Eline Vere (65 page)

She could not answer these questions, which plagued her the moment she found herself alone.

At length she had resigned herself to the idea that she would not be seeing Paul any more, so it came as rather a shock when she spotted him in the street one day, coming in her direction. Her heart pounded, the blood left her cheeks, and had she been obliged to speak she would have found it impossible to utter a syllable. When he drew near he tipped his hat, to which she responded with a brief nod of the head, and they passed one another wordlessly. She
proceeded on her way with quaking knees, wondering whether he had noted her consternation.

That afternoon, when she rang the bell at Prinsessegracht and the door was answered by Bet, she began by asking:

‘Are there any other callers?'

‘Yes, Miss, that is to say, young Madame van Raat with her young lad, and also the Eekhof ladies.'

‘No one else?'

‘No, no one else, Miss.'

Frédérique hesitated a moment. Paul might yet arrive. But it was also possible that he had already called earlier. Whatever the case, she could say she was pressed for time and leave quickly; it was just that she dearly wished to see Marie for a moment.

Frédérique went in. The elders were in the conservatory with Betsy; Marie was in the drawing room with Ange and Léonie; Ben sat quietly on Ange's lap while tea was being served. After greeting Marie's parents, Frédérique went to sit with the girls. Suddenly she overheard Betsy in the adjoining conservatory:

‘Paul is in town, you know. He had coffee with us today.'

Ben twisted round on his aunt's lap, slowly repeating in his slurred voice:

‘Uncle Paul – Uncle Paul had coffee with us.'

‘Did he now? And did you like that, my podgy little poppet?' cooed Ange, slightly disconcerted by the child's docility.

The conversation turned to Paul; the Eekhof girls asked how he was getting on in Bodegraven and would it be long before he was appointed mayor. They thought it very odd of Paul to want to be a mayor – surely he was not stiff enough.

‘Has he been here?' Frédérique asked with apparent indifference, but Marie understood how much she cared.

‘No,' she answered. ‘He might drop by later, though.'

Frédérique's mind was a blur: did she want him to see him arrive unexpectedly, or did she not really want to see him at all? She had come because she wanted to see Marie, and here she was, with Marie, but she could hardly pour her heart out in the presence of the Eekhof girls. Ah well, perhaps that was a good thing.

What was there to say, anyway? Words were no help.

She accepted Betsy's offer to drop her off on her way home, and in the carriage she almost wept at the thought of that first, fleeting encounter with Paul after so many months of silence.

. . .

A few days later, when Frédérique thought Paul had already returned to Bodegraven, she ran into him again. She had decided on a whim to call at the Verstraetens', and, setting eyes on him in the salon, she felt the blood drain from her cheeks just like the first time, but it was late afternoon and the light was dim, so no one noticed. Georges and Lili were there too, and after greeting everyone Frédérique extended her hand to Paul, who had risen when she made her entrance. She wavered between calling him Paul or Mr van Raat, but only for a moment, realising that the latter form of address would attract undue attention. He answered quite simply:

‘Hello, Freddie.'

Lili was complaining to Madame Verstraeten about her butcher and her milkman, until Marie broke in, saying she was becoming a dreadful bore with her constant fretting about her housekeeping. Lili countered that she was not fretting at all, it was just that she would not tolerate being treated lightly by tradesmen. Paul had been conversing with Uncle Verstraeten, but he now turned to Frédérique, addressing her in such a relaxed, natural tone of voice that she was quite taken aback.

‘It has been such a long time since we met, Freddie! How are you? And your family?'

‘Oh, very well thank you.'

‘Next time I come I shall pay a visit to your mama. Do give her my warm regards, will you? And Mathilda, too, of course. Is Etienne still hard at work?'

‘Yes, he's extraordinarily diligent these days.'

Paul laughed.

‘Poor boy. I am glad to hear he is coping so well. Have you been going out much this winter? How is the season?'

‘It has only just started, really. The Eekhofs will be giving their annual ball in February – in the Hotel des Indes this time.'

‘Yes, I know. Ange asked me to come over for it.'

