Eline Vere

XXVIII

Eline sat alone in the ladies’ compartment, her head tilted back against the red-velvet padding. She listened attentively to the wheels pounding the rails, thinking she could distinguish a nervous three-quarter time in the harsh, metallic monotone. Now and then she rubbed the steamed-up window with her pocket handkerchief to look outside, where the gray shadows of twilight were deepening. She saw swirls of mist rising over the meadows and the faint yellow glow of scattered farms in the distance as the train chugged onwards to The Hague. The Hague! She had been away for so long that the city seemed dear to her now, a place where she might yet find something of a home.

For the past eighteen months she had been abroad, either travelling and living in hotels surrounded by strangers or staying at her uncle’s house in Brussels, never having a place she could call her own. Her varied existence had made the time pass very quickly, her mind having been constantly occupied by touring new cities and meeting new people, but lately she had begun to tire of that endless diversity. She now yearned for peace and tranquillity, for a long, dull period of complete repose, untroubled by dreams or sadness of any kind.

Something of a home! Would she find such a home with dear old Madame van Raat, that mournful, grey-haired lady who loved her but who did not know her as she was now: a sad, subdued creature, weary of her young life. Because from now on that was what she would be, sad, subdued, and weary; no longer would she work herself up to be vivacious and gay at all times, the way she had been obliged to do among strangers, the way Georges and Lili had seen her only a few days ago. A proper Parisienne, Lili had called her — fancy Lili being taken in by her veneer of sophistication! Ah well, she felt too weak for any kind of performance now. Something had broken in her spirit, and now everything else was slowly but surely breaking down all around her. What a mess it all was. .

The train whistled shrilly and the lights glimmering through the mist multiplied. In a few minutes she would be in The Hague. Slowly she drew herself up in her seat, adjusted her hat and veil, placed her book and scent bottle in her leather travelling bag and waited, tense and ramrod-straight. She appeared rather slight and wan in her grey travelling coat, gazing ahead with hollow eyes as the train rolled into the station and ground noisily to a halt.

Her heart beat faster and she could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. The train conductor shouted ‘Hague! Hague!’, and through the steamed-up glass she saw the jostling crowd on the platform, bathed in the dismal glow of gas lanterns.

The carriage door was wrenched open from the outside; she stood up, gripping her bag in one hand and several parasols rolled up in her travelling rug in the other. She scanned the stream of disembarking passengers for any sign of Paul, whom she had been told to expect, and was astonished to see another familiar figure coming in her direction.

‘Why, Henk!’ she cried.

As he helped her down to the platform she almost tumbled into his arms, while Paul, who arrived a moment later, relieved her of her hand luggage.

‘Elly, dear child! My dearest Elly!’ Henk said with a catch in his voice, and he kissed her softly as she leant against him, weeping. She barely heard Paul’s greeting, merely handed him her luggage ticket so that he would see to her trunks. A sob escaped her, but Henk chatted on regardless, taking her arm and steering her to the station exit where his carriage was waiting. She responded meekly, her mind awhirl with undefined thoughts and nostalgic sentiments, and she was glad of his strong hand helping her up to her seat. She recognised the landau in which she had ridden so often, but she noted that the groom was different; in the old days it would have been Herman.

‘Paul will be here soon, and then we’ll be off,’ said Henk, seating himself beside her.

She did not answer, but leant back, covering her face with her hands to hide her emotion.

‘I had not expected to see you, Henk! How very kind of you!’ she said after a pause. ‘So very kind!’

He pressed her hand and put his head round the open door to look for Paul, who was just arriving with the luggage.

‘All set!’ cried Paul, jumping in. ‘Well, Elly, what a pleasure to see you again! A great pleasure, I must say.’

The groom shut the door and the carriage rumbled off. Paul said no more; neither did Eline and Henk. With each gas lantern they passed Paul caught another glimpse of Eline leaning back in her seat with her hands to her face, motionless but for her heaving breast.

. .

It was past ten when they drew up at the house on Laan van Meerdervoort. The groom rang the bell; the door was opened; they alighted. In the vestibule stood Madame van Raat, trembling with emotion as Eline rushed forward and flung her arms about her.

