost thoughts.
A glow of pleasure came over Eline’s face when once she was outside. At last she had summoned up courage to do what she had long determined, and she spoke in a gentle motherly way to Ben. And when, on reaching the Hoogstraat, she saw Jeanne Ferelyn in her winter cloak, wide as a sack, and her modest little black hat, walking on the opposite side without noticing her, she took Ben’s hand, and quickly crossing the street between two carriages, greeted Jeanne with smiling cordiality. They walked on a few steps together, Jeanne telling her that Dora was getting on nicely, but that she had been obliged to engage a nursemaid, as she could not always leave the children to the care of Mietje, who was so slovenly and careless, and that it had somewhat crippled her finances. Eline forced herself to be attentive to the tale of her latest troubles; but soon Jeanne began to speak with more animation about Frans, her father, and Doctor Reyer, with whom she was getting on better now. Then as she saw how sympathetically Eline looked at her, and how gently she spoke to Ben, she raked [[86]]up some of the recollections of her school-days, and they laughed about their childish pranks, and about the cherries she used to pick out of Eline’s cape. Jeanne was annoyed at herself for having formed such an unfavourable impression of Eline when she met her at the van Raats’ dinner-party; now she found her quite unaffected and amiable.
“But don’t let me detain you any longer, Eline,” said she, stopping short; “I have to make a few trifling purchases, order some saucepans, and a milk-jug. Mietje has been breaking some things.”
“Oh! I have nothing to do, I’ll walk with you so far, if you don’t think I’m de trop, and if Ben isn’t tired. Are you tired, little man? No, eh? Oh! he is such a good one at walking!”
They walked on, and Jeanne ordered the saucepans, and Eline went into the china-shop and chose a milk-jug for her. At the same time her mind was still running on Fabrice, and at times she felt an irresistible longing to open the envelope and look at his portraits. She was so passionately fond of music, and Fabrice sang with such pathos, with so much more feeling than other actors. He was still young, she thought; he would yet be famous, and make his début in Paris. Jeanne never went to the opera, and probably had never yet seen him.
Would she, Eline, meet him one day in the street, she wondered? And how would he look, in his everyday clothes? Yes; one morning she would pretend to have an early call to make somewhere, and she would pass by the opera-house. Perhaps there might be a rehearsal, and if so she would probably meet some of the artistes in the neighbourhood of the building. Absorbed in her own thoughts she did not always hear what Jeanne was saying; but she continued to look at her, as she walked by her side, with those sympathetic eyes and that winning smile, which were among Eline’s greatest charms.
Meanwhile they had turned the corner, and on reaching the Hoogewal, she took leave of Jeanne.
“Well, good-bye, I’ll come and look you up soon, Jany; remember me to Ferelyn, do you hear? Come, Ben, shake hands with the lady.”
In her longing after affection, Jeanne felt something like a grateful glow of warmth at the sound of that name Jany; it seemed like an echo of former days, when as a girl every one called her Jany. [[87]]
And she hurried back to the Hugo de Grootstraat, full of high spirits, longing once more to be in her little home, with her husband and her little darlings of children.
Eline smiled to herself as she passed through the Willemspark on her way home. The bare branches over her head glistened with hoar frost, and the frigid air was clear and seemingly full of vague echoes. She felt a strong impulse to give expression to her happiness in that free atmosphere, by an outburst of joyous song. Was she a little smitten then—with that——
No, no, it was too absurd; it was only that he sang well!
CHAPTER X.
The flaming fire cast great, quivering shadows, like dancing, black spectres, on the walls and ceiling of the dark room. Now and then a momentary flash of brightness would hover about an antique silver ewer, or glint along a carved sideboard, which, like a vague dark mass, filled up an angle in the room, or play about a set of old china, or a pair of antique vases over the mantelpiece.
Vincent Vere lay stretched on his sofa, and looked around with half-closed eyes, each time there was a flickering of light over the room. That strange prevailing gloom, penetrated by fitful gleams of ruddy light, made him pleasantly forgetful of his prosaic rooms, where a stray object of vertu of his own was in screaming contrast with the shabby gentility of the furniture. And he lay musing awhile in the Dantesque twilight.
