Eline Vere

XXII

Vincent continued to feel very weak, and Dr Reijer ordered him to stay indoors for the next few weeks, as there was a possibility he might suffer another fainting fit at the slightest provocation. He dutifully followed this advice, for which the doctor praised him, adding that had Mr Vere not become so sensible lately he would no longer be among the living. He also praised Vincent for adopting a healthier way of life by not smoking, drinking little, and taking as much rest as possible in the soothing atmosphere of his cousin’s home. His only concern now was the patient’s lack of appetite.

Vincent passed his days in Eline’s boudoir, as Betsy could not spare him a sitting room to himself. He would make himself comfortable on the Persian couch, snugly wrapped in an ample Turkish dressing gown — a memento of his days of luxury in Smyrna. Sallow-skinned, his pale, lustreless eyes resembling dulled blue porcelain, and his light brown hair cut short, he reclined beneath Eline’s aralia, his anaemic fingers holding a book in which he read not a line. He felt as though the capacity to think had vanished from his brain, that he had sunk into a mindless state of inertia akin to the fatigue caused by a stint of strenuous physical exertion. Only petty, childish thoughts floated into his mind from time to time, like so many evanescent soap bubbles, and his pleasures and disappointments were likewise petty: he felt gratified when Dr Reijer commended him for his progress, and exceedingly sorry for himself when Eline was two minutes late bringing him his breakfast. Beyond that he felt nothing, he simply lay there letting his eyes wander about Eline’s room, taking in all the pictures, the potted palms, the profusion of fineries and bric-a-brac.

In the morning Eline kept him company, reading to him or singing snatches of songs to her own accompaniment on the piano, a phrase here and a roulade there, to which Vincent listened dreamily, lost in a strange vision brimming with unfamiliar fragrances and muted shades, all swirling together as in a kaleidoscope of colour and perfume. He maintained a pensive silence, and Eline too said little, suffused as she was by a romantic sense of fulfilment. During her vigils at Aunt Vere’s bedside she had experienced that same gratifying emotion, which arose from selfless dedication to the care of someone in need. Her fascination for Vincent grew, her heart went out to him, and she relished the opportunity to nurse the languishing invalid in his Turkish robe and Turkish slippers.

The afternoons were usually spent at home until four, at which time Otto collected her to go for a walk. Whenever he gently rebuked her for not taking sufficient care of her own health, and for upsetting herself far too much about Vincent’s illness, she would look at him tearfully in disbelief — how could he not feel the deepest, deepest sympathy for poor Vincent, who was so forsaken, so hapless and so delicate? All these cares caused her to lose interest in discussing the manifold details of her trousseau with Betsy, and one day she even remarked, with a distant look in her eyes, how awful it would be to have the wedding in November should Vincent’s life still be in danger at that time. Betsy merely shrugged her shoulders and fetched out more catalogues of household linen and swatches of damask and lace, but Eline, finding it impossible to concentrate, went back to Vincent, who, so she fancied, gave her a reproachful look as she entered the room. Only recently, the conversation they had been having just before he fainted had come back to her, unleashing a flood of emotion in her soul. She remembered having asked him whether her marriage to Otto was her foreordained destiny, and could not help thinking that he might have collapsed in despair, and that the cause of his illness might be that he harboured a secret passion for her. After all, he had never spent so much time in The Hague before, almost a year it was now, whereas previously he had never stayed longer than a few weeks at a stretch. Poor Vincent! At least he had her to nurse him. . only, wasn’t there a risk of her ministrations fanning the flames of his passion, a passion fated to be unrequited, since she could love only her Otto?

She wished she had someone she could take into her confidence. But it was all so complicated, and she could not think whom she could turn to. To Otto? That would not be quite seemly, she felt, and there was little point in telling Betsy, because she was bound to react as she always did — by asking where on earth Eline got her ridiculous ideas from. Madame van Raat, then?

Yes, that was a good idea, Madame van Raat would be able to advise her. She would go and visit her at home one morning alone, without Otto. Once there, however, she found it so difficult to put into words her suspicions about Vincent’s feelings for her that she departed again without any mention of the subject, consoling herself with the rueful notion that Vincent might yet die before she and Otto were married, in which case her tender care would have gone some way towards sweetening his final days.

As time went by her conviction grew that Vincent was secretly in love with her, and she felt herself being engulfed by pity for her poor invalid. Her tranquil happiness, which she had believed to be unassailable, began to slip from her grasp like a wild bird bent on escape, and a nervous agitation took possession of her being, which she did not dare mention to Otto. Any thought of Vincent seemed to raise a dense fog between her and Otto, and the idea of that fog thickening any further sent shivers down her spine. After spending half the day at Vincent’s side, ridden with anxiety, she would long to see her Otto again, under whose calming influence she hoped to regain her composure. He arrived at a little after four; they went for a stroll; he stayed for supper; the pair of them spent time together, and then, when he left at half-past eleven and she retired to her bedroom, she would be on the brink of tears at the realisation that his company no longer had the same soothing effect on her as before. On the contrary, his calmness even irritated her now and then; she took it as a sign of indifference, which she found increasingly objectionable, especially when she compared him to the sensitive, grief-stricken Vincent. Even Otto’s plain way of speaking, in which she had only recently discovered such a wealth of love, irritated her now. . Did he never have an outburst of passion about anything. . anything at all? Would he always remain so calm, so stolid, so eternally even-tempered? Had he never known the torment of warring emotions? Was there nothing that could jolt him out of his calm repose, which seemed to her almost like lethargy. . Oh yes, he was good and kind all right, but his feelings did not seem to run very deep; perhaps his calmness signified nothing but egotism, perhaps he was simply insensitive to the suffering of others! And as far as she was concerned, Vincent was human suffering personified. .

