Eline Vere (17 page)

In the Wood she would see other people taking a stroll, usually the same ones, and there was an elderly grey-haired gentleman in a fur cloak, invariably coughing behind his hand, whom she crossed daily. But she seldom saw Fabrice. No doubt he was rehearsing, she told herself when the baritone failed to appear. Each time the disappointment left her feeling worn out, and she would make her way home longing for her boudoir, her warm stove and her piano. But she persisted in her walks regardless, and in due course noticed that
Fabrice tended to favour Fridays. Any other day was completely unpredictable; she might see him, but then she might not. She made a point of rising early, even if she had only gone to bed at three after an exhausting soirée or a dance, and had dark rings beneath her eyes. True, she saw Fabrice quite often these days, but it was always at the opera, from a box, or the stalls, when she was accompanied by the Verstraetens or by Emilie de Woude and Georges – one evening she had even invited the Ferelijns to join her – but it was nothing like seeing him in the Wood. There she saw him differently, no longer as a vision on stage divided from her by the blaze of footlights but at close quarters, less than three paces removed from her, a man of flesh and blood.

On the days that she did catch sight of Fabrice, her heart soared, filling the high vault of snow-covered boughs with joy. She would see him coming in her direction with his manly, vigorous step, the hat at a rakish angle, the tasselled muffler fluttering from his shoulder, and when their paths crossed he would glance at her, or at the dogs sniffing his legs, with an inscrutable expression on his face. Afterwards, making her way home along the tree-lined Maliebaan, she would be overcome with a joy that made her bosom heave and the blood rush to her cool cheeks; she would not feel in the least tired, and on her return would break into jubilant song the moment she crossed the threshold. She would be in high spirits all day, her customary languid grace having ceded to quicksilver vivacity. Her eyes shone as she kept up her incessant banter; she called Henk an old lazybones and Ben a slowcoach and teased both father and son; she made the hall resound with her silver laughter and the stairs creak with her rapid footsteps.

One Friday morning, seeing Fabrice coming towards her, she made a decision. It was so childish not daring to meet his gaze, she reasoned; he was a member of the acting profession after all, and surely accustomed to being recognized in public by ladies. And so, when he was close, she tossed back her head with an air of almost haughty defiance, and looked him directly in the eye. He returned her look in his usual blank manner, and passed her without slowing his pace. Then, feeling reckless, she looked over her shoulder . . . would he, too . . .? No, he continued walking, his
hands in his pockets, and her eyes followed his retreating, broad-shouldered frame.

That morning she sped homewards, humming under her breath, with a hint of mischievous glee about her closed lips. She could think of nothing but her encounter with Fabrice. When she rang the bell at Nassauplein and Grete let her in, the dogs bounded into the hall, barking with excitement. She had to laugh: she had clean forgotten to leave Leo and Faust behind at the stable on her way home!

Betsy burst out of the dining room, fuming.

‘Good heavens, Eline, are you mad? Fancy bringing those wretched dogs here! You know I can't abide them. What's come over you, going against my wishes like this? It's as if I'm not mistress in my own home! Please take them away at once.'

Her voice was harsh and strident, as though she were giving orders to an inferior.

‘They're thirsty, and I want to give them some water,' responded Eline, affecting cool authority so that Betsy would not guess that the dogs had simply slipped her mind.

‘That's as may be! I will not have them drinking water in my house, do you hear? Look at that carpet, muddy paws everywhere.'

‘Grete can clean it in no time.'

‘You don't know what you're saying! You live the life of a princess here, doing exactly as you please, taking no notice whatsoever of me! Take those filthy dogs away, I tell you!'

‘They must have some water first.'

‘Didn't you hear me? I said I will not have them drinking water here!' cried Betsy, beside herself with vexation.

‘Well, they must have their drink. I'll take them to the garden,' said Eline calmly.

‘Don't you dare!' shrieked her sister. ‘Don't you dare!'

‘Come here, Leo, come here, Faust,' called Eline, patting her thigh with maddening slowness.

