Now that the fête was over, she began to think over it all in the
solitude of her room. It was five o’clock, and she felt almost too
tired to undress herself. She did not feel so much hurt because of his
presumption. But—that evening, for the first time after so long a
period of lethargy, she had forgotten her sorrows a little. She had
found a little amusement, and been somewhat of her former self again,
and he had embittered that innocent pleasure by reminding her that she
was in a circle to which she was not suited. Did she not know that as
well as he? and it was just because she knew it—because she felt that
he was right—because he felt as she felt herself, that she was hurt.
Why had he not allowed her to pass a brief moment of happiness in
peace? Why had he spoken to her about her relations? What did Henk and
Betsy care if she did throw herself away among the curious
acquaintances of uncle and Elise? But she did not do so, she had
scarcely spoken a word to any one except Vincent and himself. She had
only amused herself at the expense of a circle which surrounded her.
She threw herself in her black satin dress on a chair, and, as she
thought about that which had given her offence, she felt it gradually
evaporating like a cloud of mist. But still she wanted to feel hurt;
yes, she did feel hurt, very much hurt indeed. Yet after all it was not
so very bad. It was for her sake that he had felt so annoyed at the
strange coterie in which she found herself. He had shown her his
annoyance so frankly, and she could still hear him say in that
discontented voice—
“How did you get here? Are you here with the consent of your
relations?”
He took an interest in her, genuine interest, with all the haughty
pride of his sunny, truthful temperament, and a great desire suddenly
overmastered her to go to him and ask his pardon, his counsel. It would
be delicious to conform herself entirely to his will; it would mean
peace, much-longed-for peace and calm. About twelve o’clock, after a
short sleep, she entered the room with a pale face and dark blue
circles under her eyes, and found Elise, with a couple of the servants,
busy rearranging the disorder which the orgies of the previous evening
had brought about. Elise was very satisfied with her soirée, and wished
Eline a happy new year. Uncle Daniel was out.
“What a number of glasses they broke! If you want to breakfast, Eline,
you must go to the dining-room. Here you are only in my way. Pardon me
for saying so. But it was very jolly yesterday, was it not?”
Eline went to the dining-room. She ate something and remained a little
while idling. She waited for some one—for St. Clare—but neither Vincent
nor he came, nor did they come the following day, nor the next. If
Eline had dared she would have written him.
While she dreamily awaited his arrival she received a letter from
Madame van Raat, who wrote her, that although he was living at
Bodegraven just now, she saw Paul occasionally, and that he seemed to
have some secret grief which she could not guess. She was very sorry
that a kind of estrangement had come between her and her son, and she
doubted whether she had always shown him sufficient tenderness.
“She not enough tenderness!” thought Eline, “why she was all
tenderness, at least to me.”
When she came to the end of the letter she started violently. Jeanne
Ferelyn had died in Bangil. Eline’s eyes filled with tears.
“Great heavens! Great heavens!” she repeated slowly, and a nervous sob
shook her frame. Her poor friend was dead! Oh! how tenderly Jeanne had
nursed her when she was prostrate with bronchitis in that little home
of theirs! How gentle and loving Jeanne had always been! How
affectionate she was to herself and her children. And now she was dead!
What happiness had her life brought her? None—none at all! And Madame
van Raat, she had her sorrows. Paul had his. What was life but one
great sorrow?
She sobbed violently over the letter, and could not reconcile herself
to the thought that Jeanne was dead. Jeanne is dead! Jeanne is dead! It
was hissing in her ears and in her brain. She had so much to thank
Jeanne for, and she would never see her again, for Jeanne was dead! Oh,
great heavens, she was dead!
She threw herself back in her chair and covered her face with her
hands. But suddenly she heard steps in the adjoining room. She looked
up, and ere she could recover herself saw St. Clare appearing in the
door. Half demented with grief, with her weeping eyes she glanced at
him.
“I hope you will pardon me if I disturb you.”
He spoke softly, for he saw that she was crying. “The servant said that
you were at home. Perhaps I had better come back to-morrow.”
She rose, wiped her eyes, and gave him a friendly smile.
“Do you wish to go so soon?” she said sadly. “You do not disturb me in
the least. On the contrary, I think it very nice of you that you have
come. Take a seat. Is Vincent all right?”
“Very well, thank you,” he answered, in a tone from which she could
gather all the friendship he felt for Vincent. “We have been to Liège
and Verviers.”