Thoughts such as these made Eline feel utterly wretched. Oh God, it was those ghosts again. . here they were, evil and leering, the same as the one that had appeared to her so suddenly during her conversation with Vincent! No, she would not let them get the better of her, she would chase them away! But they kept returning, one after another, chilling her soul with doubts, and she gathered herself to do battle with them. She forced herself to think back on the sweet emotions she had known during those halcyon days at De Horze, to relive that gentle happiness, that blue haze of ecstasy. . but the happiness, the ecstasy, were gone! And then, one night as she lay in bed staring wide-eyed into the soundless dark, unable to sleep, she faced the cruel reality of her loss, and broke down into wild, racking sobs, clinging on to her pillow as though it were her very happiness, as though it were the bird struggling to escape from her grasp. She tossed her head from side to side. . No, no, she did not want this! She wanted to be happy the way she used to be, she wanted to love her Otto the way she did then, in the pine grove! Dear God, was it possible that she no longer loved him? It was unthinkable, it could not be, she would not allow it, she would summon all the fortitude of her will to go on loving him as before, she would cling on to him as she now clung to her pillow, and no leering ghost would ever pry them apart. . Listening to the silence in the house, she could make out the insistent, metallic sound of the big clock ticking in the kitchen downstairs, on and on, and she was seized with mortal fear. . fear that her happiness would not allow itself to be forced back into her soul, fear that there were invisible forces pushing her down a steep slope, while all she wanted was to rise up and up. . And then her agony turned into rage, rage because she was being assailed by thoughts she did not wish to think at all, and because she felt herself too weak to turn around and fight those invisible forces.

. .

When Eline awoke the next morning she felt relatively calm. She was tired and had a slight headache, but the horror of the past night had faded into a bad dream, which she had no desire to recall, much less meditate on. No indeed, she would become her old self again, never again would she allow herself to think such nightmarish thoughts, which only came to her, casting her into a bottomless pit of wretchedness, because she could not sleep. That was all — she wasn’t well, she had trouble sleeping, and it was always during those wakeful nights when all was quiet as the grave that those terrible notions came to torment her. She made up her mind to consult Dr Reijer about her insomnia, and oh, how much better she felt already, seeing the pale light of day coming in through a chink in the curtains. She got up early, had a little romp with Ben downstairs, took Vincent his morning roll and hot chocolate as usual — a task she never entrusted to Mina — and settled down with Betsy to go over the catalogues and swatches of materials yet again. She studied the relative merits of fine tablecloths and table napkins, and was much taken with a set of smartly monogrammed pillow cases that were very reasonably priced at the Louvre shop, and she reminded Betsy that from now on she had to be careful not to spend too much, but oh, how attractive those tea towels looked in the other catalogue!

While she kept up her bright patter there was, deep within her, a patch of gloom, like a slag of black mud on the bed of an apparently limpid blue lake. But she did her best to ignore it, and throughout their discussion Betsy noticed nothing unusual in her demeanour. Then Eline went upstairs, taking a large envelope that had been delivered for Vincent.

He was in his Turkish dressing gown as usual, lying on the couch. His condition, however, was improving: Dr Reijer had even said he might try taking a short stroll, but his repose had become dear to him, and he had replied that he did not yet feel up to it. When Eline entered he nodded affably; he relished having her waiting on him hand and foot, and his gratitude brought to his lustreless eyes an amicable glimmer, which Eline mistook for love.

She handed him the letter and asked him how he was feeling.

‘Not bad; getting better, I suppose,’ he said tonelessly, then sat bolt upright and tore open the envelope. Eline was about to sit down at the piano.

‘Ah, at last!’ she heard Vincent exclaim, almost joyfully.

She gave him a questioning look. A portrait photograph slipped from the envelope onto the floor, and she bent down to retrieve it.

‘It’s from new York, a letter from Lawrence St Clare!’ said Vincent, running his eye over the contents. ‘He’s found something for me, apparently. There seems to be a vacancy at the trading company he’s affiliated with.’

Eline was startled; she studied the portrait, which had suffered some damage in the post.

‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.

‘About what?’

‘What do you think you’ll do?’

‘I’ll go as soon as I’m better,’ he said. ‘But that won’t be for quite a while,’ he added mournfully.

‘Go to America, you mean?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Will you be glad to go, once you’re better?’

‘Naturally. Not much point in hanging around here, is there, now that I can get a situation.’

With scarcely a thought for what he had said, he lay back on the Persian cushions, and a profusion of brightly coloured visions floated into his mind. He recalled his former life of endless variation, of ever-changing perspectives and horizons. Variety was life itself, variety would make him better, it would make him young again. He recalled his friend, a fine fellow in body and spirit, and the only man who gave him the feeling that there was more to life than world-weariness.

Eline, however, was filled with pity for Vincent.

It was only natural that he should wish to leave the country, to be well away by the time her wedding came around, so that he would be spared the agony of witnessing it. No wonder he jumped at the opportunity, really. . he was obviously in love with her, and it was making him suffer!

She was still holding the portrait in her hands.

‘Is this St Clare?’ she asked, close to tears for the pain she thought he was going through.

‘Yes,’ he replied, taking it from her. ‘It’s a fine likeness! It shows him the way he is: open, upstanding, full of life and good humour.’

‘Is he dark or fair?’

‘His hair is tawny; so is his beard. Dashing, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he’s handsome. But Vincent. .’

‘What?’

‘Vincent, are you sure? Why don’t you think it over? You’re still very frail, you could have a relapse. You’d better ask Reijer’s opinion first.’