‘My dear, dear lady! How glad I am to see you!’ she sobbed. ‘So you will have me? You wish me to stay with you?’

Madame van Raat, weeping like a child, drew Eline to the brightly lit dining room, where the table was spread for supper.

‘Oh, I can’t tell you how grateful I am! You’re such an angel!’ Eline cried out. ‘I’m so delighted to be here with you.’

They clung together tearfully as they moved to the sofa, where they sat down side by side. The old lady put her arm fondly about Eline’s waist. How long it had been since they had seen one another! How sorely she had missed her! And how had Eline fared in the meantime? Was she well?

‘Oh yes, certainly! I am very well!’ cried Eline, kissing her again and again.

Madame van Raat undid Eline’s veil, helped her to remove her hat and her coat, and was dismayed to see the frail shoulders, the gaunt cheeks, the forlorn expression in the eyes.

‘My dear child!’ she gasped, unable to contain herself. ‘My dear child! How you have changed! Look at you!’

Eline embraced her passionately, hiding her flushed face in the old lady’s bosom.

‘Oh, I’m perfectly all right, only a little pale, probably, and tired after my journey. Just being with you will make me look as a fresh as a daisy again in no time, you’ll see!’

She smiled through her tears and kissed her repeatedly, now on the cheek, now on the backs of her wrinkled hands. They were soon joined by Henk and Paul, who were likewise shocked to see how thin Eline had grown, without however making any comment on her appearance.

After a while the old lady, who could not take her eyes off Eline, suggested that she might like to freshen up in her room.

‘No, not yet!’ objected Eline. ‘I hardly feel dusty at all, so never mind that. But ah, there he is — Henk! Good, kind Henk!’

She beckoned him to the sofa where she was sitting with his mother, drew him close and cupped his face in her small hands.

‘You’re not cross with me, are you, Henk?’ she murmured in his ear.

He bit his lip.

‘I was never cross with you,’ he stammered.

She kissed him, let him go, took a deep breath and cast a leisurely glance about the room. She had found something of a home.

They all seated themselves at the table. Eline was not hungry: she barely looked at her soup, avoided the meat dish and ate only some slivers of duck accompanied by a few lettuce leaves. She was thirsty, however, and eager to have her glass replenished by Paul. The wine and the excitement had brought a red flush to her sallow cheeks, and when the old lady wondered aloud why her uncle Daniel had not seen fit to escort her to The Hague, she responded with loud, nervous laughter. Oh, there had been no need, it was no hardship for her to make the journey from Brussels to The Hague alone; besides, her uncle had offered to accompany her but she had not wished it — she was so accustomed to travelling that she felt perfectly at ease! Travelling, there was nothing to it: you packed your valise, found out about itineraries and such, and off you went to catch your train. Ah, if dear Madame would ever feel inclined to undertake a journey with her, Eline would show her what an expert traveller she had become!

She prattled on, holding her wine glass all the while and pausing only to raise it to her lips for another sip. She spoke of Eliza, her young aunt, who was adorable, so lively and gay, always on the go, always thinking up amusing things for them to do. She and Uncle Daniel seemed to disagree about practically everything — oh, how they squabbled! — but they did so in such a funny way that it was quite hilarious, really. Eliza’s relatives in Paris were very nice, too, but she also had an uncle and aunt in Bordeaux, who were quite, quite delightful. Their name was Des Luynes and they owned a chateau, where she, Eline, had been invited to attend the grape festival; such a pretty pastoral scene it had been, which reminded her of something she had read in a novel, a novel by Georges Sand, she believed; wasn’t it Georges Sand who wrote La Petite Fadette? Well, then! And Spain, oh, she was mad about Spain, especially the South with all those Moorish influences, like the Alhambra in Granada — it was magnificent! But she had refused to go to a bullfight, which Eliza had thought ridiculous of her, but she couldn’t stand the idea of those poor bulls lying in pools of blood, it was simply too horrid.