These last few days he had felt very worn and exhausted. A languor seemed to numb his limbs; it was as though it were warm water instead of blood that coursed through his veins; at times a mist seemed to hang before his eyes, so that he could neither act nor think. His eyelids drooped wan and limp over his lack-lustre, light blue eyes; his lower lip hung down heavily, and about his small mouth there was a very pained expression. He had often felt like that, but this time he ascribed it to the atmosphere of the Hague, which well-nigh suffocated him, and he longed for more space and more air, and could not understand why he should have [[88]]gone to a city, which had always had so little attraction for him. Yes, he remembered—through the mist of his exhaustion—he had wished for a span of rest, after all his restless wanderings; but already, notwithstanding his fatigue, he felt a nervous stimulation to action, and an inward spur once more to throw himself into a vortex of change. Rest and monotony had a dulling effect upon him, and in spite of his weakness he felt continually excited to movement and action, and an insatiable longing for an ever-changing horizon. And yet he lacked the energy to devote himself with determination to any kind of labour, whilst his changeable nature constantly drove him onward in a restless search after some surroundings, some sphere or occupation in which he might feel at home, and which he ever failed to find.
The two weeks which he had spent in the Hague seemed to him an age of ennui. The day after he had met Betsy and Eline at the opera, he had been to take coffee at the van Raats’, and had asked Henk to lend him 500 florins; he was daily expecting some money from Brussels, he said, and he would repay him at the very first opportunity. Henk, though he knew him to be exceedingly forgetful in such matters, did not like to refuse, and handed him the amount, and so Vincent lived on, one day allowing the money to run as water through his fingers, the next with parsimonious economy hesitating to spend a dubbeltje, while the drafts from Brussels continued to stay away.
About the future he troubled himself but little; he had ever led a hand-to-mouth existence; he had known days of luxury in Smyrna, and suffered privation in London and Paris; but in whatever circumstances he might have found himself, that feverish desire for change had spurred him on, in continual dissatisfaction with the present; and at that moment, while he was living on his 500 florins, he felt so unnerved that the very burden of his listlessness at times almost made him forget his weakness.
Then he mused on, gazing into the darkness, now and again lit up by the ruddy flames, as they shot forth from the hearth and fell in spectral relief about the gloom-hidden furniture. He mused on, in coldest pessimism. Why should he be other than he was? He would again want money, and he would get it somehow; why not? There was neither good nor evil in the world; everything was as it should be, and the inevitable result of an unbroken [[89]]chain of causes and reasons; everything that was had a right to be; no one could alter that which was, or was to be; no one had a free will; every one was only a different temperament, and no one could act in any way but in accordance with the demands and nature of that temperament, influenced by circumstances and surroundings; that and that alone was truth, yet mankind with its childish idealism, eternally prating about virtue, and provided with a handful of religious poesy, was ever seeking to hide it.
“Great heavens! what a life it is!” he thought, and his fingers wandered about his light brown curls. “The life at least that I am leading now, for a year of it, would kill me, or drive me mad. To-morrow is like to-day, nothing but one blank monotony.”
And he threw himself into an ocean of memories, as he thought of what he had lived through, and scenes in many climes and pictures of various cities rose before his mind.
“And yet, what a struggling, what a toiling for nothing at all,” he muttered, and his eyes closed, whilst swiftly a veil appeared to descend over his memory, and light drops of perspiration formed on his brow. There was a singing in his ears, and suddenly, a vague space, terrible in its extent, unrolled before his closed eyes.
But this state of weakness, bordering almost on a swoon, lasted only a few seconds; and a deep sigh escaped his bosom.
There was a noise of rapid footsteps up the stairs, and a cheerful voice was heard exchanging a word of greeting with the lady in the fancy shop below. He was expecting a few acquaintances that evening.
The door opened.
“The deuce, how dark it is! It looks like hell here, with that terrific fire. Where are you hiding, Vere?” cried Paul van Raat, standing by the open door.
Vincent rose and walked towards him, and grasped Paul by the shoulders.
“Here, old chap, don’t be alarmed. Wait, I’ll light the lamp.”
He sought some matches, lit a couple of old-fashioned lamps on the mantelpiece, and blinked his eyes, dazzled by the sudden light. The Dantesque halo that hung over the room was soon dispelled by the yellow petroleum light, but the bright burning fire still looked sociable, although the antique sideboard with the silver ewer and [[90]]a few Oriental objects of art looked sorely out of place among the old-fashioned furniture in threadbare red Utrecht velvet, and the antique pieces of china seemed like so many misplaced aristocrats among the ugly, cheap engravings and common oleographs which lined the walls.
It was the first time that Paul had entered Vincent’s abode, and he looked admiringly at the ewer and the china plates.