‘My dear Elly, I’m the same as I ever was; my health has never been robust, and besides, who’ll support me if I do stay here — not you, surely?’ he asked, smiling.

To her that smile seemed wistful, and she reproached herself for trying to dissuade him. No, he was quite right to go, but on the other hand, something might happen, something that would turn everything upside down, so that there would be no need for him to leave, or at least not like this. Her head spun, she no longer knew what she wanted him to do, and she shrank from pursuing the thought that now entered her mind. It would be too awful. Too awful for Otto, and too awful for herself as well.

Vincent remained in remarkably good spirits all afternoon, and when Reijer called he advised the patient not to excite himself too much. As for America — later, perhaps, but for the time being travel was out of the question. In the interim Mr Vere would do well to take a short stroll or a brief ride in the carriage to start with, what with the weather being so mild.

Betsy promptly ordered the landau for half-past two, and off they went: Vincent, herself and Eline. In the bright light outside Eline was shocked to see how grey Vincent’s complexion was above the white-silk foulard draped about his neck, how dulled and frail he looked in his smart liver-coloured demi-season and shiny top hat. He leant stiffly against the cushions, keeping very still, his gloved hands resting on the silver knob of his cane. He felt light in the head, even a little groggy, and had he not been seated would have keeled over from the effect of the oxygen filling his lungs. His eyes smarted, so he closed them a moment, while his ears throbbed and the carriage wheels spun round in his brain. But gradually he became accustomed to the cool, fresh air and the wide vistas unfolding before his eyes at each bend in the road, and his breathing became deep and regular. He felt mildly invigorated, and his nerves regaining a little strength.

Eline did her best to converse brightly, addressing him and Betsy by turns. Upon their return an after an hour or so, she helped Vincent alight from the carriage and took his arm to lead him upstairs to her sitting room. She helped him out of his coat, after which he dropped on to the couch, quite exhausted from the outing. He asked her to leave him alone for a while, as he wished to take a nap.

Betsy instructed the servants that she was receiving, and in due course several callers arrived: Madame Eekhof accompanied by Ange and Léonie, Madame Hovel and the Hijdrecht boy. Henk had gone to his club, but Eline joined the company in the tempered light of the salon, and presently Otto was shown in, too. When he entered the room Eline did not feel the thrill of warmth and contentment his appearance normally inspired in her, but icecold indifference. Oh God, how could that be? How could all that warmth have suddenly turned to ice? She did not know, but it was so, and she was powerless to change it. She nodded sweetly at him and extended her hand, feeling a pang of conscience as she did so, and held on to it while she continued telling Hijdrecht about the new chanteuse légère at the opera. She could not bear to look at Otto, all she could do was hold his hand and prattle on. What Hijdrecht said in response she scarcely heard, for her heart brimmed with pity for Otto. . There he stood, by her side, his hand in hers, and she could feel his soft, kindly gaze resting on her, and his breath almost ruffling her hair as he leant over the back of her chair; there he was, radiating love, while she. . she felt as cold as ice! No, no, this could not be, she would not allow it, she would compel herself. . she pitied him too much. . he loved her too much. .

‘Nily, dear child, what is the matter?’ he murmured while Hijdrecht and the ladies rose to their feet. He could feel the nervous pressure of her fingers on his hand.

‘Me? With me? Nothing, a slight headache that’s all,’ she said haltingly, facing him for the first time that afternoon. He gazed into her eyes, and she felt an urge to fling herself into his arms, to hold him very tight and never let him go again. .

Instead, she smiled and shook hands first with Madame Eekhof, then with Ange.

‘Is there nothing to be done? Has it gone for ever?’ she thought in despair.

They had a few minutes alone before dinner.

‘Nily, my dearest, are you sure you are all right?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Your hand is so cold.’

‘I feel a little feverish. We went for a drive this afternoon, in the open landau, with Vincent. . I can’t imagine why Reijer recommended it. I thought it was cold, freezing cold.’

‘Let’s hope you haven’t caught anything.’

‘No, it will pass, I’m sure.’

She smiled at him weakly, and all at once, in a surge of hopeless anguish, she flung her arms about him.

‘How sweet of you to be so concerned about me,’ she whispered, and her voice broke. ‘You are so good, and. . I love you so much. I love you so very, very much. .’

. .

Vincent did not yet feel well enough to join them for lunch that day. Betsy told Otto about the letter that had arrived with news of a position for Vincent in New York.

‘And when is he thinking of going?’

‘As soon as he is fit again. Thank God we’ll be seeing the back of him.’

Eline could not contain herself.

‘Reijer says he mustn’t even think of travelling for the next several weeks!’ she said sharply, glaring at Betsy. ‘But you—’

‘What?’

‘If it weren’t for the sake of decency you’d turn him out into the street today, ill as he is!’

‘If I could, yes, I certainly would. And let me tell you once and for all: I shall never have him to stay again. I haven’t known anyone to outstay their welcome like this!’

‘But Betsy, he’s practically dying!’ Eline cried out, quivering with rage.

‘Don’t be absurd!’

‘Absurd? Can’t you see how ill he looks?’ she shrieked.

‘Oh please, Eline, let’s not quibble about Vincent. He’s not worth it. You’re being melodramatic; stop making such a fuss.’

‘Ah yes, “Don’t make a fuss” — that’s what you always say when anyone shows the least bit of feeling! But you — you’re just plain heartless!’

‘Eline!’ murmured Otto.

Gerard entered, bearing the meat dish. A painful silence prevailed.

‘You forgot the gravy, Gerard,’ snapped Betsy, and the manservant withdrew.