Paul laughed, saying he agreed about the pitiful bulls, and she laughed too as she embarked on yet another topic. Again Madame van Raat begged her to eat some more, since she had hardly touched her food.

‘No, really, dear lady; thank you but no. I am rather thirsty, though; may I have another glass?’

‘My dear, are you sure you aren’t drinking a little too much?’

‘Oh no, it helps me sleep, you know — otherwise I lie awake all night long, which is such a bore. Cordoba is a lovely town, too, the mosque there is quite superb,’ and off she was again, on yet another nervous stream of delightful reminiscences of her wanderings. She could not imagine why Paul did not travel more; had she been a man, especially a young man of means like him, she would still be roaming even now; she would have travelled far and wide, on the Great Pacific, for instance, from New York all the way to San Francisco, and then across the Pacific Ocean to Japan — halfway across the world by ship! How divine that would be! But travelling in a railway carriage was divine, too: she wouldn’t mind living in one!

The old lady shook her head, smiling indulgently at Eline’s excitement.

‘But coming to live here with you is the best thing of all! Oh, you’re such a darling, such an angel!’ Eline cried out ecstatically.

After supper Madame van Raat urged Eline to rest a while in her room. Eline said she would, but held back, pleading with her to keep her company. Paul said that he had an appointment and Henk, too, stood up to take his leave.

‘May Betsy come and see you tomorrow?’ he whispered anxiously. She gave a faint smile and pressed his hand.

‘By all means!’ she said. ‘Give her a kiss from me, will you? And how is little Ben? Has he grown much?’

‘Yes indeed, he’s a big boy now. You will see him tomorrow, no doubt. Goodbye for now, then, Elly. Sleep well.’

‘Goodnight, Henk. Till tomorrow.’

When Henk had gone his mother offered to show Eline her room.

‘I am afraid that I cannot give you a sitting room of your own for the moment, Elly dear,’ she said as they climbed the stairs. ‘Not until Paul leaves, that is.’

‘Where is he planning to go?’

‘He wants to live independently, which is better for a young man, I suppose. But your bedroom is quite large; you probably remember it — the room next to mine.’

‘Yes I do remember. What a lovely room!’

The lamps had been lit by Leentje and the doors to the balcony were open to admit the cool summer air. Eline began to cough as she entered.

‘It’s getting a little chilly,’ said Madame, and moved to shut the doors.

Eline glanced about her in deep astonishment, and her eyes grew moist. ‘Good gracious! Whatever have you done?’ she cried.

Wherever she looked there were mementoes of her rooms at Nassauplein. Her very own dressing table with the mirror, her writing table, her couch, her Venetian pier glass, and over there, in tasteful profusion, stood her figurines and other trinkets. The only item that was new was the ample bedstead, over which dark-blue curtains were suspended like a canopy jutting from the wall.

‘Do you approve?’ asked Madame van Raat. ‘I thought you would like your own things best. But my dear child, why are you crying?’

Eline clung to her, weeping on her shoulder and kissing her again and again. Madame van Raat made her sit on the couch beside her, and Eline nestled up against her like a child seeking comfort from its mother.

‘Oh, at last, I shall be able to get some rest!’ she said wearily. ‘Because I am so tired, so very tired.’

‘Shall I leave you alone then, so you can take a nap?’

‘No, no, please don’t leave me. I’m not tired from spending five hours on a train, I’m just tired. . tired of everything, and going to sleep now won’t help. But I feel so much better already, just sitting here close to you, because I know you care for me. You see, this is what I missed so dreadfully while I was away, with all those strangers for company and no one to lean on and comfort me with a kind word. People were friendly and considerate, but cool at the same time. Uncle Daniel is like that too: amiable and considerate to the point of gallantry, but rather cold. I got on quite well with Eliza, who is very gay, so we laughed and joked a great deal, but she is a cold sort of person, too, cynical even. And there I was, on my best behaviour and permanently wreathed in smiles, because no one likes a guest with a long face, do they? Besides, where else could I go?’

‘You could have come to me, my child; I would have written to you earlier had I known of your feelings. I thought you were happy over there.’

