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