‘You — why, you’d trample on anyone who happened to be the least bit in your way! You won’t put up with the slightest bother for the sake of anyone else! You’re a downright egotist! You think of no one but yourself, and you don’t even understand that not everyone is as mean as you, and—’

‘Eline!’ remonstrated Otto, glancing at the door as Gerard reentered with a gravy boat.

‘Oh, stop saying Eline, Eline! Qu’est ce que me fait cet homme!’ Eline burst out, switching to French so the servant would not understand. ‘I don’t care what he thinks! Betsy just won’t see it, but I assure you, Vincent is dying. He fell asleep in my room, as white as a sheet, completely worn out by that stupid ride recommended by Dr Reijer; and I won’t have you accusing him of being indiscreet or anything like that. If he hadn’t been so ill I’m quite sure he would never stayed here this long.’

She spoke passionately, eyes aflame, and the words spilled from her lips with haughty, needle-sharp acuity.

Betsy too seethed with rage as she waited for Gerard to withdraw, but she said nothing. Henk gave an involuntary sigh.

‘Nily my darling,’ said Otto, ‘I have nothing against Vincent, and no particular sympathy for him either, but I can’t say I shall be sorry to see him go, because—’

‘Not you too?’ she snapped.

‘May I finish?’ he pursued, clasping her icy hand. ‘I mean that I will be glad to see him go if his presence in this house goes on upsetting you as much as it has today. You don’t know what you’re saying, Nily, or what you sound like.’

His calm words infuriated her.

‘And you — you’re always calm, you never get excited about anything, do you?’ she burst out, almost screaming. She sprang to her feet, throwing her napkin on the table. ‘It’s driving me mad, all that calmness! Oh God, it’s driving me mad! Betsy drives me mad with her egotism, and you with your calmness, yes, your calmness! I–I — can’t stand it any more! You’re suffocating me!’

‘Eline!’ cried Otto.

Springing up in his turn, he seized both her wrists and gazed into her eyes. She had expected some dramatic, dreadful response, that he would throw her to the floor, or smack her, but all he did was shake his head slowly from side to side, and in a tone of profound sorrow he said simply:

‘Eline — for shame!’

‘Oh my God! I–I’m going out of my mind!’ she raged. Then, convulsed with sobs, she tore herself away from his grasp and rushed out of the room, dashing several wine glasses to the floor as she went.

. .

Betsy made to run after Eline, but Otto restrained her.

‘I beg you, just let her be!’

Henk too had jumped up, and when Gerard came in again all three of them felt acutely embarrassed about their interrupted dinner and the broken glasses.

‘There’s no need, no need, Gerard,’ said Betsy, almost apologetically. ‘You had better clear the table now.’

They did not know where to look, as the manservant, for all his dignified stoicism, was bound to have guessed there had been a scene.

Meanwhile Eline had rushed upstairs and burst into her boudoir, startled to see Vincent, for she had forgotten he was there. She recoiled and stood in the doorway a moment, somewhat at a loss. Vincent was still dozing; his lunch tray stood untouched on the side table by the couch. The sight of him asleep gave Eline a sense of cruel, romantic satisfaction at having leapt to his defence, at having stood up for him against Betsy, and against Otto. . Not wishing to wake him just yet, she slipped into her bedroom, soundlessly closing the door behind her, and threw herself on her bed. Her sobbing had ceased quite suddenly, and, to her consternation, she found herself unable to weep. The solitude and calmness of her room cooled her agitated nerves, and although she could not remember the exact words she had spoken, she knew she had said the most appalling things, especially to Otto. Why? Why had she lashed out at him like that? Had it been because of Vincent? Because of Otto’s infuriating stoicism? She no longer knew the reason; her brain was in complete turmoil, and she tossed her head from side to side on her pillow in an effort to shake off her confusion. Yes, she thought, it must have been because of Vincent, who had no one in the whole world but her and that friend of his, far away in New York. She felt sorry for him, but then, didn’t she feel even more sorry for Otto? Had she actually intended to speak her mind with such vehemence? Had it been her own free will? The same will with which she had tried to force herself to continue loving Otto, because she knew she would make both him and herself miserable otherwise? Back at De Horze — how long ago that seemed! — she had never, ever, had the slightest difference of opinion with Otto, and now this! She had insulted him to his face. . dear God, why? Whatever had made her do it? Would Vincent consider this just another inevitable outcome of a whole series of other, interconnected inevitabilities? So then what was life? What was a human being? A helpless puppet, with Fate pulling its strings? She had tried with all her might to change, of that she was certain, but she was simply too weak to go against the fate that ruled her existence, and now, now the realisation dawned on her that it was all over! She had lost, she had no choice but to admit defeat.

Slowly she began to cry, and she was relieved to feel the tears wetting her cheeks; she made herself sob properly, too, although not too loudly. . better not let Vincent notice. It grew dark; ah, she could hear him moving about in the next room, where he had evidently lit the lamp, for she could see a slit of light beneath the door. But she remained as she was, lying supine on her bed, sobbing piteously.

. .

Otto was seated in the salon staring at the floor when Henk entered.

Noting the glint of a tear in Otto’s eyes, Henk became agitated.

‘Oh, Van Erlevoort!’ he said, laying his hand on Otto’s shoulder.

Otto raised his head.

‘Van Erlevoort! Come on old chap, be a man! I know it’s not all plain sailing with Sis, but she’s not bad at heart! You mustn’t mind what she said, do you hear? She was only angry with Betsy because she’s rather fond of Vincent, and you accidentally bore the brunt of her anger. You should just ignore it, that will be the best punishment for her.’