“Is that the only reason then why I have not seen you before now after
the soirée?”
He looked at her for a moment.
“Yes,” he answered, “the only reason.”
“You were not angry?”
“No, not at all. I was in the wrong. I should not have spoken like
that. You were quite right.”
“I am not sure,” she said. “I know I must have offended you with my
unmannerliness. Will you forgive me, or do you refuse me your hand as I
have refused you mine?”
She gave him her hand. He pressed it closely.
“I will forgive you gladly,” he answered, “and I think it very nice of
you that you confess that you have been a little in the wrong.”
“And in future, will you please take that interest in me which you said
you did when last I saw you. Will you believe me if I tell you that
your interest in me and your friendship will not annoy me as I told you
it did then? May I depend upon that?”
“Certainly you may.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much. I was not deceived when I told you
that you had a kind heart. You are more than kind, you are noble.”
He laughed a little.
“What big words you do use,” he said jestingly. “You’re becoming so
dignified.”
“No,” she said determinedly. “I’m not dignified, and I use no big
words. I mean what I say. You do not know what pleasure it gives me to
see you and to hear from you that you are not angry with me, especially
at this moment. I was feeling so terribly unhappy.”
“You were crying, I believe.”
The tears dropped from her lashes.
“I have just now heard of the death of a very dear friend, a poor, weak
little thing she was, but she was so useful. She will be so terribly
missed by her husband and children. It is always thus in the world, is
it not? People who are of use, they die, and those who, like myself,
are a trouble to every one and a misery to themselves, live on.”
“Why do you speak so sadly? Are you then of use to no one? Do you care
for no one, and is there no one who cares for you?”
She laughed bitterly.
“But surely there are people who take an interest in you?” he
continued.
“What shall I answer you? I have no parents. About my sister I dare say
you have heard something from Vincent. Do you know that I—ran away
from—my brother-in-law’s house?”
“Yes.”
“Ever since that time I have done nothing but wander about. I have
always been with strange people. Uncle and aunt have taken me under
their roof, but still they are strange. At the Hague I lived with an
old lady, the mother of my brother-in-law; she was very kind to me and
I liked her very much, but I was not kind to her.”
“I pity you very much,” said he. “I wish I could do something for you.
But suppose you sought some occupation? Is it not because you have
nothing to do that you feel yourself unhappy?”
“I sought an occupation at the Hague. I travelled a good deal, and yet
I felt myself unhappy. It is all my own fault, you see; I have thrown
away my own happiness.”
She began to cry, her head resting in her hands.
“Tell me, cannot I do something for you?” he insisted.
“Nothing at all, thank you. No one can do anything for me.”
“But it is really not right to bury oneself in one’s grief, and to
think of nothing else. You may not do so. You must rouse yourself from
your sorrows. Every one has his troubles. Come, promise me that in
future you will think otherwise.”
“I cannot,” she sobbed, “I am so weak. I am broken down, broken down
utterly.”
In her words there sounded such a hopelessness that he did not know
what to say, but he brimmed over with pity—a pity that was mingled with
despair at the thought that he could do nothing for her—and he would
solace and comfort her, whatever it might cost.
“No,” said he with determination, “you are not broken down—that is a
mere idea! You are young, and have a life before you. Break with your
past, forget it completely.”
“Oh! how can I do that?” she sobbed. “How is it possible?”
He knew he was wrong himself. He knew that the sorrowful memories of
the past were all but indelible.
“I feel such a pity for you,” he repeated, “a pity such as I have never
yet felt for any one before.”
“That is the only thing left you that you can do for me, pity me,” she
exclaimed passionately; “pity me, that does me good. For have you not
told me that you knew me already before you saw me, that I was to you
like an unknown little sister?”
He had risen from his seat, he laid his hands on her shoulders, and
looked at her.
“Certainly,” he replied cordially. And she could have died for him, so
intensely grateful did she feel. “And now you are no longer unknown to
me, and anything I can do for you I will do. You must tell me all about
yourself, and if you will leave it to me, I will make you forget your
miseries.”
He just tapped her on the shoulder like an old friend. In her heart
there arose a great regret that they had not known each other sooner.
What a happiness it had been to her but a little while ago when she
humbled herself before him, when she begged him for his pardon.
A week elapsed, during which the Veres saw neither Vincent nor St.
