Eline Vere (62 page)

‘Because it's presumptuous of you.'

‘Is there no pardon for such presumption, if it arises from a sense of true friendship?' he asked, extending his hand.

‘Oh, certainly!' she said coldly, ignoring his hand. ‘But please spare me your presumption as well as your all too friendly feelings in future. Too much interest can be tiresome.'

She turned on her heel and swept out of the balcony. St Clare, now alone, watched her as she mingled with the throng, rubbing shoulders with the circus-riders and the Russian prince, with the blonde lady, the two inebriated old gentlemen, and the Countcum-poet.

. . .

The party was over at last, and in the solitude of her room Eline reflected on her bruised feelings. It was five o'clock in the morning, and she felt almost too exhausted to shed her clothes.

It was not so much his presumption that riled her, but it had been such a long time since she had been able to forget her sorrows, even temporarily. That evening she had actually begun to enjoy herself a little, like in the old days, and he had gone and spoilt her innocent pleasure with his remarks about the company being unsuitable. As if she didn't know that! And it was precisely because she did know, and because deep down she could not but agree with him, that she felt hurt. Why couldn't he have granted her that brief evening of amusement? Why did he have to mention her ‘other relatives'? What would Betsy and Henk care if she took up with some unconventional acquaintance of her uncle's? But she hadn't taken up with anyone; the only people she had exchanged more than a few words
with were Vincent and him. She had enjoyed herself in spite of the company, couldn't he see that?

Still wearing her black-satin gown, she threw herself down on a couch to think. The more she pondered the affront she had suffered the more tenuous it became, but before it eluded her completely she checked herself. Yes, she did feel hurt, she thought with grim resolve. Very hurt indeed.

On the other hand, was it really so serious? He had raised objections, on her behalf, to the unconventional coterie she found herself in, taking them for a disreputable lot. He had expressed his disapproval with brutal frankness, and she could still hear him say: ‘How do you come to be here? Are you here with the consent of your other relatives?'

In other words, he was interested in her welfare: genuinely, frankly interested. And she was seized with longing to beg his forgiveness and ask him what action he would advise her to take. What bliss it would be simply to follow his lead, to give herself up in complete surrender . . . how restful . . . how sweet.

At noon, after a brief slumber, she entered the reception room, looking very pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Eliza was bustling about with the maid and manservant, tidying up the remains of the previous evening's orgy. She declared herself very pleased with her soirée.

‘Happy New Year, Eline!' she said. ‘You can't imagine how many glasses got broken last night! Thank goodness they were only hired. If you want some breakfast, you'll find it in the salle à manger. Off you go now, you'll only get in the way here, if you don't mind my saying so. But it was fun last night, wasn't it?'

Eline repaired to the dining room. She nibbled a piece of toast and lingered a while, hoping that St Clare would call. But neither he nor Vincent put in an appearance that day. Not the next day either, or the one after that. If Eline had dared, she would have sent him a note.

Before the week was out she received a letter from Madame van Raat, with news about Paul, whom she saw from time to time even though he had gone to live in Bodegraven; he seemed unhappy about something, but his mother knew not what. She was sorry
to say that she and her son seemed to have become somewhat estranged, and expressed doubt as to whether she had been a sufficiently loving mother to him as a child.

‘She, not loving enough?' Eline thought to herself. ‘I have never known anyone so loving . . . to me, at any rate.'

She read on, and learnt that Lili was expecting a baby, due in March. But at the end of the letter she received a shock. Jeanne Ferelijn had died in Bangil. Eline's eyes filled with tears.

‘Oh my God! Oh my God!' 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 ill with bronchitis in that cramped little upstairs apartment! How kind and comforting she had always been, and how devoted to her husband and children! And now she had died . . . What had life given her? Nothing, oh, nothing! Madame van Raat had her own sorrows; so did Paul. And Lili would receive her share of sadness and disappointment too, now that she was to be a mother. What was life but one great misery . . .