Otto did not respond and remained slumped in his seat, too harrowed by doubt to be assuaged by Henk’s solicitude. He thought of the time he had told Eline that she had but one fault, her lack of self-knowledge, and that she had hidden treasures slumbering within her which he would help her to rouse, but now he saw only too clearly that it would not be in his power to do so, that all he was able to rouse in her was irritation. . and that he was driving her mad. . suffocating her.

‘She can be confoundedly awkward when she gets in a tantrum,’ Henk pursued, inwardly raging as he paced the salon trying to think of comforting things to say. ‘But when she’s with someone she loves and respects she always sees reason in the end, and then. . I say, shall I go and have a word with her?’

‘I think she should be left alone,’ replied Otto, with difficulty. ‘She’s bound to come round, given time.’

He tried to imagine himself in her place, to guess what she was feeling at this moment, but found himself too stunned to pursue any logical train of thought. Never had he heard her use that kind of language before, never had he known her to shout or scream, never had he seen her face contorted with such unsightly anger. Try as he might, he was unable to gather his reason owing to the pain lacerating his heart.

Henk could not bear to see him thus, bowed and despairing, and suddenly felt himself spurred into action. He had a high regard for Otto, and it was unforgivable of Eline to treat him with such contempt; no indeed, he would not allow her to get away with it, and with a new vigour he strode out of the salon. Halfway up the stairs he met Betsy, who was on her way down.

‘Where is Eline?’ he asked.

Betsy glanced at him, taken aback by his resolute tone.

‘I don’t know,’ she said drily.

Henk continued up the stairs and entered Eline’s boudoir. Finding no one there, he assumed that Vincent was tired after his first brief spell out of doors and had already retired to bed, oblivious to the scene that had taken place downstairs. Henk knocked on the door to Eline’s bedroom.

‘Eline!’ he called.

There was no answer, and he pushed the door open. In the halflight he saw Eline lying on the floor, her slight form shaking with stifled sobs, her face hidden in her hands. He paused for a moment on the threshold, but she did not move.

‘Do get up, Eline!’ he said firmly, almost commandingly.

At this she drew herself up with a violent jolt.

‘What do you want?’ she screamed. ‘What are you doing in my room? Go away!’

‘Get up.’

‘No I won’t! Just go away, will you? Go away, leave me alone!’

He bent down, flushed with emotion, and grasped her roughly by the wrists, causing her to cry out in pain.

‘Damnation! Get up!’ he hissed, almost beside himself with anger, and grabbed her arms to pull her up by force.

Shocked into submission by hearing him swear, by his high colour, his red face, his flashing eyes and his hoarse voice, she allowed him to raise her to her feet.

‘What do you want?’ she asked again, but more calmly now, and with a touch of hauteur.

‘I’ll tell you what I want. I want you to go down immediately — immediately, do you hear — and ask Van Erlevoort to forgive you. You may not remember all the things you said when you lost your temper, but you offended him deeply, very deeply. Go downstairs at once!’

She stared, open-mouthed, shrinking from his commanding tone and his burly frame looming over her as he pointed her to the door.

‘You’ll find him downstairs in the salon. Go!’

‘No I won’t!’ she cried out, shaken but still defiant.

‘If you won’t I shall drag you downstairs myself and make you go down on your knees to him! I mean it!’ he hissed in her face, articulating each syllable with furious emphasis.

‘Henk!’ she cried, horrified by his vehemence.

‘Well then?’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll go, I’ll go, but — oh, Henk! Don’t speak to me like that! Please don’t! You’re only making it worse, and heaven knows I feel bad enough already!’

‘That’s your own fault, all of it is your own fault, and you have no right to make cruel accusations against people, especially not against Van Erlevoort.’

‘Yes, yes, you’re right!’ she said, breaking down into sobs. ‘I shall go, but please, Henk, please come with me!’

Leaning on him for support, she allowed him to conduct her out of the boudoir and down the stairs. Upon entering the salon she gave a start. The room was empty but for Otto, sitting huddled on the sofa with his head in his hands. She caught a glimpse of Betsy in the drawing room, and of Gerard bringing in the tea tray, so she kept silent, waiting for the manservant to leave. Then, under Henk’s compelling gaze, she dared demur no longer, nor did she wish to when she saw Otto’s manifest despair. Falling on her knees before him, she tried to say something, but was too convulsed with sobs to speak — genuine, heartfelt sobs this time, mingling with a flood of tears. She pressed her throbbing, flushed forehead to his knees and groped for his hands in mute desperation.

He too kept silent, gazing into her eyes.

At last she uttered the words, with great effort, while Henk stood like a judge at her side:

‘Forgive me, Otto, forgive me, forgive me.’

He nodded his head slowly, as yet unconsoled by her remorse, for he knew that things would never be as he had once imagined. Nonetheless he leant forwards, drew her close and kissed her brow.

‘Forgive me, Otto, oh please forgive me, say you’ll forgive me!’

He curved his arm gently about her shaking shoulders and pressed her to his chest, screwing up his eyes to stem the tears. Because he knew: this was the end.

He took his leave half an hour later, in low spirits, although Henk patted him on the back several times, urging him in jovial tones to stay a while now that all was well again. He bade Eline goodbye with a pained smile. Afterwards Eline also begged Betsy’s pardon, likewise in Henk’s presence. Betsy’s only response was a brief nod of the head, but her eyes glittered with such apparent hatred that Eline recoiled and ran out of the room. Later, when Henk told Betsy how he had forced Eline to seek out Van Erlevoort, the look in her eye had been one of admiration. She never thought he had it in him — fancy him standing up to Eline when she was having one of her tantrums!

. .