‘Happy!’ Eline gave a hollow laugh. ‘As happy as a horse on its last legs, having to be whipped to make it go! Giddy-up, giddy-up!’

Her laughter speared the old lady’s heart. Too moved to speak, her bleary eyes aglitter with fresh tears, and she could only press Eline closer to her breast.

‘Yes, hold me fast,’ murmured Eline. ‘Now I can relax. . Oh, you’re such a comfort to me, like a darling mama of my very own.’

They remained thus for a long moment, saying very little, until Madame van Raat said Eline should try to get some to sleep.

‘If you want anything, just call me; I shall be in the next room. I want you to be entirely at home here, so please don’t be too discreet. That would pain me. So if there is anything you need, you will say so, won’t you?’

Eline promised she would, and Madame van Raat left the room. But Eline still felt too restless to go to bed. She let her eyes drift about the room, and wherever she looked she recognised her own vases, pictures, and photographs.

‘How very kind of her,’ she murmured under her breath, smiling wistfully. The nervous agitation in her soul seemed to ebb away into a comforting sense of relief and well-being, for she felt safe among the relics of her former life. She rose from the couch to wander about, pausing to trace her finger along her treasured terracotta and biscuit figurines, touching a photograph here and a trinket there. Each beloved object awakened a host of memories and associations in her mind, some like scented flowers, others like painful, scorching sparks, and suddenly it came to her that the time she had spent abroad had not passed quickly at all, that it had been a full year-and-a-half, and that the last time she had set eyes on any of these things had been on that terrible night when she had run away and sought refuge at Jeanne Ferelijn’s house.

But she continued to take stock of her new room, and her glance fell upon the Japanese box which Madame van Raat had placed on her writing table. She automatically tried to raise the lid, but found it locked. Beside it lay her old bunch of keys, the same collection of small keys on a silver ring that she had entrusted to Frans Ferelijn such a long time ago, and she took it up, picked out the key belonging to the Japanese box and opened it. The box was filled with letters, discoloured with age. Among them were letters from Aunt Vere, sent to her when she was at boarding school, and from old schoolmates. She resolved to tear up the latter as she no longer cared for the sentimental outpourings of schoolgirls whose existence she had forgotten, much as they had no doubt forgotten hers. She also found a batch of letters written by her beloved father, who had been such a wonderful man; those she kissed reverently, as though they were sacred. As she rifled through the sheets, a small oval-shaped piece of cardboard slipped out and fell to the floor. She bent down to retrieve it, and turned deathly pale.

It was a medallion portrait of Otto.

What was it doing there among her letters? Then she remembered: it was a rejected proof of a portrait he had once ordered as a gift to her. The portrait itself, which she had kept with her at all times during her engagement, she had sent back to Otto along with the other presents he had given her — including the Bucchi fan — in a final, heartless gesture of rebuffal.

Moaning quietly as she wept, she pressed the portrait to her lips. The rejected proof, which she had never given another thought after it got lost among her old correspondence, was now dearer to her than anything else in the world, and she vowed that she would never part with it, not until the day she died! It was all that was left of her great happiness, the happiness that had slipped through her fingers like a captive bird bent on escape, leaving her with nothing but a stray feather!

‘Otto! Oh, Otto!’ she faltered, covering the oval card with tears and kisses.

. .

Madame van Raat sat for a while in the next room, her own bedchamber, tearfully shaking her head from side to side as she ruminated upon Eline’s plight.

How was it possible that she had known such lasting happiness with her husband, while poor dear Elly was so bereft? Being of devout mind, with the childlike piety of a simple heart, she was thankful for such goodness as she had received, and folded her wrinkled hands to say a prayer for her beloved, unhappy Eline.

. .

The next morning, when Eline had finished dressing, she opened the glass doors to the balcony and saw Madame van Raat among the rose bushes, wielding a pair of pruning scissors. Eline hurried downstairs to join her in the garden.

‘I am not too late, am I? I hope I haven’t kept you from your breakfast,’ she said sweetly. The old lady kissed her, telling her she could get up at whatever time she liked, and that she had waited with breakfast.