‘Jeanne is dead! Jeanne is dead!' hissed a voice 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 God, she was dead!

She threw herself back in her chair and hid her face in her hands. Hearing footsteps in the anteroom she looked up, and before she had time to compose herself, a figure appeared in the doorway. It was St Clare. She stared at him blankly through her tears.

‘I hope you will forgive me for disturbing you,' he said softly, seeing that she was crying. ‘The maid said you were at home and receiving. Would you rather I came back tomorrow?'

She drew herself up, wiped her eyes and gave a sad smile.

‘Do you wish to go already?' she said. ‘You are not disturbing me; on the contrary, I am glad to see you. Do take a seat. Is Vincent well?'

‘Thank you, he is very well!' he said, and in his tone Eline could hear the affection he bore Vincent. ‘We have been to Liège and Verviers to visit some factories.'

‘Is that the only reason I have not seen you since the soirée?'

He looked at her a moment.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘That is the only reason.'

‘So you were not angry with me?'

‘Not in the least. I was the one who was wrong. I ought not to have spoken to you like that. You were right.'

‘I don't believe I was,' she said. ‘I was rude to you, and I am sorry. Will you forgive me? Or will you refuse me your hand, just as I refused you mine?'

She held out her hand. He held it fast.

‘I forgive you, gladly!' he responded. ‘And I do appreciate your willingness to admit to being a little mistaken.'

‘So will you continue to take an interest in me? Will you believe me when I say that your friendship and concern are not in the least tiresome to me, unlike what I said before? May I depend on that?'

‘Certainly you may.'

‘Thank you. Thank you so much. I was not mistaken when I said you were kind-hearted. You are more than kind, you are noble.'

He gave a short laugh.

‘How formal you sound!' he said. ‘Very dignified!'

‘No!' she protested. ‘I am not dignified, and I wasn't being formal either. Please don't say that. I meant what I said. I can't tell you how pleased I am that you have come to see me, and that you aren't angry with me. Especially now. I was so downhearted.'

‘You were crying, weren't you?'

Teardrops trembled on her lashes.

‘I just received some very sad news: a dear friend of mine has died. She was so frail, and yet so needed; what will become of her poor husband and children I cannot imagine. But what can you do? People who lead useful lives die. And people like me, who are a burden to everyone, including themselves, live on.'

‘Why do you say that? Are you sure there is no one who needs you and loves you? And is there no one you love?'

She gave a wry smile.

‘Because there must be people who care about you,' he persisted.

‘What can I say? Both my parents have died, and my sister – well, I expect Vincent told you about her. Did you know I ran away from my brother-in-law's house?'

‘Yes.'

‘Since then I have been drifting from one place to the next. Always among strangers. And now my uncle and aunt have taken me in, but in a way they are strangers, too. Back in The Hague I lived with my brother-in-law's elderly mother for a time; she was extremely kind to me, and I was devoted to her. But I wasn't at all kind to her, I'm ashamed to say.'

‘I feel for you very much!' he said. ‘I wish there was something I could do to help. Have you considered finding something to occupy yourself with? Aren't you rather bored? Couldn't that be the cause of your unhappiness?'

‘I did look for things to do in The Hague. And I did a fair amount of travelling, but I still felt unhappy. It's all my own fault, you see. I threw away my chance of happiness.'

She began to cry, holding her head in her hands.

‘Tell me, is there anything I can do?' he pleaded.

‘Nothing, thank you. I am beyond help . . . from anyone.'

‘But submerging oneself in unhappy thoughts to the exclusion of all else is never a good thing. I strongly advise against it. You need to be brave, so as to raise yourself from your suffering. Everybody suffers at one time or another. Come, promise me that from now on you will try to be brave.'

‘But I'm not brave, I'm weak!' she sobbed. ‘I am broken, ruined.'

She sounded so powerless and distraught that he did not know what to say. His heart overflowed with pity, a pity mingled with despair at finding the means to help her. And yet his only wish was to try and console her, come what may.