Some weeks went by, during which things seemed to settle down much as they had been before. Vincent was feeling reasonably well, and went for frequent drives with the sisters. Betsy, however, ever mindful of Eline’s outburst, continued to harbour a sullen resentment against her. How typical: show a little kindness and the next thing you knew you were no longer mistress of your own home. Here she was, lumbered with an ailing, loathsome cousin who caused all sorts of unpleasantness, and a sister who was becoming more insufferable by the day! The atmosphere in her lovely home was quite ruined by the pair of them — but not for much longer, she vowed. As soon as Eline was married she, Betsy, would not only go on holiday with Henk and Ben, but get rid of Vincent as well, once and for all. Never again would he set foot in her house! Not even if he lay dying on her doorstep would she let him in — yes, Eline was right there, she had to give her that!

Eline for her part felt such profound regret at having railed against Otto that she brought all her charms to bear in an effort to make amends. Since Otto was only too willing to forgive her so that he might hope once more, her efforts met with a measure of success. But the crack that had appeared in their relationship proved impossible to repair. He realised full well that everyone said things in anger which they subsequently regretted, and that Eline had simply lost her temper, only. . the actual words she had spoken, now that he turned them over in his mind, were not what he would have expected of her. Had she loved him as he thought she did — granted, with a touch of egotism; not so much for his sake as for her own, and for the peace and happiness she found in him — she would never have used those words. However incensed she might have been, whether on Vincent’s behalf or for any other reason, she would have expressed her feelings differently. He saw it clearly: she no longer even loved him for her own sake, because she no longer found his calm temperament soothing, on the contrary, she found it irritating; nor did she love him for himself, she never had: she forced herself to be kind to him, out of pity! All his pride bristled at the realisation, and for a moment he considered flinging her pity in her face just as she had flung his calmness in his face, but he could not. He could not do this to her, he loved her too much, nor could he do it to himself. So he suffered her contrition in a final bid to recover a fraction of the happiness she had once inspired in him, and yet he knew: it was over.

It was over; he could tell by the mildly detached air with which she greeted him when he visited, once the fervour of making amends had passed; he could tell by the way she allowed him to plant a kiss on her brow, by her alacrity to withdraw from his embrace, by her languishing silences, by everything in her manner. And for the first time he noticed how often she looked at Vincent, and how she was still at his beck and call notwithstanding his full recovery. It was something he did not wish to contemplate; the thought was too distasteful.

Eline for her part was deeply despondent; she knew she could not force herself to continue loving Otto, but suffered mortal terrors of conscience whenever he turned his mournful gaze on her. She felt a sense of total defeat. One afternoon she stayed upstairs, telling Mina to say that she was not feeling well and would not be coming down. He asked if he might see her in her room, but she sent word that she was tired and needed to rest. Slowly but surely a decision was taking shape in her mind: she had to do it, she owed it to him, and to herself. She refused to see him the following day, too, despite Henk’s best efforts to persuade her, to which she responded by shaking her head with slow determination: she could not see him, she was ill. Should he call Dr Reijer? No, there was no need.

And she kept to her room, while Otto dined downstairs with Betsy, Vincent and Henk, and left early.

. .

That evening she spent a long while lying on her couch, staring into the dark. She did not wish to see Vincent either. At last she lit the gas lamp herself, drew the curtains and sat down at her writing table. It had to be done.

Calmly she began to write, pausing frequently to read what she had written:

My dear Otto!

Forgive me, I beg you, but I have no alternative. Ask yourself whether I could ever make you happy and whether I would not be a burden to you. There was a time when I believed I could make you happy, and I shall remember it as long I live, because it was the greatest happiness I have ever known. But now —

Tears welled up in her eyes as she wrote, and suddenly, breaking into violent sobs, she tore up the sheet of paper. She was not capable of inflicting such suffering on him. Oh God, she could not do it! But then what? Let the relationship continue regardless of the pain it caused her, until such time as some other devastating variance drove them apart anyway? No, no, in that case it would be better to part in friendship now, with a last, fond letter of farewell! But she had already hurt him so deeply, without wishing to; she did not wish to hurt him further, and now — oh why did she have to struggle with her emotions like this, all alone and forsaken, with no one to turn to, and without really knowing what she wanted or even what her moral duty was? She was too weak, she simply wasn’t up to it!

But she took a fresh sheet of paper and started again:

My dear Otto!

The subsequent lines, being virtually identical to the note she had torn up, followed easily enough. But how to go on from there? How to tell him? Suddenly the words came, and her pen flew over the paper, her writing becoming an almost illegible scrawl of passionate, rambling sentences.

Truly, my heart is breaking as I write to you now. . now that I must ask you. . whether it would not. . be better for us to cease raising hopes in one another. . hopes of finding happiness together. It is so cruel having to ask this, because it was such a lovely time, when we. .

On and on she wrote, lost in the cruel remembrance of those days, her breast heaving with spasmodic sobs, and her head began to ache with mounting ferocity, as if there were a tight band of iron clamped around her brain and hammers pounding on her temples.

A lovely time, when we. . were so deeply in love. . I can’t tell you how I suffer in the writing of this. . more than I had thought possible for a human being to suffer, but I believe that it is my duty, and that I would cause you even greater unhappiness by not writing to you.

We must forget one another, we must never think of one another again. . That will be best, for both of us, but especially for you. Oh, if I could still hope that I might become a better person, that I might become worthy of you one day, then I would tear this paper to shreds, but all my hope is gone.

I do realise, dearest Otto, that I am causing you grief by this letter, but I beg you to forgive this final act of injury, and banish the thought of me from your mind. You are so good and kind; I am sure that one day, when you have forgotten me, you will find someone, a young girl. .