She was mortified by the triviality of his remarks, to which she felt she had to respond in kind while her heart was convulsed with emotion. Had he really forgotten?

It seemed that he had, for he continued in the same vein, asking after the opera, the Diligentia concerts, Marguerite van Laren's wedding and so forth, and although Marie frequently put in a word or two, all those inconsequential questions struck Frédérique like arrows aimed exclusively at her. Mustering all her strength, however, she recovered her old sense of dignity, and succeeded in conversing with appropriate lightness. She recalled what she had said to him that morning at De Horze: that there was no reason for any hard feelings just because he had proposed to her and she hadn't taken him seriously, and that she wasn't naive like the other girls.

Oh, she knew she had dealt a blow to his pride by her haughty rebuffal of his advances, and however amiable and relaxed he sounded now, in reality he was seething with resentment against her.

. . .

That evening, after dinner, Paul flung himself in an easy chair. ‘When will you return to Bodegraven?' his mother asked softly.

‘Tomorrow morning.'

‘Will you stay the night?'

‘Yes, I suppose so.'

‘Do feel free to light a cigar, my dear, I don't mind if you smoke. Would you like some coffee?'

‘If it's not too much trouble.'

Leentje was summoned to provide coffee, and Madame seated herself in her favourite armchair for her moment of post-prandial repose. She closed her eyes, sunk in thought. How pleasant it was to have Paul sitting across the room with his glass of cognac and cigar; such a shame, though, that he and she seemed to have drifted apart lately. They seemed to have become quite estranged. She searched her conscience for clues to explain the distance that had come between them, but found nothing, although it was true that she had
doted on Henk when he was a boy, and also that Paul had caused her concern at times with his capricious, indolent nature. She felt a great, instinctive surge of pity for her younger son, in whom she surmised some kind of grief that was beyond her comprehension, yet the more she pitied him, the more remote he seemed to her.

Through half-closed eyes she stole a glance at Paul, who was staring at the ceiling and blowing rings of cigar smoke in apparent rumination. He gave a start when she addressed him softly:

‘Tell me, Paul, are you are sure you are all right? You are not ill, are you?'

He sat up and smiled.

‘Whatever makes you say that?' he asked. ‘I don't look ill, do I? In fact everybody tells me I have grown stouter.'

He gave her a searching look: what was she thinking? He was touched by her concern, for it was soothing to him, albeit futile.

‘That is as may be,' responded Madame van Raat hopefully. ‘Still, you must admit that you have changed. Am I right in thinking that there might be something troubling you?'

‘Something troubling me? Of course not!'

‘Is your work disappointing? Don't you find it rather dull, living in a village?'

‘Well, it's not the height of entertainment, of course. But I don't mind. The Hague gets boring too, after a while.'

‘So you are sure you are all right, then?'

‘Oh, mother, please stop fussing! There's nothing wrong with me. I'm as fit as a fiddle.'

‘I am glad to hear it, my dear boy.'

She suppressed a sigh, leant back in her chair and closed her eyes. The gulf between them was as wide as ever. Time passed, and Paul thought she was asleep. At the sound of a stifled sob he looked up to see her weeping quietly, her face hidden in her hands.

‘Mama dear, what's the matter?' he cried.

‘Nothing, it's nothing,' she murmured.

He rose from his armchair and went to sit beside his mother.

‘Tell me, why are you crying? It's my fault, isn't it?'

The unwonted gentleness in his tone made her melt away in sorrow.

‘No, my child, it is none of your fault, but it is so sad, so very sad–'

‘What is?'

‘The way young people always lock themselves up so you can't reach them any more. Eline was just the same, and it distressed me greatly. And now it's your turn – my own child! Because I can sense that you are keeping something from me, something that is causing you sadness.'

‘I assure you–'

‘Don't assure me that is not the case, there's no need to spare my feelings. I know, my child, believe me, I know. I have known for months. And I dearly wanted to ask you to confide in me, but I was afraid you would tell me that it was no concern of mine. And I am not asking you to confide in me now, either, I'm only crying because it all makes me so sad. Nor do I blame you for being the way you are; all you young people are the same, refusing to put your faith in your elders. And yet, you know, it can do a world of good to share your troubles with someone who loves you. And who could love you more than your own mother? But no, you just keep a still tongue in your head. People only think of themselves nowadays, of their own joys and their own sorrows. Ah well, I suppose it can't be helped. But it makes me sad, so very sad.'