Clare, as they were away a few days in Holland. There was a talk of a
masquerade ball to be given by the count. Uncle Daniel would not go in
fancy costume, but Elise would go in Eastern dress; and Eline, whose
fancy did not soar very high just now, would accompany her, also in
Eastern dress.
A day before the ball the two young men came back. Eline thought she
could see a frown pass over St. Clare’s features when he heard that
they were going to that ball. He said nothing, however; but the
following evening, about half-past eight, he came in with Vincent. They
had also been invited. Vincent had accepted the invitation. St. Clare
had not. He asked to see Eline for a moment, but she had just commenced
her toilette; but St. Clare was importunate, and Eline sent her maid
down to ask him to wait.
In the big salon there was no one. Vincent, in evening dress, was lying
on the couch, and had taken up L’Indépendance. St. Clare stood on the
balcony thinking, and he stared at the snow which glistened in the
evening light. A servant came and asked whether they would have tea.
“I must say I admire your pluck, Lawrence,” said Vincent in English, as
he slowly stirred his cup of tea. “But are you certain that all would
go well?”
“Well, I can’t help myself. I will have it so,” answered St. Clare
determinedly.
The servant left and both were silent, when Eline entered. A pink glow
of veloutine hid the sallow tint of her complexion. Her hair was
already arranged, and rows and rows of glittering sequins hung over her
brow. But further than that she had not yet proceeded with her costume,
and was simply wrapped in a white flannel peignoir. Vincent rose, and
she apologized for her toilette. But she was very charming.
“You wanted so urgently to speak to me,” she said softly to St. Clare,
as she held out her hand to him. “You won’t mind that I’ve come to you
like this; and keep your seat, please.”
They sat down, while Vincent withdrew with his newspaper into the
conservatory. St. Clare looked at Eline searchingly.
“What is it you want to ask me?” she said.
“In the first place, I must ask your pardon for my boldness in having
called you away from your toilette.”
“Oh, that is nothing. I have plenty of time.”
“I feel very much flattered that you have come at once. You can well
imagine that I should not have intruded if it had not been for a very
good reason. I had a request to make you.”
“Which admitted of no delay?”
“Yes, that admitted of no delay, and I run the risk that you will be
very angry when I make that request, that you will feel hurt, and that
you will tell me that I am interfering in matters that do not concern
me.”
She had a vague suspicion of the question that he was about to utter.
“Never mind. Speak up frankly,” she simply answered.
“You’ve asked me to show as much interest in you as a brother would
show for a sister. Is that right, or am I mistaken?”
“No, that is quite right.”
“Well, if you were my sister, I would ask you to do me a great favour,
and beg of you not to go to that ball this evening.” She did not
answer, but looked him straight in the face. “If you were my sister I
should tell you that Vincent and I have made inquiries about the people
who are coming to the ball this evening; I should tell you that I know
for certain that a great number of the invited guests are even less
suited to your circle than some of your uncle’s and aunt’s
acquaintances. If you were my sister, I could scarcely express myself
in plainer terms than I have done, and I have not a word to add to what
I have said; but I hope that you will not misunderstand me, and that
you will now have some idea what kind of guests they will be whom you
would see there this evening.”
She cast down her eyes and remained silent.
“And, therefore, at the risk of interfering in a matter that does not
concern me, at the risk that your uncle and aunt will take offence at
my interference in your affairs, at the risk that you yourself, after
having forgiven me one indiscretion already, will be very angry with
me, I ask you once more, do not go to this ball. You are out of place
there.”
Still she remained silent, and her fingers clutched nervously at the
girdle of her peignoir.
“Are you very angry,” he asked.
“No,” she answered after a pause, very softly. “No, I am not angry, and
I shall do as you ask me. I shall not go.”
“Do you really mean it?” he cried delighted.
“I really mean it. I shall not go. I am very thankful to you that you
have inquired about the people who are coming. I was already afraid
that you would not approve of my going, but I could not bear the
thought of staying alone at home a whole evening; that always makes me
so melancholy.”
“You feared my disapproval?” he asked smilingly.
“Yes,” she answered. “You are such a good friend to me, that I should
not like to do anything of which you disapprove. And for this evening—I
shall do exactly as you require.”
“Thank you,” he said with emotion, and pressed her hand.
“Yes, you may well appreciate it,” she cried with forced airiness,
feeling somewhat depressed by her humility. “Do you know that, for the
last three-quarters of an hour, I have been busy arranging the sequins
in my hair, and all for nothing?”