She dropped her pen, anguish-stricken, and lurched forwards, pressing her face to the tear-sodden handkerchief lying on the table. The sobs now convulsed her entire frame while the hammers pounded on her temples, between her eyes and at the base of her skull. She tossed her head from side to side, but the throbbing was aggravated by a thousand pin-pricks, so she raised herself and resumed writing, intermittently striking her head with the clenched fist of her free hand. Unable to tear herself away from the missive that would set a seal on her loss of Otto, she floundered on, repeating over and over how happy she had been with him, how she suffered in losing him, and that it was her moral duty to write him this letter. The notion of duty filled her with a romantic sense of purpose, and she got quite carried away, writing the word over and over again: duty, duty, duty. . She also felt that as long as she was still putting pen to paper they would still be connected in some way; not until she had written her name at the end would it all be over, for ever after. . she could not bring herself to place her signature, and kept adding phrases to defer the moment.

Then one day you will meet someone who is worthy of you, and who will love you unconditionally. I am sure of that. Then you will be happy, and you will have forgotten me. But oh, please don’t forget me completely: just forget your love for me, and think of me once in a while.

That final entreaty reverberated in the depths of her soul.

Think of me, without anger or hate, and feel a little pity for your poor Nily, who. .

‘I can’t do it, I can’t!’ she moaned, grasping the tear-smudged sheet of paper with a mind to tearing it up, but instead she took a deep breath and quickly wrote a few closing words. Then she dried her eyes and set about copying out her missive, somewhat calmer now that she no longer needed to think about what to say.

A postage stamp was all she needed after this, and an envelope, upon which she wrote the address:

The Right Honourable Baron

O. van Erlevoort ter Horze,

Lange Voorhout. The Hague.

She reread her letter a final time. Her anguish flared up again at the cruelty of it, and when she reached the end and had only to slide it into the envelope, she hesitated yet again. Was this really what she wanted? To break with her Otto? No, no, it was not a question of wanting anything, it was what she was obliged to do; it was her duty, her moral duty! So she pressed a long kiss on her letter and sealed the envelope.

Oh God, why must she live while such grief existed?

She rose, and stood for a time staring at the envelope as though willing it to vanish, but it remained there, lying squarely on the writing table with Otto’s name and address on the cover.

Eline cast a rapid glance in the mirror, and she barely recognised herself in the ghostly apparition confronting her, the pallid, tear-streaked features, the dishevelled mane of hair. Then she gave two firm tugs on the bell-pull, keeping her eyes fixed on the letter.

There was a knock at the door. Gerard entered.

‘What time is it, Gerard?’

She was startled by how dull and hoarse her voice sounded.

‘Almost midnight, Miss.’

‘Is the master still up?’

‘The master is in his study; milady has gone to bed, and so has Mr Vincent.’

‘Can you take this to the post for me?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Can you do it at once?’

‘Certainly, Miss.’

‘Here you are, then. But do it at once, will you? When is the first mail collection tomorrow morning?’

‘Eight o’clock, I believe, Miss.’

‘Here, take it. Off you go now, all right?’

‘At once, Miss.’

Gerard departed with the letter, leaving Eline behind in a daze. She heard Gerard go down the stairs, she heard the thud of the front door being shut. Then all was still in the big house.

She had a sense of cold panic, like icy water trickling down her back.

At this very moment Gerard was making his way down the street, now he was turning the corner, now approaching the letter box on the Nassaulaan. . She fancied she could hear the letter drop with a dull thud, like the lid on a coffin, and was on the verge of swooning away from the monstrous visions bearing down on her like evil ghosts. And suddenly, as though jolted awake from a nightmare, she realised the finality of what she had done. She felt her entire body begin to tremble, as in a fever. By tomorrow, by tomorrow morning even, Otto would receive the letter. . her letter!

Oh God, it could not be! It must not be! It was her very happiness that she had just flung away with both hands, and only because she had found the sheer restfulness of it boring! Her life’s happiness, irredeemably lost!

She felt the walls and the ceiling closing in on her, crushing her so that she could scarcely breathe. She staggered to the door, then across the landing, and burst into Betsy’s bedroom.

‘My God, Oh my God! Betsy!’ she gasped, as though a hand were clamped round her throat.

Betsy was abed in the dusky room, lit only by a weak night light; she started awake in fright, with disordered thoughts of calamities such as fire or murder.

‘Who? What? What’s happening? What is it, Eline?’

‘I — oh my God — I—’

‘What on earth is the matter, Eline?’

‘I–I’ve written to Otto.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve sent him a letter.’

‘A letter?’

‘I–I’ve broken it off. I’ve broken off our engagement. Oh God, oh God!’

Betsy leapt out of bed and stood shivering over Eline, who had collapsed on the floor, hiding her face in her long, tousled hair.

‘What did you say?’ she cried in horror.

Eline only sobbed. The doors to Henk’s study and Ben’s nursery stood open, and Henk, who had been reading, came running.

‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Shut Ben’s door, will you, Henk, or he’ll wake up!’ said Betsy, her voice shaking.

Henk shut the door.

‘Eline has written to Otto, she’s broken it off!’ wailed Betsy.

Henk stood where he was, aghast, making no move to raise Eline to her feet. But she lifted her swollen, tear-stained face to him, and wringing her hands in a delirium of anguish, broke out with:

‘Yes, that’s what I’ve done! Oh my God! I have written him a long letter, and oh, it’s awful, such an awful thing to have done! But I’m so muddled, I don’t know what I’m doing any more, I don’t know what I want, or what I don’t want, I don’t know if I love him or not, or if I love someone else. I don’t know anything at all. And I can’t even think with all this pounding in my head! I wrote to Otto because I considered it my duty. I would only have made him unhappy. But it’s awful. . maybe I was wrong to do it, maybe I could have loved him after all. I wish to God it was all over, I wish I were dead, because I can’t stand it any longer, I just can’t stand it. .’