She wept noiselessly, bowed by that cruel ruling of fate by which parents become estranged from their offspring. Her son, with quivering lips and tears in his eyes, remained silent.

‘You see your child labouring under some dreadful burden as the months go by, and yet his heart is closed to you; there is nothing you can do because you have nothing to offer. The less said the better, everyone seems to think.'

A sob of compassion for his mother escaped him, and he buried his face in his hands. She laid her arm gently about his neck, and it broke her heart to feel her tall, strong son weeping in her embrace. She pressed her lips to his head of thick, tawny hair.

‘I am not reproaching you for anything, my darling boy, there, there, don't cry.'

‘Can't you understand that some things are too painful to talk about? That it's less painful to keep them to oneself?' he murmured, clinging to her.

‘For a time, yes, but don't you think you would feel a great deal better for having shared your sorrow with someone?'

‘I don't know, I really don't know!' he faltered.

She said nothing, but he remained in her arms, savouring the sweet consolation of maternal love. He waited, hoping that she would urge him again to confide in her. But she did not, and to end the silence he began to speak of his own accord.

‘I can't imagine how you knew. I thought I was putting on a pretty good face, that I was the same as ever. I didn't even want to think about it either, because I couldn't stand how much it affected me. As if I couldn't live without that creature!'

He related to his mother how he had proposed to Frédérique and how she had rejected him in such a disdainful, insulting manner. He admitted that for some time he had felt very low as a result, but he would soon get over it: it was too absurd.

‘Don't you love her any more?' asked Madame van Raat.

Hearing him say ‘that creature', her first thought had been of Eline, and when she discovered that he meant Freddie, she could not help feeling a flicker of relief.

‘No, no I don't love her!' he replied, shaking his head vigorously. ‘Oh no! Not any more.'

She lifted his chin with her hand and gazed into his eyes a long moment.

‘Why are you so different from the way you used to be?' she asked reproachfully, doubting his denial. ‘Why have you become so quiet lately, and so unforthcoming? But I won't quiz you any further, my child; you need not tell me more than you wish. Only, please do not deceive me, Paul, I should prefer you to say nothing rather than that.'

‘Oh, you are such a dear!' he faltered. ‘And it has done me a power of good to have told you, even though it's rather embarrassing.'

‘If you no longer love her,' she pursued, tousling his hair with her fingers, ‘then it is only your vanity that has been hurt, Paul, and that is something you can easily put behind you. Still, I find it hard to believe that you should have stopped caring for Freddie. But as I said, my dear boy, I do not wish to pry, nor do I wish to cause you
pain. I just want to thank you for trusting me enough to share your troubles with me at last. Now tell me, you do believe that your old mother loves you, don't you?'

He nodded, tightening his embrace. All at once she noticed how much he resembled his father in the life-sized portrait on the wall – more so than Henk – and she had a sense of wonder at the overwhelming rush of love she felt for her young son in his time of heartache.

. . .

Marie's bouts of gaiety were over. She no longer collapsed into fits of helpless, happy laughter as she had done so often when she and Emilie de Woude had such fun putting the finishing touches to Georges and Lili's new abode. She became resigned to the disillusionment she had suffered, and she saw her life stretching ahead of her like a dismal fog of monotonous grey, especially now that her brother Jan had left for the military academy in Breda and the house had grown distressingly dull. She longed for some animation, and envied Frédérique the lively company of the Van Rijssel children, who filled Madame van Erlevoort's spacious home with such cheer.

Otto never visited The Hague. She had not seen him since August, when she had been staying at De Horze, and she cherished the memory of the few occasions she had found herself alone with him, when they had talked and strolled together in the park. Not that their conversations had been in any way intimate or important, but to her they were like small, sweet oases in the desert of her disappointment.