‘I can tell you have every intention of spoiling me! Oh dear, and then I shall become a burden to you eventually, I’m afraid. My, how pretty the garden looks! May I pick some flowers?’

Smiling her approval, Madame van Raat handed over the scissors and trailed after Eline as she sauntered along the beds, going up on tiptoe by the tall bushes to draw the blossoms towards her, snipping off sprays of the deep purple and creamy white lilac, the bright yellow laburnum, the snowy elder, while the glistening dewdrops rolled like bright diamonds over her fingers. It was a pity the jasmine was not yet in flower, she mused.

‘Do you have a vase? Then I shall make you a nice big bouquet, but I need more lilac blossom, lilacs above all. .’

The scissors flew through a large bush, the choicest of them all, and the purple-headed stems tumbled down on the dewy grass. She gathered them up and went into the house, where her hostess was already preparing their hot chocolate. Eline set about arranging the flowers in a large vase on the dresser.

‘Flowers work wonders to brighten up a room, don’t you agree?’ she exclaimed, taking a few steps back to consider the effect of her mixed bouquet.

Madame van Raat chided her gently for letting her chocolate go cold, and Eline sat down with a sigh. The previous evening the old lady had been struck by how restless Eline seemed, picking up objects and putting them down again, adjusting their position ever so slightly, darting furtive looks at the window, the door or the ceiling in what seemed like alarm, twitching her head, drumming her fingers on the table; all of this alternating with sudden fits of apathy, when she dropped into a chair and leant back with an air of utter exhaustion.

This morning, too, Eline was showing signs of nervousness, but at least she was drinking her cup of fragrant hot chocolate.

‘What will you have for breakfast, my child? A soft-boiled egg and a slice of bread?’

Eline smiled anxiously.

‘Oh, must I, dear lady? I’d rather not, to be honest. The chocolate is delicious, though.’

‘Elly, my pet, you must have some breakfast. You hardly ate a thing last night! Have a boiled egg then; just for my sake.’

Eline consented and Madame sliced the top off her egg for her as though indulging a child.

‘You really ought to eat more, Elly dear,’ she pursued. ‘You’re far too thin. Why, you almost look starved! We must get some weight on you. Plenty of milk, eggs and meat, that will do you good.’

Eline merely smiled and regarded her egg with slight revulsion, which she was unable to conceal. After a few tastes of the egg she pushed it away.

‘Please don’t be cross, but honestly, I can’t have any more. It doesn’t agree with me.’

She looked so miserable that the old lady abandoned further attempts to make her eat. In the end she consumed one rusk, just to appease her hostess: that would be quite enough, she insisted, and anyway she was not accustomed to having such an early breakfast.

‘What about Paul? Is he still asleep?’

‘Yes he is.’

Madame van Raat went on to say that Paul always breakfasted alone, or rather, that he skipped breakfast altogether most days, contenting himself with a cup of coffee; in fact, he gave her very little trouble, but then he did not give her much pleasure either.

‘Girls are so much easier to get on with than boys, aren’t they? Well, you could pretend that you have a daughter staying in your house!’ Eline said fondly. ‘Oh, do you remember suggesting — it was many moons ago — that I could come and live with you, and I said that you only loved me because you saw so little of me, but that you would find my presence irksome if you saw me every day. Do you remember?’

The old lady smiled vaguely, casting back her mind, but the memory escaped her.

‘Oh, I know exactly when it was! It was at Nassauplein, in the violet anteroom. Who would have thought I’d ever seek shelter with you? But I promise I shall try my best not to be a nuisance.’

She toyed nervously with an ornament dangling from her watch chain: a locket of black enamel studded with seed pearls which she had not worn for years. It had been a gift from her father for her tenth birthday, and when he died she had vowed never to wear it again, but this morning she had changed her mind. The locket now held the slip of cardboard she had found among her letters.

‘Dear lady,’ she began in a tremulous voice, taking Madame van Raat’s hand. ‘There is something I should like to ask you, if I may. It’s about Otto van Erlevoort — have you seen him at all lately, or have you heard from him?’

