CHAPTER XXIX.

[Contents]CHAPTER XXIX.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[279]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 hersoirée, 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.”[280]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 thesoirée?”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.”[281]“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.”[282]“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[283]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 upL’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. Iwillhave 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[284]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[285]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.[286]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 terribleennui, 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.[287]“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, anden 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?”[288]“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 wasdécolletée.“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.[289]“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[290]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?”[291]“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, andthethought 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[292]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.”[293]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[294]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?”[295]“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[296]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[297]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.

[Contents]CHAPTER XXIX.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[279]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 hersoirée, 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.”[280]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 thesoirée?”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.”[281]“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.”[282]“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[283]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 upL’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. Iwillhave 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[284]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[285]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.[286]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 terribleennui, 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.[287]“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, anden 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?”[288]“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 wasdécolletée.“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.[289]“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[290]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?”[291]“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, andthethought 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[292]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.”[293]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[294]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?”[295]“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[296]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[297]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.

CHAPTER XXIX.

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[279]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 hersoirée, 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.”[280]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 thesoirée?”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.”[281]“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.”[282]“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[283]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 upL’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. Iwillhave 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[284]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[285]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.[286]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 terribleennui, 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.[287]“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, anden 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?”[288]“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 wasdécolletée.“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.[289]“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[290]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?”[291]“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, andthethought 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[292]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.”[293]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[294]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?”[295]“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[296]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[297]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.

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[279]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 hersoirée, 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.”[280]

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 thesoirée?”

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.”[281]

“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.”[282]

“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[283]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 upL’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. Iwillhave 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[284]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[285]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.[286]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 terribleennui, 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.[287]

“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, anden 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?”[288]

“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 wasdécolletée.

“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.[289]

“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[290]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?”[291]

“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, andthethought 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[292]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.”[293]

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[294]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?”[295]

“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[296]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[297]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.

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