“Certainly, I appreciate what you have done. I assure you I appreciate
it,” he declared with much earnestness.
Uncle Daniel entered the room.
“Bon soir, St. Clare. You are not coming, are you? But, Eline! Are not
you going to dress?”
Eline stammered something and could not find her words, when she heard
the voice of Elise, who was grumbling to the maid. Elise entered,
glittering with sequins and Moorish draperies, her feet encased in two
little slippers.
“Bon soir, St. Clare. What a pity you are not going. It will be very
nice—Ciel! Eline!”
Vincent came in from the conservatory.
“It is nearly half-past nine, and you have only as yet done your hair,”
continued Elise in blank astonishment. “What have you been thinking
about?”
“I don’t think that your cousin is going, madam,” said St. Clare, as
Eline was too confused to speak. “We heard, Vincent and I, that the
company would be rather mixed at the ball—and I advised Miss Vere not
to go rather than risk unpleasant encounters. I hope you will pardon me
for giving that advice. Of course, I know she would have been under
your protection and that of her uncle, but I thought that such circles
were even more to be avoided by a young girl than by a married lady,
even though she be as charming as yourself. Was I very wrong?”
Elise hesitated whether she should be angry or not, but in his voice
there was so much determination and at the same time so much that was
winning, that she felt herself completely disarmed. Daniel Vere just
shrugged his shoulders.
“Whether you were wrong?” Elise repeated, still hesitating. “Well,
perhaps not. Of course Eline can do as she likes. If she would rather
not go, eh bien, soit! then we shall pretend that she had a headache.
That is easy enough. But you will have a terrible ennui, Eline.”
“No, really, I would much rather stay at home,” said Eline; “at least,
that is, if you are not offended.”
“Not at all. Liberté chérie, child.”
The servant came in to say that the carriage was at the door, and
brought uncle’s and Vincent’s furs. The maid assisted Elise to her fur
cape.
“If your uncle and aunt have no objection, I should like to keep you
company for a little while?” asked St. Clare.
Uncle and aunt thought it excellent. Eline was still rather confused.
“Adieu! Much pleasure,” she said with a little furtive smile to Elise,
her uncle, and Vincent.
“Ridiculous,” muttered Uncle Daniel, when they were in the carriage.
“Ridiculous! He won’t allow her to go to the ball, but he does not mind
keeping her company. That is American fashion, I suppose. I, at least,
would like to know which is more improper? To go with us to the ball,
or to spend an evening alone with a young man? Ridiculous!”
Vincent said nothing. He thought it beneath him to defend his friend,
but Elise quickly urged her husband to be silent. She would not permit
him to speak ill of a cousin who was under his roof, and of a friend
whom they saw so frequently.
“Speak ill of him—oh dear, no!” resumed Uncle Daniel, still feeling
hurt. “’Tis only American fashion, I suppose.”
Eline still felt her confusion.
“I don’t think uncle thought it right that I followed your advice,” she
said, when they were alone. “Perhaps, too, he thought that—you should
have gone with them.”
St. Clare looked at her in quiet surprise.
“Then why did he not say so? I asked him, did I not? But would you
sooner have me go?”
“No, I should think it very kind of you if you stayed a little longer.”
“With pleasure! for there is something else that I would like to ask
you, but it is not of such importance this time.”
“What is it, then?”
“I should like one of those sequins which you have arranged in your
hair.”
Eline smiled, and carefully she took from her hair the row of sequins
and removed one of the coins, which she offered to him.
“Thank you,” he said, and attached the coin to his watch-chain.
A strange feeling came over Eline. She felt very contented, very happy,
and yet somewhat abashed, and she asked herself which Betsy would have
considered less proper: to go with her uncle and aunt to that ball, or
to spend the evening alone, and en négligé, even with St. Clare? The
latter certainly, she thought. But he seemed to think it so simple and
natural that she did not even venture to ask him whether she might go
and change her dress.
“And now let us have a little quiet chat,” he said, as he sat down in a
fauteuil, and she remained sitting on the sofa, still a little shy, and
playing with her row of sequins. “Tell me something, do—of your
childhood, or of your travels.”
She said she did not know what to tell him, but again he asked her. She
answered him, and slowly her confidence in herself came back, and she
told him of Aunt Vere, of her Ouida literature, and especially of her
father and his great canvases which he never completed. She told him
also of her singing, of Betsy and Henk, and added that formerly she
thought very differently from what she thought now, and that she
appeared different too.