“Yes, they are not bad; the ewer is cracked, but the workmanship is very fine, do you see? I called upon an old Jew dealer to-day; I want to get rid of the things. You see, they only take up the room. He was going to call to-morrow. Or perhaps you would like them? They are to be had.”
“No; my room—or my studio, if you like—is too full already.”
“Well, a few plates more or less——”
“No; thank you.”
“After all, I would rather sell them to the Jew. Perhaps I can manage to best him a bit, and, of course, I should not care to do that to you.”
“Much obliged. And suppose he is too sharp for you?”
“Well, then he must best me, that’s all. It’s always thus in the world, isn’t it? You have had tea, I suppose?”
“Yes—no, thank you; never mind. But, tell me, how long are you going to stay in the Hague?”
They sat down, and Vincent shrugged his shoulders. He really did not know; he had not yet received any information about the situation in the quinine factory in Java; but he heard they would give the preference to a chemist, which he was not. So he would most likely give up the idea; and, besides, he didn’t think the Indian climate would agree with him. In the meantime, staying in the Hague, to find something there, was out of the question. He was already getting tired of the Hague—it was so kleinstättig; every one knew every one else, at least by sight, and everywhere he met the same people, intensely tiresome! He had not yet made up his mind what to do, but he was expecting letters and remittances from Brussels. And he concluded by asking Paul if he could lend him a hundred gulden for a day or two. Paul thought he could manage it, but he could not yet say for certain.
“You would really be doing me a service; shall I hear from you then to-morrow? or do you think me indiscreet?”
“Oh no; not at all. Yes, all right, I shall see to-morrow.” [[91]]
“Well, thanks in advance. You know the two Erlevoorts and de Woude are coming this evening. I have asked them to come and drink a glass of wine,” said Vincent, in an altered tone.
“Yes; I saw them this afternoon at the Witte,” answered Paul.
Vincent leant back against the old red bench, and the lamp-light cast a yellowish reflection on his sallow features, and a care-worn expression formed about his mouth. Paul was struck by Vere’s remarkable resemblance to his uncle Vere, Eline’s father, as he lay back, and raised his arm behind his head, with a gesture such as he had frequently remarked in Eline.
A little later, some time after nine, Georges de Woude van Bergh and Etienne van Erlevoort came, the latter apologizing for his brother, who had been prevented from coming.
Otto felt no sympathy for Vincent, although he had never had any unpleasantness with him whatever; with his own practical, manly character never disturbed in its healthy equilibrium, with his hearty brusquerie, he could cherish no friendship towards a man who, in his opinion, gave himself completely over to a morbid, hyper-sensitiveness, without making the slightest effort to raise himself out of it. Otto was one of the few persons whom Vincent could not succeed in drawing towards him. Almost every one on coming into contact with him felt conscious of something that repelled even while it attracted; something like a sweet, alluring poison, like the overpowering fumes of opium. His continued travelling had given Vincent a good deal of knowledge of human nature, or rather of tact in dealing with all sorts of people, and he could, when he chose, assume any character to suit the circumstances, with the same ease as a serpent writhes itself into various coils, or as an actor interprets various rôles. But Otto, with an involuntary pride in his own healthy strength, which ever went straight at its object, despised Vincent, because of the poisonous fascination which he had the power to shed about him, and the seduction of which others were unable to resist.
Ere long a bluish smoke filled the room, Vincent having offered cigars round, although he himself did not smoke. He took a couple of bottles of St. Emilion from a cupboard, uncorked them, and placed four glasses on the table. Etienne, with his usual spirits, sat relating story after story, with an amount of mimicry and gesture, [[92]]and a strong flavouring of youthful patois, that gave him somewhat the air of a singer at a café chantant. Paul and Georges laughed. But Vincent shrugged his shoulders, with a blasé smile, and as he filled the glasses muttered contemptuously, in his light voice—
“What a baby you are, Eetje, Eetje!”
Etienne, however, took no notice of the remark, and continued his stories, growing more and more spicy as he went on, whilst the others listened and enjoyed the bouquet of their wine. But Vincent could not resist the temptation to chaff him.
“What a naughty boy that young Erlevoort is to talk about such things, eh? What a sad dog!” he said, and the mocking laugh about his mouth was too encouraging that Etienne should desist.
Vincent once more filled the glasses, and Georges praised the wine. He had never very much to say when amongst young men; he generally gave himself up to quiet enjoyment. It was only for the society of ladies that he reserved all the sparkle of his brilliant wit. Vincent asked him one or two questions about his work at the ministry for foreign affairs.