Betsy was incensed. Her lips quivered, her hands shook, her breath came in quick, short gasps. She was speechless with rage, and wanted only to slap her sister hard, but Eline was already sauntering down the hall with the frisky hounds at her heels, into the garden,
where she proceeded to fill a bucket of water at the outside tap. It gave her a subtle pleasure to anger Betsy so. The dogs drank their fill and she brought them back inside

Betsy was still standing in the hall, glowering impotently at Eline, wishing she had run after her and wrested the bucket from her grasp.

‘I warn you, Eline,' she began, her voice quaking and her cheeks aflame, ‘I shall have to speak to Henk about this.'

‘Oh, see if I care!' returned Eline with a flare of temper, whereupon she flounced out of the house with the dogs, slamming the door behind her.

. . .

Fifteen minutes later she was back again, humming to herself in secret rapture about her meeting with Fabrice. Starting up the stairs, she broke into a long, pearly ripple of song, as though in deliberate provocation of Betsy, who was moping in the dining room, close to tears.

When Henk returned at midday, Betsy told him of Eline's intolerable conduct, but he had little patience with her, refusing to take sides. Betsy was outraged; she accused him of being spineless, and made a scene.

For a whole week the sisters barely spoke to one another, much to Henk's dismay, for their sulking ruined his enjoyment of the comforts of home, especially at table, where the meals were hurried through, for all that Eline chattered incessantly to him and Ben.

It had struck Frédérique during the New Year's Eve supper party at the Van Raats' that Otto had talked and laughed a good deal with Eline; not remarkably so, but more than he usually did with the young ladies of their acquaintance. She had been wondering about this for several days, but the opportunity to ask her brother the question that was foremost in her mind never seemed to arise. She was brusque towards Etienne when he wanted to share a joke with her, had little patience for games with the children, and was pronounced by Lili, Marie and Paul to have grown altogether less good-humoured of late.

It was one of their evenings at home; only Etienne had gone out with some friends. The youngsters were in bed, and Madame van Erlevoort sat with Mathilda in the drawing room by the tea table, Madame with a book and Mathilda with some needlework. Frédérique came in, smiling, then went up to her mother and lovingly smoothed the grey hair at her temples.

‘Freddie, would you mind ringing for Willem?' asked Mathilda. ‘Otto said he would like a cup of tea in his room; he's doing some work and won't be down until later.'

‘Why don't you just pour him a cup and I'll take it up to him,' she replied.

Mathilda poured the tea, and as Frédérique climbed the stairs carrying the cup she thought this might be a good time to put her question, although she would prefer it if he started a conversation himself.

She entered Otto's room and found him wandering about with a very distracted air, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind his back, in an attitude quite contrary to his customary briskness.

‘Well now, what kindness from my little sister!' he said jovially, taking the cup from her. ‘It will taste ten times the better for being served by such pretty hands.'

‘Fie, Otto!' cried Frédérique. ‘How could you be so banal! Don't tell me you can't come up with a more original compliment!'

She continued to smile at him, but did not catch his reply as she was too busy pondering how best to phrase her question. After all, he might take it amiss. Try as she might, she could not think of any easy, light-hearted way of introducing the subject, and to her own surprise she broke out with:

‘Otto, I . . . I have something to say to you, something to confess.'

‘A sin?'

‘No, not a sin, at least I don't think so; an indiscretion, maybe, which I committed against you by mistake. But first you must say you'll forgive me.'

‘Without knowing what for?'

‘Well, it wasn't a deliberate indiscretion; besides, I wasn't as indiscreet as I would have liked to be, so you could even say I deserve a reward! But really, all I'm asking is that you forgive me.'

‘All right then, I shall be merciful. Tell me all about it.'

‘Promise you won't be angry?'

‘I promise. Go on, out with it.'

‘It's just that, quite by accident, I happened to find out who it was . . . you know, on St Nicholas' Eve . . .'

He paled a little, observing her intently, and she was keenly aware that he hung on every word she uttered.

‘So I know who sent Eline that fan . . . the Bucchi fan . . .'

She stood before him with the air of a guilt-ridden child, mortified by her confession, while he fixed her with a wide-eyed, anxious stare.