“What is it you call formerly?”
“I mean before my illness, and before I went travelling with uncle and
aunt—before—my engagement.”
“And how did you look then?”
“Much healthier and—and fresher.”
“Prettier, you would say?”
She could not help laughing that he read her thoughts, and did not give
himself the least trouble to be gallant. Then she asked him whether he
would like to see her portraits of those days, and while she took an
album from the table, she thought she might just as well permit him to
call her by her name. But she could not get so far as that.
He turned the pages of the album, which contained many of her
portraits; delicate little heads, with a ribbon or a string of pearls
round the neck. In a few of them she was décolletée.
“Well—what do you think?” she asked, as he remained silent.
“Very charming little faces, all of them, but everywhere an intolerable
coquettish little smile. A prettiness much too artificial. Were you
always in the habit of posing thus, or did you only do so before a
photographer?”
She felt a little piqued.
“For shame! How rude you are!” she said reproachfully.
“Was I rude?” he asked. “I beg your pardon. Yes, ’tis true these are
your portraits. I was a little confused at the moment, for you see it
is rather difficult to recognize you in them. But, believe me—I should
have thought you unbearable had I ever seen you thus. Pretty, yes—but
unbearable. Now you are a little thinner, it’s true, you have the
traces of suffering, but there is something winning in your face; while
in these little faces here there is nothing but coquettishness. I would
rather see you as you are now.”
He closed the album, and laid it down.
“And yourself,” he resumed, “would you rather be as you were then? Do
you regret those days?”
“Oh, no,” she sighed, “then I was not happy either.”
“But now you will do your best to be happy, will you not?”
She gave a little laugh and shrugged her shoulders.
“One cannot force one’s happiness,” she murmured dreamily, and,
involuntarily, she said it in English.
He looked at her in astonishment.
“Do you speak English?” he asked.
“I?” she cried in French, aroused from her dream.
“Yes, you!”
“Am I speaking English?”
“Not now. But just now you were.”
“Was I speaking English? I did not know—”
“Why have you never spoken English to me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh yes, you do know.”
“No, really not.”
“I assure you that you do know. Now tell me why, come!”
She laughed a little amused laugh.
“Because you speak such jolly French. You have such a pretty accent.”
“Then you have always laughed at me in secret?”
“No, I assure you, really I have not.”
“Which will you speak in future, English or French?”
“French, or you will still think that I was laughing at you.”
“There is no logic at all in what you say.”
“Possibly, but still I will speak French.”
“Very well. Do you know, you are no longer so weak as you were. You are
getting better, stronger.”
“Why?”
“For the first time since I have known you, I have heard you say I
will. Now mark my words. You commence by getting a little will of your
own, and in the end you will be quite firm, and when your will is firm
and strong you will get strong yourself. Now promise me that you will
cultivate a little will, like a frail hothouse plant that requires much
care and attention.”
Again she laughed, in her gentle, winning way.
“You shall see. I shall grow astonishingly obstinate under your
influence.”
“No. I hope not. But I should be very happy indeed if you would get a
little stronger under my influence.”
“I shall do my best.”
“And I shall keep you to your word. It is nearly eleven.”
She was silent. The word “already” was on her lips, but she restrained
herself in time.
“And tell me frankly, don’t you think now that you will act much more
sensibly by going to bed early this evening, and trying to get a little
sleep, than you would have done if you had gone and danced till six
o’clock in the morning with very queer partners, and in the company of
still queerer ladies?”
“You are perfectly right. I am sincerely grateful to you.”
“And I, too, am grateful for the coin which you have given me.”
She felt that it was not only for the coin that he was grateful.
“And now good-night. Good-night, Eline.”
She looked at him, and her eyes softened when she thus heard him
pronounce her name, without her permission.
“Good-night, Lawrence,” she whispered. She held out her hand. For a
moment he held it in his, his eyes looking into hers. Then he released
the little thin fingers.
“Adieu,” said he with a last cordial nod, and left.