“I suppose you will be attached to some legation or other one day?” he said.
“Very likely,” answered Georges.
“Well, at all events, it is a situation which gives you the chance of seeing something of the world. But how any one can pass his whole life in an office, I can’t conceive. It would kill me. There’s Erlevoort, now—I mean your brother, Eetje.”
“You let Otto alone,” said Paul. “He has a great career before him, you shall see.”
“Yes, you know, Otto is cut out for a cabinet minister or a governor-general—at least, so his mother always says. ’Tis I alone who am the outcast of the family,” cried Etienne.
“Yes; the spoilt child, eh?” laughed Vincent “How far are you now in your studies?”
“Oh, I’m going on all right. I am not at college, you know, I am studying in the Hague.”
“Do you think it so enjoyable in the Hague, then, in July?” asked Vincent, in a tone of contempt.
“Yes; it’s not so bad.”
“How, in Heaven’s name, is it possible? You fellows are very [[93]]easily satisfied then, I must say, or rather you haven’t any idea of what the world is like. The Hague makes me sleepy and dull, there’s something drowsy in the atmosphere.”
“That’s your own doing, I dare say,” laughed Paul.
“Possibly; and maybe ’tis my fault too that I think the life you fellows lead here too soul-killing. Now what is it you are doing here, I should like to know? You are continually running about in one little circle, like a horse in a roundabout at the Kermis. Should you be in a situation, you have always exactly the same little jobs to do, and when you have done, the same little amusements await you in the evening. Great Scott! how insipid!”
“But what is it you would have us do then?” asked Georges.
“As far as I am concerned you can go on vegetating here, if you like; but I can’t understand you fellows not even wanting to see something of the world.”
“Well, now there’s yourself; you have seen the world, as you call it, haven’t you? and what have you gained by it? you are a Jack-of-all-trades, and a master of none; and up to now you haven’t achieved any very brilliant results!” cried Paul, a little out of humour at the contemptuous way in which Vincent had referred to him.
Behind his eye-glass an angry gleam shot forth from Vincent’s dull blue eyes, whilst his thin lips closed.
“And you are forgetting your duties as a host, with your philosophizing,” cried Etienne, pointing to his empty glass.
“I suppose the fact is that I am of a more excitable temperament than you fellows,” said Vincent, in a languid voice. He again filled up the glasses, and sank down wearily beside Georges, and his eyes wandered listlessly about the room.
It was growing very warm, and the tobacco smoke hung in thick clouds about the ceiling. Vincent opened the door. Etienne, who could not take much wine, had become very excited, there were red circles about his eyes, and he had broken his glass. Georges and Paul continued to enjoy his jokes. Vincent, however, listened to him with a faint smile.
And in his mind there arose a strange wondering, a wondering that a man always retained his own individuality, without the power of transforming himself into the personality of any one else. Often, without the slightest cause, he would find himself lost in [[94]]wonder at this idea, in the midst of the most cheerful company, and he would be filled with an indescribable feeling of ennui at the thought of his inevitable fate ever to remain what he was—Vincent Vere; that he never could be transformed into some entirely different being, which would breathe under entirely different circumstances and in an entirely different sphere. He would have liked to have lived through various phases of life, to have existed in different ages, and to have sought his happiness in constantly changing metamorphoses. And this desire appeared to him at the same time very childish, because of its ridiculous impossibility, and very noble because of the grandiose unattainability which it involved; and he believed that no one but him cherished such a desire, and thought himself very much exalted above others. In his musings it seemed to him as though the three others were very far removed from him, as though they were separated from him by the smoky haze. A feeling of lightness suddenly passed through his brain; it was as if he saw every object in brighter colouring, as if their laughter and chat sounded louder and more metallic in his ear, as if the flavour of the tobacco, mingled with the aroma of the wine, assumed a more pungent odour, whilst the veins in his temples and pulse throbbed as if they would burst.
This excitement of his nerves continued for a few seconds, then he saw his guests laughingly looking at him, and although he had not understood a word of what they said, he also laughed lightly, that they might think that he shared their amusement.
“I say, Vere, ’tis getting confoundedly close here, my eyes ache with the smoke,” said Georges; “couldn’t we open a window?”
Vincent nodded his head and closed the door, whilst Paul, who sat by the window, opened it. A rush of cool air quickly entered. Outside it was very quiet; now and again voices might be heard to the accompaniment of measured footsteps, or a shrill street tune re-echoed through the stillness.