‘You found out?' he stammered.

She nodded.

‘Oh please, don't be angry,' she begged. ‘I couldn't help it, honestly. I went to your room one morning because I needed to
borrow your sealing wax. You never forbade me to go into your room, did you? I knocked, but you weren't there so I went in, and as I was hunting for the wax on your desk I happened to notice the leather case lying in one of the compartments, and so I recognised it straight away when I saw it again in the evening. At first I thought it might be something for me, and I was dying to take a peek inside – you know how inquisitive I am – but I didn't because I felt bad enough having discovered your gift. Oh dear, I'm afraid you are angry with me, but I couldn't help it, could I?'

‘Angry? But my dear girl, there is nothing to be angry about!' he replied with forced levity. ‘It was a surprise gift, and surprises don't last for ever, do they? But I hope you haven't mentioned it to Eline.'

‘Oh no, of course not.'

‘Well, what of it then? There's no harm done,' he said carelessly. ‘Or are you sorry the fan was not meant for you?'

She gave a disdainful shrug.

‘I'm surprised you should think me so childish. Only–'

‘Now what?'

She lifted her clear, guileless eyes to him, and he felt a slight pang of unease under her scrutiny.

‘The thing is, I can't imagine any young man giving a such a beautiful present to a girl unless he's extremely fond of her.'

‘Oh, but I am very fond of Eline, so why shouldn't I give her something for St Nicholas?'

‘No, Otto, you're not being frank with me!' she said impatiently, drawing him to the sofa. ‘Come and sit down: I want you to listen a moment. A sensible, level-headed fellow like you doesn't give a girl a fan costing goodness knows how much unless he's in love with her, whatever you say. You never gave Eline anything before, and you didn't give Lili or Marie any presents this year either. So you see, I can tell that there's more to it!' She broke off suddenly and put her hands on his shoulders.

‘Or do you think me too forward? Perhaps you'd rather not talk about it . . .' she faltered.

‘On the contrary, my dear Freddie,' he said mildly, drawing her towards him on the sofa. ‘I'm quite happy to talk to you about Eline.
Why wouldn't I be? But suppose I did care very much for Eline, would you still think it foolish and extravagant of me . . .?'

‘So it's true then – you love Eline?'

‘You look shocked,' he said, smiling.

‘Oh, but Eline isn't the right kind of girl for you at all!' she cried with agitation. ‘No, Otto, really, Elly doesn't deserve you and she never will. I know she's beautiful and charming, but there's something about her that, well, that I find unsympathetic. Seriously, though, I think you would do better to put her out of your mind. I don't believe you and she could ever be happy together. You're so good and kind, and if you really fell deeply in love with her you'd want to surrender yourself body and soul, you'd want to do everything for her, and in return she'd give you not one tenth of what you gave her. She doesn't have a heart, all she has is egotism, stone-cold egotism.'

‘But Freddie, Freddie,' he protested, ‘how you rush on! What makes you think that you have sufficient experience of human nature to know exactly what Eline is like?'

She flinched at the way he pronounced Eline's name, lingeringly, as if he were savouring it.

‘Human nature? I know nothing about human nature, all I know is what my feelings tell me, which is that Eline cares about no one but herself, that she's incapable of making the slightest sacrifice for anyone. I feel – no, more than that: I am utterly convinced that marrying Eline would not make you happy in the long run. She might love you for a while, but it would still be out of egotism, sheer egotism.'

‘How harsh you are, Freddie!' he murmured reproachfully. ‘It's very kind of you to have my interests at heart like this, but you're very hard on Eline. Very hard. I don't believe you know her at all, really. Personally I'm sure she's the kind of girl who would make every conceivable sacrifice for the sake of the person she loved.'

‘You say that I don't really know her, but how well do you know her? You only see her when she's all smiles and sweetness.'

‘How can you blame her for being charming rather than impolite?'

Frédérique sighed.

‘Oh, Otto, I don't know what I think, all I know is what my feelings tell me: that you'll never be happy with her,' she said with full assurance.