For a while she stood still and mused. Then she told the servant to
extinguish the gas in the salon, and retired to her bed-room. The
sequins she took from her hair and placed on the toilet-table. On a
chair lay the glistening draperies of her ball toilet, and her little
Moorish slippers were on the floor beside it. While she undressed, she
still heard his voice with its light accent. Slowly she arranged her
ornaments. Her eye fell on her watch, to the chain of which a black
locket was attached. She opened it and gazed into it for a long while,
and her eyes grew moist. Then she pressed a soft kiss on the likeness
which it contained. For a moment she thought of detaching it from its
chain and placing it in one of the little drawers of her jewel-case;
but she did not do so. She lay down in her bed; she did not sleep,
neither did she take her sleeping draught. At half-past five she heard
Elise, sighing with fatigue, returning with Uncle Daniel. But her
sleeplessness had not been disturbed by grim nightmares, and it seemed
to her as though a calm pink glow of light was diffused around her.
Later on she slept a little, and when she awoke she did not feel
herself quite so languid as she usually did on awaking.
Eline did not see Elise the following day before lunch. Uncle Daniel
had gone out already; he was always very busy, but nobody knew exactly
what his occupations were. Eline asked Elise whether she had enjoyed
herself.
“Oh yes,” said Elise in a kindly tone. “It was rather boisterous, and
perhaps it’s quite as well that you did not go. It might have upset
you. Did St. Clare stay long?”
“Till eleven.”
“Look here, it does not matter to me that he persuaded you to stay at
home, but Daniel found it rather foolish of you that you were so
obedient. Still he does not care either, you know. You are free to do
exactly as you like with us, you know that.”
Eline was silent.
“But you must admit,” Elise proceeded laughingly, “it’s a strange case.
Yes, certainly, Eline, it’s a strange case, and sets one thinking.”
Eline looked at her searchingly.
“What do you think, then?”
“My dear girl, that I keep to myself, that I won’t tell you. But I,
who, as you know, never think, I certainly do begin to think a little
now. But I do not want to intimidate you, you know. I think it’s a very
good thing, if what I think is true.”
Eline knew that she was referring to something which in her own mind
was only just rising in very vague shape. She remained silent, and
while Elise, who was still rather tired from the ball, threw herself on
the couch with a book and was soon asleep, she sat down by the window
and collected her thoughts. In the last few days she had thought
little, she had merely allowed herself to be dragged along by a sweet
tenderness which had overwhelmed her; but now Elise’s veiled words
brought her to herself again. Yes, the case gave food for thought. St.
Clare had dared to ask her to stay at home, and she had yielded to his
wishes, and the thought that it awakened in her mind she did not dare
to shape. Gladly as she would have yielded herself to that thought, she
knew that it could never be, never. Oh, why had she not met him sooner?
Fate was cruel indeed. She began to fear that she should have treated
him differently, perhaps she ought to have repelled him with haughty
coldness, with indignation at his interference in her affairs, neither
should she have asked his pardon after she had once been cold to him.
But it had been so sweet to bend to his will; he was so strong, and she
found so much support in his strength. She had never imagined that he
could have felt any love for her—ailing, weak, broken-down creature
that she was; it was not right, he ought not to have begun to care for
her, but now perhaps it was too late.
When, a few days later, she saw him again, he found her alone in the
large salon. Eline was seated in an arm-chair by the fire, whilst a
furious wind was driving the snowflakes against the window-pane.
“I knew I should find you at home. That is why I have come,” said he,
as he took his seat. “Have your uncle and aunt gone out?”
“Yes; I don’t know where they have gone. I believe to a sale.”
She had made up her mind to be a little distant in her manner, but his
company was so welcome to her that she did not succeed. She said, “I am
very glad to see you again.”
He smiled a little, and made a few remarks about the antique china
which was scattered about the room. Then he continued—
“Soon I shall be leaving you for long; we are going northward viâ
Cologne and Berlin.”
It was as if the breath were choked within her.
“When do you go?” she asked mechanically.
“In a few days.”
“You are going as far as St. Petersburg, as far as Moscow, are you
not?”
“Yes.”
“Does Russia attract you?”
He answered a little absently, in short, halting sentences. While she
listened, she felt she could have cried, and his words sounded to her
as if they were spoken through a mist, and she heard him say, as if he
were interrupting himself—
“But I wanted to ask you something. I wanted to ask you if, during the
time that I am away, you will now and then think of me.”
“Certainly I will think of you,” she said with trembling lips; “you
have been so good and so kind to me, and—I shall always hold you in
pleasant memory.”
“Thank you,” he softly said. “Don’t you think it sad when people have
learned to know each other, and feel sympathy for one another, that
they have to part?”