The chill air brought Vincent quite to himself again, and his strange desires vanished, now that his nerves grew calmer. Now, on the contrary, he envied the three that same physical and moral Nirvana which he had looked upon with such contempt a short while since; Paul he envied his vigorous health, just a trifle enervated by a somewhat languid æstheticism; Georges his calm equanimity and contented mind; Etienne his joyous youthfulness. Why indeed was he not like them, healthy, contented, and youthful? [[95]]why did he not enjoy life as it was? why was he continually seeking after a something which he could not even define himself?
It was close upon one when the three young men rose, and Paul declared that they would have to take Etienne home, as his early excitement had given way to a mood of melancholy, and he was continually talking about suicide.
“I say, Eetje, have you got your key?” he asked.
“Key?” asked Etienne with dull staring eyes, and husky voice. “Key?” he repeated, reflecting. “Yes, in my pocket, yes—a key—in my pocket—here——”
“Come, let us go then,” said Georges.
Etienne approached Vincent and took him by the shoulders, while the others listened in amusement.
“Good-bye, Vere, thanks for your hospi—hospitality. I always had a liking for you, Vere; you’re a trump of a fellow, do you hear, Vere? I feel much, very much sympathy for you, do you hear? Only this afternoon at the Witte I was saying—Paul was there—and heard me—I said, Vere, that your heart was in the right place. They misjudge you, Vere, but——”
“Come, allons!” cried Paul and Georges, with impatience, taking hold of his arm; “cut it short.”
“No, no; let me have my say—they misjudge you, Vere; but don’t you take any notice of it, old boy; ’tis just the same with me, they misjudge me too. ’Tis sad, very sad, but so it is; good-bye, Vere; good-night, Vere; sleep well.”
Vincent saw him to the door with a lighted candle, and Etienne walked to the steps, supported between Georges and Paul.
“Vere, be careful now. Don’t catch cold standing at the door, and don’t you take any notice; they misjudge you, but I will take your part——”
Vincent nodded smilingly at Georges and Paul, and closed the door.
“Deuced pleasant chap, that Vere!” stammered Etienne. [[96]]
CHAPTER XI.
After four o’clock the Verstraetens were generally at home, and to-day about that time the house happened to be stormed with visitors. Betsy and Eline had just looked in, and met the Eekhofs, and the Hydrechts, Emilie de Woude, and Frédérique; later on came Madame van der Stoor and little Cateau.
Eline, with her hand on Cateau’s shoulder, bent over the photograph at which the latter was looking.
She felt conscious of a strong impression on Cateau by her grace and geniality, and as, in her need for affection, she was always glad to create sympathy, she nurtured Cateau’s love as a precious flower. But that longing for affection was not unmingled with a touch of proud triumph towards Frédérique, in whom, ever since St. Nicholas’ Eve, she suspected, she knew not why, a secret aversion towards herself.
While Cateau was speaking to her, in her pleasant little voice, Eline just glanced round at Frédérique in order to see if she noticed the sympathetic admiration of her little friend. But Frédérique was too much engaged joking with the young Eekhofs.
“You often sing with Mr. van Raat; has he a nice voice?” asked Cateau.
“A little weak, but very pretty.”
“Oh! I should so much like to hear you together.”
“Well, I dare say you will some day.”
“You have such a splendid voice; oh! I think it so delightful to hear you sing.”
Eline gave a little laugh, flattered by Cateau’s ecstasy.
“Really? But, Toos, don’t go on calling me Miss Vere, ’tis so formal; call me Eline in future, will you?”
Cateau blushed with pleasure, and stroked the fur of Eline’s muff. She gave herself completely over to the charm of that melodious voice, to the fascinating influence of that soft, gazelle-like glance.
Eline felt more than usually in need of much affection and tenderness. In her innermost heart, her admiration for Fabrice had blazed forth in a passion that filled her whole being, and to which she felt constrained to give vent, without betraying herself. [[97]]The wealth of love which she felt was in her, and which she durst not proclaim, she attempted to share amongst those who were worthy of it, like a costly bouquet of which she threw a flower to those around her. Those chosen ones she beamed upon with her captivating glance, and was enraptured when she saw that others felt themselves drawn towards her; but on the other hand it gave her pain when she was met with coldness in return. Thus it was with Frédérique’s inexplicable surliness; and although at first with a certain haughtiness she would take no notice of it, she now did her best to win her affection, and on meeting her she had addressed her with all the charm of her manner. But Frédérique’s answers were given in a curt, careless tone, and with averted head; she suspected that Eline had remarked her coolness, but she was of too frank a nature to be able to hide her feelings: she had no tact to feign what she did not feel.