Madame van Raat looked intently at Eline, trying to read her mind, but could infer nothing from her feverish glances and fluttering hands.

‘Why do you ask, Elly?’

It was the first time that Otto’s name passed between them since Eline had broken off her engagement.

‘Oh, I’d just like to know whether he was much affected, and whether he is happy now. Do you never see him?’

‘I saw him a few times at my brother-in-law’s house.’

‘How does he look?’

‘Much the same, outwardly; a little older maybe, but not that you would notice. He is certainly rather quiet, but then he was never very exuberant, was he?’

‘No, he wasn’t,’ murmured Eline, brimming over with memories.

‘He’s not in The Hague at the moment. I believe he’s gone to De Horze.’

Could he be avoiding me? thought Eline. Then, not wishing to give the impression that her interest in Otto’s welfare was in any way personal, she said softly:

‘Then I suppose he has got over it. All I want is for him to be happy; he deserves it — such a good man.’

The old lady said nothing and Eline struggled not to cry. Here she was, working herself up again to hide her true feelings, even in front of dear, dear Madame van Raat! Life was so full of sham and make-believe! She had always been someone who pretended, to herself as well as to everybody else, and she was still doing it — she could not do otherwise, so ingrained a habit had it become.

‘And now I would like to show you something, which I hope will please you,’ said Madame van Raat, sensing Eline’s emotion. ‘Come with me.’

She led her to the salon, where Eline had not yet been, and opened the door.

‘You remember I had that old, rather battered piano? The one Paul used to tinkle on for his singing practise? Well, look what I have now!’

They went in, and Eline saw a brand-new Bechstein. Her music books, bound in red leather with gilt lettering, lay on top.

‘It will suit your voice very well, the sound is so lovely and clear.’

Eline’s lips began to tremble.

‘But Madame!’ she stammered. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have! You shouldn’t have! Because I–I don’t sing any more, you see.’

‘What? Why ever not?’ cried Madame.

Eline sighed deeply and sank down on a chair.

‘I am not allowed to!’ she almost wailed, for the new instrument was a cruel reminder of the lovely voice she had once had. ‘The doctors I consulted in Paris forbade it. The thing is, during the winter my cough is rather bad; it only goes away in the summer. The past two winters I was coughing all the time, and I always had a pain, here in my chest. But I’m perfectly all right in the summer!’

‘My dear child!’ said Madame anxiously. ‘I hope you took good care of yourself while you were abroad.’

‘Oh yes, the Des Luynes referred me to some lung specialists in Paris, and they tapped me and osculated me so thoroughly that I simply couldn’t stand it any more! Besides that I underwent regular treatment by two doctors, but after a while I’d had enough of them: they were not making me better, anyway, they just kept saying I ought to live in a warmer climate, but I could hardly go and live all by myself in Algiers or goodness knows where; in any case, Uncle Daniel had to return to Brussels. So you see,’ she concluded with a nervous titter, ‘I’m a complete wreck, both on the outside and on the inside!’

The old lady’s eyes filled with tears, and she pressed Eline to her bosom.

‘Shame about the lovely instrument, though!’ said Eline, extricating herself. She seated herself at the piano. What a wonderful sound it had, so rich and full!

Her fingers glided deftly over the keys, playing a succession of scales that seemed to lament the loss of her singing voice. Madame van Raat watched her sadly; she had cherished the illusion that Eline would sing with her Paul, and that Paul might succumb to the melodious, convivial atmosphere and take to staying in of an evening, but all she heard was loud, sobbing arpeggios, the weeping dewdrops of a chromatic tremolo, and the big, splashing tears of painful staccatos.

‘I shall have to practise my piano-playing. I never was a great pianist, but I shall do my best! Because you shall have music, dear lady, I promise you! What a lovely instrument this is!’

And the lovely notes gushed forth in an outpouring of sorrow.

. .