“Yes. But there is so much that is sad in the world.”
“You will say, perhaps,” he continued, following his own train of
thought, “that I can stay in Brussels as long as I like because I
travel for my pleasure. Perhaps, even, I should prefer to remain in
Brussels.”
She began to tremble all over, but she made an effort and restrained
herself.
“Why should you not go further?” she murmured. “Why should you not see
what you can of the world?”
“Because I’m fond of you,” he answered calmly. And his penetrating eyes
looked at her fixedly. “And because I cannot bear to leave you. I
should gladly stay with you, stay with you always to protect you—I
shudder at having to leave you. I have a feeling when I think of my
departure as if some misfortune would happen to you.”
She wanted to reply something, but she could not, for she nearly choked
in repressing the tears that came to her eyes.
“But that is impossible,” she said painfully, almost despairingly.
“And why is it impossible?” he asked. “Why is it impossible that I
should always stay with you, or rather that you should always stay with
me? Tell me, Eline.”
“Because it cannot be,” she answered briefly.
“Oh yes, it can; if you cared for me you would not say so. I should
take you with me. I should care for you. You should be my wife.”
“And I—I should make you unhappy.”
“No, no; I should do my very best to make you happy, and I’m certain
that I should succeed. Listen to me. Even before I had seen you,
Vincent’s words made me feel an interest in you. The first time that I
met you I pitied you, for I saw in your whole being that you had had a
great grief, that you were still in grief, and that you were unhappy. I
began to think what I could do to make you happy, but I found nothing,
only while I was speaking to you, and while my mind was full of
thoughts, it seemed to me that there was a little more animation coming
into your face, and more contentment into your words. Perhaps it was
only my fancy, but it seemed so to me. I imagined, too—perhaps it was
my vanity—that I myself somewhat influenced that change. I took notice
of you, though you spoke to other people, but at such times you were
quiet, cool, and reserved. But with me you were very different; you
even grew confidential. Then it was that a great desire came over me to
be all in all to you, for I thought perhaps then you would be happy,
and would no longer take such a sombre view of life. Elly, dear, you
are still so young, and you imagine that all is over with you. Do not
think so any longer, but trust yourself to me, and let us find out
together whether life is really such a melancholy affair as you
imagined. Tell me, Elly, will you do so? Will you see with me whether
an entirely new life may not be yours?”
She sobbed softly, lifted up her weeping eyes, and folded her hands
almost in supplication.
“Oh, why do you ask me that?” she cried. “Why must you ask me that? Why
must I cause you grief? Have I not given pain to enough people already?
And now must I be a misery to you as well? But it cannot be—it cannot
be, never!”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” she repeated meditatively. “Because although I am still
young, I am thoroughly broken. Can you not see that? Because everything
in me is shattered—because I am an utter wreck.”
“Eline, use no such big words; speak calmly.”
“I use no big words. I do speak calmly. I speak with deliberation, with
the deliberation of despair,” she cried rising, and she remained
standing before him as he took her hand. “I speak with so much
deliberation that it makes me shudder. Listen, Lawrence, you know that
I have been engaged.”
“Yes. And that you have given him back his word.”
“Yes. I have given him back his word, and yet I liked him. Even while I
wrote to him releasing him from his engagement, I liked him. Is that
not terrible?”
He did not answer, and looked at her as if he did not understand.
“That you cannot understand, can you?” she asked, and her hands
trembled in his. “You cannot understand that such terrible doubts can
fill a woman’s heart? You cannot understand that at times I don’t know
what I feel, nor what I think, nor what I would do. Do you see, there
is something in me, something that is incomplete. I am always in doubt.
I am always searching for something, and never feel certain of
anything. I liked him. Forgive me for telling you now. I liked him so
very much, he was so good, and he would have sacrificed his life for
me. And there came a moment when I knew no longer whether I liked him
or not, when I even thought I cared for some one else, whilst all the
time I cared for none but him. And now I know it—now that it is too
late, and now that I have perhaps made him unhappy.”
“Do you know that you have made him unhappy, Eline?”
“No. I do not know, but I suspect it. At the Hague I did hear something
about his having got the better of his grief, but I could never believe
it. Now that it is too late I know all, and it is only now that I know
how fond he was of me. Even if I were to hear that he were married, I
could not believe that he had quite forgotten me. It cannot be! He must
think of me as I often think of him.”