The conversation turned on portraits, and Madame Verstraeten passed by Eline and Cateau to take from a table an album which she wanted to show Madame van der Stoor and Madame Eekhof.
Musingly, and half listening to Toos, Eline thought of Fabrice, and saw the album in Madame Verstraeten’s hands. And suddenly an idea rose to her mind, like a twig of her vivid fantasy, with which her passion was overgrown. Yes; she would procure an album for herself, with various portraits of him; it would be as a little shrine of her love, in which she could worship the image of her god, unbeknown to any one but herself. A secret joy stole over her features at that resolve, and at the thought that she had so much to conceal from the eyes of others she began to consider herself very important in her own eyes, and to feel herself more and more absorbed by the treasures of her passion. She was happy, and her happiness was mingled with an arch playfulness and secret exultation at the thought that she concealed within herself something that her circle of friends would naturally have considered very foolish and very reprehensible, had they known of it. A girl like her, to be in love with an actor! What would Madame Verstraeten and Betsy and Emilie and Cateau and Frédérique, Henk and Paul and Vincent, what would they all think and say could they suspect that?
And with a half-mocking glance she looked round at her relatives and friends; she thought herself plucky, secretly to defy the conventionalities to such an extent as to dare to be smitten with [[98]]Fabrice! A jocular remark of Emilie’s made her laugh more immoderately than it called for; at the same time she laughed at all who were there, in haughty arrogance at her illicit passion.
“And Mr. van Raat—Mr. Paul, I mean—will be a lawyer, I suppose?” asked Cateau.
What a lot that child had to say about Paul! thought Eline. There was no end of Paul—Paul’s nice voice, and Paul a lawyer——
“I think you rather like Paul, don’t you?” asked Eline.
“Oh, yes; I like him very much,” said Cateau, without hesitation. “Only sometimes, you know, he gets so angry. Fancy, the other day—when we had the tableaux——”
And Eline had to listen to the story of Paul’s anger when they had the tableaux, and of Paul’s cleverness in the grouping.
“She’s not afraid to speak her mind, at all events,” thought Eline; “but then, she need not be exactly smitten, although she talks a great deal about him; if she were she would probably do as I do, and—say nothing.”
It was nearly half-past five; the guests were leaving.
“Then I shall hear you sing together one day?” insisted Cateau.
“Come round one Thursday afternoon; we always practise then.”
“Oh! then I am in school.”
“Well, one evening then, nous verrons.”
“Yes, with pleasure—Eline.”
She pronounced that name for the first time since Eline’s request, and she let it fall from her lips, much flattered at the familiarity. Then she took leave, urged thereto by her mother.
Eline stood still for a moment, by accident, beside Frédérique. She had already said good-bye, and was waiting for Betsy, who en passant was talking to Mr. Verstraeten, and she was on the point of saying something to Freddie. But she waited, until Freddie spoke first—and both remained silent.
On her way home, Cateau in ecstasy poured all kinds of nice things about Eline and Paul into Madame van der Stoor’s ears.
New Year’s Day had come and gone. On New Year’s Eve Betsy invited the Verstraetens and Erlevoorts, as well as Madame Van Raat and Paul, to an oyster supper, and a happy evening was spent in the warm comfort of her drawing-room. Now the winter days followed each other in unbroken monotony, whilst the evenings glided on for Betsy and Eline in one long string of [[99]]dinner-parties and soirées. The van Raats had a large circle of acquaintances, and Betsy was famous for her choice little dinners, never with more than twelve persons at the utmost, and always served with the most unstinted and refined luxury. They lived in a coterie, the various members of which saw one another often and intimately, and they were very pleased with the circle in which they moved.