In Eline’s honour, Paul made sure he was at home for coffee at half-past midday. In the afternoon Marie and her parents called, followed by Emilie de Woude. Eline received them cordially, and showed herself pleased to see them again. She told them about her meeting with Georges and Lili and what a delightful impression the young couple had made on everyone, including the Des Luynes and the Moulangers and Aunt Eliza’s other relatives. And it had been sweet of Georges and Lili to call on her so soon after their arrival; she had greatly appreciated it.

It gave Marie a strange feeling to see Eline again, almost as if she feared that Eline would find her changed, too. But Eline did not appear to notice anything, and chatted on about her travels, the cities she had visited, the people she had met, on and on in a rush of nervous expatiation. It was the same nervousness that came over her nowadays whenever she was in the company of others, no matter how small and intimate the gathering, and it kept her fingers in constant motion, now crumpling her handkerchief into a tight ball, then fidgeting with the fringe of a tablecloth or plucking the tassels on her chair to make them swing to and fro. Her elegant languor of old, her graceful poise, had vanished.

It was close to four o’clock when the door of the salon opened and Betsy appeared, leading Ben by the hand. Eline sprang up and ran towards her in order to hide her own misgivings with a show of excitement. She embraced her sister with effusive tenderness, and fortunately Betsy was able to respond with like enthusiasm. Then Eline bent down to smother Ben with kisses. He was large for a five-year-old, and thick-set, and in his eyes there was the blank, drowsy look of a backward child. Yet he seemed to remember something pleasant, for his lips parted in a happy smile and he threw his chubby arms around Eline’s neck to kiss her in return.

Neither sister seemed to have any inclination to exchange confidences, because Betsy left at the same time as the Verstraetens and Emilie, and Eline did not press her to stay. Each of them was conscious of the distance that had grown between them, and that their sisterhood was something they would henceforth honour for the sake of appearances rather than out of love. They had been parted for a year and a half, and now that they were reunited she felt as if they had become strangers to one another, exchanging polite words of interest while their hearts were cool and indifferent.

Eline felt rather tired when the visitors had gone, and the two women settled themselves in the armchairs by the glass doors to the veranda. Between them stood a low velvet-covered tabouret bearing a basket of crochet-work and some books and illustrated magazines. She smiled wanly at the old lady, then leant back and closed her eyes, pleasantly lulled by the restful, cosy atmosphere.

Madame van Raat took up her crochet and began to work her needle with unwonted verve, for she felt a new vigour stirring in her old, stiff limbs, and suddenly it came to her that she might yet have a goal in life. That goal would be to inspire the poor lamb with some vitality and hope, so that she might yet find the kind of happiness that she herself had known in her youth. Her heart swelled with munificent sympathy, and a gleam came into her old eyes as she regarded Eline, wasted and pale, slumped in the armchair beside her.

‘Eline,’ she began softly. ‘I must speak with you, seriously.’

Eline opened her eyes with a questioning look.

‘This morning you mentioned that you underwent treatment in Paris. Would you mind if I sent Reijer a note asking him to call one of these days? Not that he is my doctor, but I know you used to see him occasionally.’

Eline gave a start.

‘Oh no, no doctors for me!’ she cried with passion, almost commandingly. ‘They are such a bore, and none of them can cure me anyway. I suppose it’s my cough you are thinking of?’

‘Not just your cough. In my opinion you don’t look at all well, in fact I think you must be suffering from some illness, although I wouldn’t be able to say which one.’

Eline laughed out loud.

‘My dear little Mama, how you exaggerate! Now that I’m not coughing so much any more I feel perfectly all right, honestly! It is very sweet of you to worry about me so, but truly—’

‘So I may not write to Reijer?’ said the old lady in a wheedling tone.

Eline, fearing that she had gone too far by laughing so disparagingly, gave one of her most winsome smiles.

‘You may do whatever you wish!’ she murmured ingratiatingly. ‘And if it pleases you, I shall swallow whatever they give me and they can tap me and hammer me as much as they like. I don’t believe it will do any good, but if that is your wish, it will be my command. So send a note to Reijer, then; far be it from me do stop you from doing anything, anything at all.’

Madame van Raat was grateful, and, for the moment, somewhat reassured.