Her voice trailed off, then she slumped forwards and lay prostrate with her forehead against the carpet, slowly rubbing from side to side.

Betsy glanced at Henk: what would he do? The secret resentment she harboured against her sister melted away, and for a moment she was filled with pity. Henk’s mute contemplation of Eline caused her a stab of annoyance — how ineffectual her husband was! She went to light the gas, threw on a peignoir, and upon her return was astonished to see the change in Eline, who was now seated on a chair, quite inert, in an attitude of numb despair, with her hands folded on her knee and red-rimmed eyes staring blankly ahead.

‘Elly! Elly! How could you do such a thing!’ said Henk tonelessly, thinking of Otto.

‘Oh, my head is bursting!’ she murmured faintly.

‘Are you in pain?’ asked Betsy.

‘Oh—’ moaned Eline.

Betsy brushed away Eline’s tangled hair and dabbed her forehead and temples with a moistened handkerchief.

Henk sat down. He did not know what to do, what to say; in his mind’s eye he kept seeing Otto.

‘How could she? How could she?’ was his only thought.

‘Feeling better now?’ Betsy asked gently.

Eline gave a small, scornful laugh.

‘Better? Hardly. But it’s refreshing, that wet hanky.’

‘Shall I get you something to drink?’

‘No, thank you.’

She was no longer sobbing, but the tears continued to flow. Then, with a faraway look in her eyes, she began slowly, almost inaudibly, to speak:

‘Oh, not knowing what to do, not knowing what you want, and then doing something like this without even wanting to. . poor, poor Otto! And the pain, oh my God! I’m losing my mind!’

‘Henk could go to the Voorhout tomorrow morning early and get the letter back,’ interrupted Betsy with a brisk toss of the head. ‘He could ask Willem, for instance, or the maid, and then there would be no need for Otto to read it, and no one would be the wiser. What do you say, Eline?’

Eline stared dully.

‘I don’t know, I don’t know!’ she mumbled, shaking her head.

‘Go on, you can still change your mind!’ urged Betsy.

‘No, just leave it. . what’s done is done. It was all ruined anyway. We could never have gone back to the way we were.’

Henk sighed; both he and Betsy appeared to understand the gravity of Eline’s statement, and made no further attempt to dissuade her.

‘Why don’t I help you get undressed so you can lie down? Would you like me to stay with you tonight?’ offered Betsy.

‘Yes, please — well, perhaps not; there’s no need.’

‘Come, let me take you to your room then.’

Betsy towed her sister away as if she were a child, and like a child Eline submitted to being undressed, her arms hanging limply by her sides.

‘Oh my poor head!’ she moaned as she fell back on her pillows. Betsy tucked in the covers, then took a damp cloth and gently moistened her sister’s face once more.

‘There, there. You must try to get some sleep. There’s nothing we can do for the moment, but things may turn out all right again, you never can tell. Henk could still go, you know, in the morning.’

Eline shook her head.

‘Shall I stay with you a while?’

Eline’s only answer was a blank stare. Betsy drew the red bed curtain some way across and settled herself in a chair.

Silence prevailed, but for the occasional faint whimper from Eline. The white night lamp on the table shone like a star, casting fitful gleams on the panelled wardrobe, the cheval glass, the flacons and jars ranged on the muslin-frilled dressing table, while dark shadows loomed on all sides of the room. Betsy shivered in her peignoir; she wanted to put some order in her thoughts, but could not, so consternated was she by the broken engagement. The hours crawled by, and down in the kitchen, beneath the bedroom, Betsy heard the clock strike one o’clock, then half-past. At long last the whimpering died away on the other side of the red curtain. Betsy stood up and looked in briefly at Eline, who was lying quite still with her eyes closed, apparently sleeping, and Betsy tiptoed out of the room.

She found Henk still sitting with his head in his hands. Neither of them retired to bed; they sat and talked in whispers, holding their breath now and then as they listened out for any sound coming from Eline’s room. Though they both had a sense of foreboding, neither of them ventured to put their vague fears into words.

‘Shh!’ hissed Betsy, thinking she heard something. They strained their ears to listen. From Eline’s room came the sound of piteous sobbing, the lament of a soul in agony, passionate and loud. Betsy shuddered.

‘I’m so afraid,’ she whispered. Henk left the room as quietly as he could and stole across the unlit landing. The servants were all in bed; the house was in darkness. He went into Eline’s sitting room, where the gas light was still on, and sank onto a chair. He could hear Eline in the next room, sobbing her heart out. He had never heard her weep like this before, with hoarse, screeching howls of anguish, and with each raucous sob he felt her pain thundering in his skull.

At long last the sobbing gave way to low, intermittent moaning; then that too, ceased. All was quiet. Henk was gripped with fear in the tragic stillness enveloping him, his hair stood on end, and without knowing what he was doing he sprang to his feet. He had to make sure, he had to see her with his own eyes. Yet at the door to Eline’s bedroom he hesitated, just a fraction of a second, before pushing it open and stepping inside.

On the rumpled bed, in the ruby glow of the bed curtains, lay Eline, her nightgown twisted about her limbs, her hair a tangled mass. She had thrown off the covers and appeared to be asleep, although her head and hands were twitching; she had dark circles beneath her eyes, and her breathing came with convulsive spasms, much like electric shocks coursing through her slight frame. Henk gazed upon the tormented sleeping figure, his lips quivering with dismay. Very gently he drew up the covers, and in so doing felt how cold she was. He stood there a moment, staring at her tear-stained face, then left abruptly, turning off the gas light in Eline’s boudoir as he passed through.