“Do you still care for him?” he asked in a dull voice.
“Not as I have cared for him, not now, Lawrence. I believe just now it
is only pity I feel for him, but I often think of him. Here is his
portrait.”
She opened the locket, and showed him Otto’s likeness. Without saying a
word he gazed at it.
“Do you always carry this about with you?” he softly asked.
“Yes,” she whispered, almost inaudibly, “always. To me this is sacred,
and therefore, Lawrence, therefore it can never be. The thought of him
would always rise up between us. With you I could be happy if that
memory did not always haunt me. But for me to be happy whilst I
continually remembered that his life was so wretched—oh! it would be
impossible.”
He did not answer, and she began to sob violently. She sank down on the
ground, and laid her head on his knee.
“Oh, forgive me, Lawrence, forgive me. I never thought that you could
care for me. I was so ill, I was always coughing, I felt myself so
weak. I thought that I had grown out of it, that I should even have
repelled a man. Had I not thought thus I should never have allowed you
to see that I cared for you. At first you spoke as if we were brother
and sister. Why did you not continue to speak thus? As it is, now I
have been compelled to cause you pain; I could not help it. I should
have been wicked if I could have become your wife without a feeling of
remorse.”
He lifted her up gently, and drew her towards him a little.
“Eline,” said he, “one day you told me that you had thrown away your
happiness. Then I did not ask you what you meant by it, but now I ask
you, do you mean by that the letter which you sent to Otto?”
“Yes,” she sobbed.
“With that letter you threw your happiness away, you say? Are you
certain now that you are not throwing away your happiness for the
second time, or can I never make you happy? It is Otto alone who can do
that?”
She looked at him with a melting expression in her eyes.
“Oh, Lawrence,” she murmured passionately, her head nearly on his
bosom, “if I had but met you before—before all that had happened, I
could not have cared for any one but you. But it could not be. It was
my fate.”
“Oh, do not speak about fate. Fate is but a phrase. Every one makes his
own fate. You—you are too weak to make one for yourself. Let me make
your fate for you.”
“It cannot be,” she sobbed, and shook her head, which was nestled
against him, hither and thither. “It can never be.”
“Yes, Eline, it can be,” he answered. “You say you could not have cared
for any one but me had you seen me sooner. Perhaps in that case I might
not have cared for you; however, these are suppositions which do not
concern you in the least. All I know now is, that I like you as you
are. You say that you are ill, but I know that you will be well again,
I feel it.”
“That is no certainty,” she wept.
“That is true, but no more is it a certainty that you have made Otto
unhappy. You feel that too, do you not? You are not certain of it.”
“No, no, I believe I am certain.”
“No, you are not,” he continued; “and you tell me, now that I ask you
to be my wife, that it cannot be, that it can never be. Is that not
cruel of you?”
“Oh, why do you reproach me with that?” she sobbed.
“Just now you said yourself that you were always in doubt—that you were
always searching for something, but that you never knew anything for
certain. How is it then that now you say you know without doubt that it
never could be? Are you so certain of that? Will you feel no regret
when I am gone—when it is too late?”
“Oh,” she groaned, “how can you make me suffer thus? You torture me.”
He was silent for a moment, and gently raised her head from his bosom.
“I shall torture you no longer, Eline. Only this I want to say to you.
Don’t refuse now what I have asked you. A day may come when you may
wish that you had spoken differently. Let me hope as much as that, at
least. The day after to-morrow I am leaving here with Vincent. In five
months’ time I shall see you once again. I shall ask Vincent to write
you now and then. You shall always know where we are, and you need but
say one word, and I shall return at once. I don’t ask you now to
promise me anything, but pray refuse me nothing either. Allow me to
hope, and endeavour to hope yourself. Will you do this, or is it too
much that I am asking you?”
“No,” she whispered. “Oh, no, it is not too much. I will give you my
answer in five months’ time.”
“Very well,” said he. “I shall ask you nothing more, and now I shall
wait until your uncle and aunt are home to take leave of them. Vincent
will come to-morrow. But now that we are alone, may I take my leave of
you?”
She did not answer, but looked at him. He pressed her in his arms and
kissed her.
“In five months’ time then?” he whispered with a smile.
She raised herself up, looked at him fixedly, and then flung her arms
round his neck. And she kissed his forehead with a long passionate
kiss.
“In—in five months,” she murmured in reply.