Eline, meanwhile, in the midst of that light glamour of worldliness continued to feed the flame of her secret love in silent happiness, and thought it all very romantic. One morning she had been shopping, and as she was returning along the Princessegracht, she saw Fabrice slowly coming from the Bosch, close by the Bridge. She felt her heart beating, and scarcely dared look up. Still, at last, with apparent indifference she just ventured to glance at him. He wore a short frieze overcoat; a woollen muffler was thrown carelessly about his throat, and he walked, his hands in his pockets, with a somewhat surly expression on his dark face, shaded by the broad brim of his soft felt hat. He gave her the impression of haughty reserve, and this made her idealize. No doubt he was of a good family, for she thought there was something very distingué in his powerful frame; his parents had been against his devoting himself to his art, but he had felt a calling within him that was irresistible; he had received his musical training at a conservatoire, and he had made his début. And now a bitter disappointment filled his soul; he discovered that the surroundings of actors in which he had to move was too rude and uncultured for him; he felt himself different from them, and he withdrew himself within the coldness of his pride. He thought of his youth, of his childhood, and again he saw his mother before him, entreating him with clasped hands to bid farewell to his determination and think no more of the stage.
From that day Eline was seized with the caprice, as Betsy called it, to take long walks in the morning. She thought the Bosch so beautiful in winter, she said; it was grand to see those lofty upright stems, like pillars of marble, after the snow; it was like a cathedral. Henk accompanied her once or twice with Leo and Faust, the two boarhounds, but he preferred his usual morning ride, and she went alone, after she had fetched the two dogs out of the stable. They sprang up at her with their big paws, and like two rough pages waited near her protectingly in their wild playfulness. [[100]]
It was good for her health, she declared, when people spoke to her wonderingly about those walks; she walked much too little, and feared she would be growing as stout as Betsy, if she always rode. Doctor Reyer thought those morning promenades an excellent idea.
In the Bosch she met occasional promenaders, mostly the same people—an old gentleman in a fur cloak, who was always coughing. But Fabrice she met but rarely. He was at rehearsal probably, she thought, whenever she did not see the baritone, and then she would return home in a disappointment that made her feel very fatigued, longing for her boudoir, her cosy fire, her piano. But still she continued her walks, and made the discovery that Fabrice took his constitutionals regularly on Fridays; other days seemed to be very uncertain. She might and she might not see him. And in order to meet him she did not mind rising early, sometimes still quite exhausted after a soirée that had not been over till three o’clock; or tired out with dancing, and sleepy, with blue circles under her weary eyes. ’Twas true she saw Fabrice very often now at the opera, from a box, or the stalls, when she went with the Verstraetens, or with Emilie de Woude and Georges; once she had invited the Ferelyns. But yet, now she saw him quite differently, not separated from her by the footlights and the ideal conditions of the stage; now she saw him right before her, not three paces removed from her, like an ordinary person.
On the days that she met Fabrice, the roomy vault of the besnowed trees seemed too small to contain her happiness. She saw him approach with his manly, elastic step, the hat slightly on one side, the muffler fluttering from his shoulder, and he passed by, just glancing at her or the dogs, who sniffed at him, with careless eyes. When, after that, she turned back and returned home along the Maliebaan, she was filled with a joy that made her bosom heave, that brought a flush to her cold cheeks, and made her forgetful of all fatigue; and on arriving home she would give vent to that wealth of happiness with a jubilant outburst of song. The whole day she remained in a bright, happy humour, and a charming vivacity took the place of her usual languid grace. Her eyes sparkled, she joked and laughed continually, felt irritated at Henk’s lazy good-nature and Ben’s sleepy quietness, and teased both father and son, making the hall re-echo with her ringing laughter, and the stairs creak under her, as she almost bounded down them. [[101]]
One Friday morning, when she saw Fabrice approaching her, she formed a resolution. She thought it very childish of her that she never had the courage to look him straight in the face. He was an actor, after all, and no doubt he was used to being looked at by ladies who met him in the street. He came nearer, and with something haughtily audacious, and almost defiantly, she threw her little head backwards, and looked him straight in the face. He returned that glance, as usual, with one of complete indifference, and walked on. Then, in an excess of courage, she looked back. Would he? No, he walked on, with his hands in his pockets, and she only saw his broad back gradually disappearing.
That morning she hurried home, humming to herself between her closed lips, about which there hovered an expression of roguish playfulness. She had no thought for anything or any one but him, Fabrice, and she rang the bell at the Nassauplein. Grete answered the door; Leo and Faust rushed inside. Oh, how she burst out laughing! she had forgotten to take the dogs back to the stables. Loudly resounded their barking through the hall, like a duo of basses.
Out rushed Betsy from the dining-room, bursting with rage.
“Heavens above, Eline, are you mad, bringing those wretched dogs in here? You know I can’t bear them. I can’t understand what makes you do such a thing, if I don’t like it! Or am I no longer mistress in my own house? Take them away, please, and at once.”
