At the Hague, August passed by glowing hot, but the nights were cool on
the terrace at Scheveningen, or in the tent of the Bosch. It was Sunday
evening, and Betsy stayed at home; old Madame van Raat had not been to
see her for so long, that she asked her mother-in-law to come around;
Sunday was not much of a day at Scheveningen. They were to drink tea in
the conservatory, the glass doors of which were already open. Henk
walked with Madame van Raat through the garden, and the old lady
admired his splendid roses. Betsy and Vincent sat alone.
“I have had a letter from Eline: she is coming back with the Erlevoorts
on Wednesday. The Howards will remain a little longer at the Horze,”
she said.
“Indeed?” answered Vincent. “And when Eline returns I must go, I
suppose?” he asked bluntly.
Betsy felt alarmed, but she smiled very pleasantly.
“The idea! Not at all. You know, our house is always open to you, until
you have found something for yourself. Don’t you hear anything
from—what is the name of that friend in New York?”
“Lawrence St. Clare. No; I have not heard anything from him for some
time. You see one forgets one’s friends when they are so far away. I
can’t blame him.”
He leaned back in his cane chair with an air of something like
resignation. In the meantime he felt himself very well at ease, and
agreeably soothed by the luxury which surrounded him. The garden was
well kept, rich in flowers and statuary. And in those surroundings, in
the presence of Betsy, very elegant in her light summer dress, by the
soft glitter of the silver and the Japanese porcelain, he felt himself
safe against the many unpleasantnesses of life. It was rest, monotonous
if you like, but soothing and refreshing. Betsy he knew how to master,
but it was unnecessary to make his power felt; besides, he was too lazy
for it. Was not his present life an easy one? what should he trouble
himself about?
“What would you say if I were to seek a wife?” he suddenly asked,
inwardly thinking of the pleasures a wealthy marriage might provide
him.
“A wife! oh, a splendid idea! Shall I try and find one for you? What
sort of one do you wish?”
“Handsome she need not be, only elegant. Not too unsophisticated or
idealistic. Money of course.”
“Of course. A foolish love-affair I certainly don’t look for in you.
What do you think of the Eekhofs?”
“Are you mad? two giggling ninnies—and no money, is there?”
“Some say there is, others declare that they live too extravagantly;
any way you might try and find out. But were you in earnest, Vincent,
or was it only by way of saying something?”
“Not at all. I think I should do well if I married. Don’t you think I’m
right?”
Betsy looked at him searchingly, and her glance was full of secret
contempt. With his lack-lustre eyes, his languid movements, his
indolent voice, he did not much impress her as an ideal husband for a
young girl.
“Not quite. I think you are a terrible egotist; neither do I believe
that a wife would find much support in you. You are weak—I mean
morally, of course.”
She soon regretted her words and felt irritated at her own imprudence.
She nearly shuddered when he looked at her with that mysterious smile,
with those soft, dull, snake-like eyes.
“And a wife has always need of support, eh?” he said in measured tones.
“You too, don’t you—you find your support in Henk? you depend entirely
upon him, and he is strong enough—I mean physically, of course?”
Every word he uttered he emphasized as with a spiteful meaning, and
every word pierced sharp as a needle into her domineering nature; but
she dared not answer him, she shrank back in fear and only smiled, as
if he had merely made a jest. He too laughed, a kindly gentle laugh
like hers, but full of veiled revengefulness.
They were both silent for a while, conscious of the struggle under that
outward show of good-nature, until Betsy began gently to murmur some
complaints about old Madame van Raat, who always misunderstood her, and
with whom she could never agree; and whilst he sat indifferently
listening to her, she felt how she abhorred him, how glad she would
have been, after having him in the house for a month, to give him his
congé; but she knew that she could never do it without risking a
terrible scene; he would continue hanging about till the end of time,
and she could not think of any means to get him away. It was all Henk’s
fault; if he’d only given him that wretched little sum the idea would
never have entered her mind to ask him into the house. She detested
Vincent, and she detested herself for her fear of him. She was rich and
happy; what harm could he do her? But the more she argued, the more the
fear clung to her, like an enervating idiosyncrasy, of which she could
not free herself.
Madame van Raat and Henk were slowly returning from the garden, and
they sat down in the conservatory at one of the open glass doors. But
after a few words about the roses, the old lady grew quiet and pensive.
Amid the luxury of her son’s house a certain chill, a vacuum, seemed to
seize her and make her melancholy, even more melancholy than she was in
her own lonely house. She had never had that feeling before when she
was with Henk; but now it seemed as if her love for her son did not
yield sufficient warmth to dispel that chill vacuum. And suddenly the
truth struck her. She missed Eline—Eline who, wherever she went, beamed
forth the light of her fascination; she missed her dear child, so
different from Betsy, so loving and sympathetic. And she could not help
saying in her sad voice—
“Your house seems deserted without Elly. What will it be when she is
married and gone away for good? Dear Elly!”
She did not hear what Betsy and Vincent answered; she did not hear what
Henk said; she let her gray head fall upon her bosom and sat staring in
front of her, the bony hands folded in her lap. Life seemed hollow to
her, a gray existence full of grief, full of partings and tears, in
which men hovered round, sombre and sad, like so many tragic phantoms.
And she shuddered when Betsy asked her whether she was cold.
Betsy, though she had never confessed it, had, just like her
mother-in-law, in spite of Vincent, who “was so sociable,” also found
it lonely and miserable in the house. There was so little change in the
summer; it was eternally the tent and eternally Scheveningen; she was
really getting sick of it. And now that Eline was back, beaming in her
fresh happiness, which seemed to diffuse a rustic odour through Betsy’s
drawing-room; now that Eline was full of tales about the Horze, about
Théodore and Truus and the children, about the Howards and the little
van Ryssels, Betsy perceived that Madame van Raat was right—that Eline
was the charm of her house. Now Betsy herself commenced to look forward
with some misgiving to the time when Eline would leave her, and that
misgiving greatly softened her ordinary acerbity. Otto, whom she
formerly thought too formal and affected, she thought charming, now
that she frequently saw him, for she had insisted that he should often
come to dinner.
At table the conversation once more grew lively and cheerful, quite
different from the slow, dragging discourse between herself, her
husband, and Vincent. To Eline her manner became gentle, out of
gratitude for the old pleasantness which she had brought back with her,
and they held endless consultations about Eline’s trousseau, which it
was now time to see about, if she wanted to marry in the coming winter.
Their afternoons they spent together with dressmakers and in shops;
they travelled together with Otto to Brussels, where Eline wanted to
order her wedding-dress, rich but simple, nothing but white satin,
without lace or furbelows.
Eline in the meantime, in all this stir and bustle, had little time
left her for thinking, and only in the evening did she get any rest. In
the evening they often stayed at home. It was September. Scheveningen
gradually lost its attractions, and now that Otto came to dinner it
generally grew late without their noticing it. She sat with him in the
garden, or in the violet boudoir, and she became quite used to her calm
happiness; it seemed in fact as if she had never known anything
different. Everything was so restful and contented within her, that she
almost longed for some emotion. But no, she loved Otto; that single
emotion sufficed for her. Never anything but that; always that calm,
always that blue ether!