‘No!' he exclaimed firmly. ‘You are not broken. That is just a phrase people use. You are young, you have your whole life ahead of you. Break with your past, put it out of your mind.'

‘But how?' she wept. ‘How could I possibly do that?'

He was aware that he, too, had used just such a phrase. He was also aware that the human psyche could become permanently warped by anguish suffered in the past.

‘My heart goes out to you!' he said. ‘I feel such pity for you, more than I have ever felt for anyone before.'

‘That is the only thing you can do for me!' she cried out with passion. ‘Give me your pity! It will do me good! Didn't you say that
you knew me before you met me, that I was like an unknown sister to you?'

He stood up, placed his hands on her frail shoulders and held her gaze.

‘Certainly!' he said warmly, and she could have died, so profoundly grateful did she feel. ‘And now that I have met you properly, I shall do everything in my power to help you. You must tell me all about yourself. I will make you brave, you'll see.'

He gave her a pat on the shoulder, in comradely fashion. Her heart was frantic with regret: why, oh why had she not met him sooner? How wonderful it had felt to humble herself before him and beg forgiveness!

. . .

A week elapsed, during which the Veres saw neither Vincent nor St Clare, as they were away in Holland. There was talk of a masked ball, hosted by the Count. Uncle Daniel would not attend in fancy dress, but Eliza would be going as an oriental dancer, and Eline, whose imagination had deserted her, was thinking of doing the same.

When the invitation arrived Eline thought of St Clare. What would he say if she accepted? But she had no desire to spend the evening at home alone, so she banished the thought from her mind and concentrated on her costume.

The two friends returned on the day before the ball. Eline thought she saw a flicker of concern in St Clare's eyes when he heard of the event, but he made no comment. The following evening at around half-past eight he and Vincent called at avenue Louise. Both of them had been invited to be of the party; Vincent had accepted, St Clare had not. He wished to see Eline, but was told that she had just started her toilette. When St Clare reiterated his request with some urgency, Eline sent word that she would see him shortly and asked him to wait.

The reception room was deserted, as Uncle Daniel and Eliza were also preparing themselves. Vincent, in evening dress, settled himself on a couch and took up
l'Indépendence
to skim the news.
St Clare posted himself in the balcony with his hands thrust in his pockets, staring out of the window at the snow gleaming dingily beneath the street lamps. The servant entered with tea for the gentlemen.

‘I must say I admire your pluck, Lawrence!' Vincent remarked in English as he slowly stirred his tea. ‘Are you sure she will take it all in good part?'

‘I have no choice. It is the only way.' St Clare replied resolutely, and declined the offer of tea.

When the servant was gone they kept silent for a time, until Eline entered. A rosy blush of face powder hid the sallowness of her skin; her hair was already dressed for the ball with chains of glittering coins, which fell in three tiers across her forehead. Further than that she had not proceeded with her costume, and had wrapped a white flannel peignoir about her in some haste. Vincent stood up, and she apologised for the state she was in. Nonetheless, she looked alluring.

‘You wanted to speak to me urgently, I believe?' she said softly to St Clare, extending her hand. ‘So please excuse my undress. Do take a seat.'

They sat down, while Vincent repaired to the winter garden with his newspaper. St Clare looked intently at Eline.

‘What do you wish to say to me?' she asked.

‘First of all, I must apologize for disturbing you so rudely during your preparations for the ball.'

‘Oh that's all right; I have plenty of time.'

‘I am very grateful that you came at once. I hope you understand that I would not have intruded had it not been for a good reason. I have a request to make you.'

‘An urgent request?'

‘Indeed, an urgent request. And I run the risk that you will be very angry with me when I tell you what it is; that you will feel hurt, and that you will tell me to mind my own business.'

It began to dawn on her, vaguely, what his request would be.

‘Come on then, out with it!' she said simply.

‘You said I might take the same interest in you as a brother would take in a sister. Is that right, or am I mistaken?'