Her voice sounded hard and rough, as one who is giving orders to an inferior.
“They are thirsty, and I want to let them drink,” said Eline, with calm hauteur.
“And I will not have them drink here, I tell you! Look at that hall, look at the carpet, dirty marks everywhere!”
“Grete can clean all that in a minute.”
“That isn’t your business! You lead the life of a princess here, and do nothing but what displeases me. I tell you, take those dirty dogs away!”
“First they must drink.”
“Great heavens, I will not have them drink here,” cried Betsy, beside herself with passion.
“They shall drink, in the garden,” answered Eline, quietly.
“I should like to see that!” shrieked her sister. “If I——” [[102]]
“Leo, Faust,” cried Eline, still with an irritating composure, as she motioned the dogs towards her.
Betsy fumed with rage; her lips quivered, her hands shook, her breath seemed to choke her. She could not say another word, she felt she could have struck Eline; but Eline, followed by the leaping dogs, slowly went her way through the passage into the garden, and filled a pail full of water at the tap. She thought it an exquisite delight to enrage Betsy that day. The dogs drank their fill, and she led them back into the hall.
Betsy still stood there, and her angry eyes flamed with rage at her own impotency. She would have liked to run after Eline and snatch the pail out of her hands, but her nerves were too excited.
“I tell you, Eline, in the name of all that’s holy, that I shall tell Henk,” she began, with a trembling voice, and a face flushed as red as fire.
“Oh, rave as much as you like!” cried Eline, in a suddenly rising passion, and went out of the house with the dogs, banging the door after her.
In about a quarter of an hour she returned, singing, still full of happiness at meeting Fabrice. She went up-stairs, and burst out in a brilliant shake, as if to tease Betsy, who, nearly crying, was sitting in the dining-room.
When Henk came home, Betsy told him the tale of Eline’s impudence in their own house; but Henk grew impatient, would not come to any decision, and she reproached her husband with his timidity, and a violent scene followed.
For a whole week the sisters did not speak, to the despair of Henk, who found all his domestic comfort spoilt by their sulking, especially at table, where the meals were hurried through, although Eline kept up an incessant chatter with himself and Ben. [[103]]
CHAPTER XII.
It had struck Frédérique that last New Year’s Eve, at the van Raats’, Otto had chatted and laughed a good deal with Eline; not remarkably so, but more than was his wont generally with girls. For some days after that a question constantly rose to her lips which she wanted to ask her brother, but no opportunity seemed to arrive for her to put it. At times she was quite brusque towards Etienne, when he wanted to have a joke with her, and Lili, Marie, and Paul had come to the conclusion that she had lost something of her good temper; and she played but little with the children too.
It was one of their evenings at home; only Etienne had gone out with some young friends who had come to fetch him. The children were in bed, and Madame van Erlevoort sat with Mathilde in the small drawing-room, the old lady with a book, Mathilde with some needlework. Frédérique entered, smiled at her mother, and lovingly smoothed the gray hair on her temples.
“Freddie, will you just ring for Willem?” asked Mathilde. “Otto would like a cup of tea in his room; he is busy writing.”
“Oh, just pour him out a cup, I’ll take it him myself.”
Mathilde poured out a cup, and Frédérique took it up-stairs. On the stairs she wondered whether she would have the courage; perhaps Otto would say something himself; but if he did not, she would venture.
She entered Otto’s room. He was walking up and down dreamily, with his hands on his back, quite contrary to his usual habits.
“Hallo! there’s a nice little sis,” said he laughing, and took the cup from her hand. “It will taste tenfold as nice from such pretty little fingers.”
“But, Otto,” cried Frédérique, “how can you be so silly? I had expected a more original kind of compliment, not such a stale platitude as that.”
She continued to look at him smilingly, but did not catch his reply, as she was considering to herself how to put her question. Perhaps he would not like it. Still she wanted to have her say, and she tried to find something by way of introduction, some pretext or another, to achieve her object; but in the frankness of [[104]]her nature she could find nothing, and so she simply commenced—
“Otto, I—I have something to say to you, something to confess.”
“A sin?”
“A sin, no; hardly that I think—an—indiscretion I unwittingly committed towards you. But you must forgive me beforehand.”
“What! simply on your good faith?”
“I tell you the indiscretion was committed involuntarily, and—I haven’t even been as indiscreet as I should have liked to have been. I am therefore entitled to some recompense; but I only ask you beforehand, whether I may depend upon your pardon?”