Eline Vere (53 page)

Making no movement, not even daring to look away, she stared in wide-eyed horror at the corpse, certain that she had seen it move.

Then, in the deep silence that filled the house, she heard the scrape of a key as it found the lock in the front door, and a wave of relief washed over her. It was Paul, returning home to bed, and she followed his every movement as he crept up the stairs, tiptoed across the landing and let himself into his room. A few moments later she heard him setting down his boots in the corridor and shutting his door. After that, all was still.

The knowledge that Paul was close by brought Eline back to earth, and she saw that the corpse was nothing but her petticoat. She got up, took the night light and crouched down to look under her bed – there was no hand to be seen. But then, as she was setting the lamp on the table, the shadows began to heave again with wild animals on the prowl, and she ran back to bed, shivering with fear as she drew up the clammy, rumpled sheet. Her next thought was of the hand under the bed.

However hard she tried to halt the workings of her brain so that she might sleep, she stayed awake, filled with a dark sense of foreboding. Madame van Raat might die all of a sudden, and then what? She conjured up all manner of confused, illogical scenes illustrating the circumstances of her passing: a protracted illness, like the one
Aunt Vere had suffered, complete with bouts of ill temper which Eline would bear with infinite forbearance, or a sudden heart attack, or else a fatal accident, such as a railway disaster. Or something even more dramatic: there was a man, for instance, a man with a grudge bent on revenge, he was dragging the old lady over the floor by her grey hair, stabbing her with a kitchen knife so that she lay dying in a pool of blood, until Eline broke down and sobbed at her fantasised horror.

How grief-stricken she would be, how she would cling to the lifeless body, how she would scream when forcibly dragged away! In a flash, the tragedy was transformed into a gentle scene, filled with love and happiness: a reconciliation between her and Otto, who came towards her, pressed her to his chest and kissed her. With their arms about each other, they wandered off into a Spanish landscape, only for her to push him away abruptly and for him to fall at her feet in a flood of tears. She raised him up again, and they were standing on top of a bridge, swaying sky-high over a thunderous waterfall, deafened by the noise; then he enfolded her in his arms, and together, exhausted from their grief and the roaring in their ears, they jumped into the deep.

Outside, the cock crowed again, and Eline sat up with a jolt. Had she been asleep, had she been dreaming? How could that be? She could have sworn that she had not slept a wink. Panting and clammy with perspiration, she got out of bed. Her throat was parched, and after moistening her face with a wet towel she gulped down a glass of water, then another and another in rapid succession. She shivered, despite the warm stuffiness of the room, and donned a grey woollen peignoir. Then she lifted the edge of the window curtain and looked outside, where the night was beginning to pale. It was half-past three; the cock crowed yet again, and this time its cry was answered by several others.

Her fevered imagination came to rest in the bleak onset of dawn, and she turned away from the window. The sight of her rumpled bed, on which she had spent so many hours tossing and turning, filled her with distaste, so she lay down on the Persian couch instead. From there she could just see the leafy crowns of the chestnut trees outside, and she focused her attention on the ruffled foliage.

Inside, the night light sputtered, flickered, then went out, leaving the wick smoking.

Eline dropped off to asleep, exhausted in mind and body, as the gathering light of day played on her sallow, waxen features.

. . .

Reijer was not due to call on her that morning, but Eline sent him an urgent summons and he came forthwith. She almost begged him to give her something to make her sleep, saying that she would surely go mad if the horrendous experience of the past sleepless nights repeated itself. Reijer replied that he could of course prescribe a sleep-inducing medicine, but she would be far better off trying to regain a normal sleep pattern without artificial means. She should take exercise, go for walks. Eline sighed and shrugged her shoulders impatiently. She had barely had the strength to get out of bed this morning, and even now she could only drag herself with difficulty from one chair to the next! Take exercise – in this warm weather? She was simply not up to it, so she stayed at home, only feeling slightly revived in the fresh air of evening, in her large wicker chair on the veranda. Madame van Raat eyed her with concern.

Come the evening, Paul joined them again for tea, as was becoming his habit. Regarding Eline from his perch on the balustrade he was reminded of the dance party for Lili's wedding, when he had conceived the idea of setting his cap at Eline, just for the sport of it. Although she was not as fresh-faced as she used to be, and much thinner, she made on him an impression of ethereal elegance; indeed, he found her rather beautiful with her dark, sunken eyes and her sad little mouth. However, he dismissed all thought of engaging her attention with honeyed tones and blandishments, for he could see that her spirit was broken. He recalled how dazzling she used to be, how coquettish and vivacious, with laughter pearling from her lips, and the memory filled him with a deep sense of pity for her. She had said her life was in ruins, and he thought that might well be the case.

‘How are you feeling, Eline? Better than this afternoon?' he asked, and in his voice there was something, a certain warmth, that reminded her of Henk.

She nodded faintly, and he pointed to the stars that were beginning to twinkle in the dusk, asking whether she would like to see his celestial globe; this was as good an occasion as any, especially since he had brought it down from the attic that very morning. She was in no mind for astronomy, but did not wish to disappoint him, so off he went to fetch the globe. He placed himself beside her, and she sat up straight in readiness for instruction. Madame van Raat looked on as Paul, having availed himself of her crochet needle, used it to point out the constellations, after which Eline obligingly tried to identify the corresponding figures in the sky, smiling as she raised her finger to trace imaginary lines from one star to the next.

Paul's mother noted the sweetness of Eline's smile, and was likewise impressed by her son's affable tone, in which there was not a trace of the cynicism and breezy condescension he so often affected. A vague sense of optimism came over her: to be sure, time was when she would have liked to see Eline wedded to her son Henk, but she could not help thinking that a measure of tenderness had crept into Eline's exchanges with Paul of late. Even now she was responding with some animation while Paul pursued his elementary lesson in astronomy, circumstantially explaining that since she was looking down at the stars on the astronomy globe whereas she looked up at them in the sky, she should try and imagine herself at the centre of the globe.

That evening Paul stayed at home until the ladies made to retire at eleven. When he took his leave, his mother clasped his hand and kissed him on the forehead, instead of nodding a perfunctory goodbye as she usually did.

Frédérique felt very annoyed with herself. She had discovered that Paul had been lending Etienne money again, and when she found herself alone with him she had given him a piece of her mind. Oh, why couldn't she resist meddling in their affairs? What they did was none of her business, really. With Etienne it was different: he was still a boy, and as his older sister she had every right to tell him off when he behaved badly. Paul, on the other hand, must be getting sick and tired of her, what with her lecturing him and going off into a huff whenever she took exception to his behaviour. Because that was what she had done, yet again. Why had she not simply asked him not to lend Etienne any money in future, why complicate matters by giving him a cold shoulder first? There was no need for any of that!

She sat with her mother and Mathilda in the conservatory after lunch, watching Ernestine and Jo busy themselves in the garden with the long rubber watering hose. They took aim with the brass nozzle, making a jetting fan of water descend on the roses and resedas, the verbenas and heliotropes, geraniums and begonias, making the flower heads bounce in the spray and the lawn glisten with droplets.

Madeleine and Nico pranced about with Hector on the gravel path beyond, shrieking and dashing away whenever the hose wavered in their direction.

‘Careful now, Tina! Don't let the children get wet! And don't be too rough watering the flowers! Gently does it!' cautioned Mathilda.

Yes, Paul must find her intolerable, mused Frédérique, putting her book down to watch the youngsters' antics. It was ridiculous of her to lecture him at all, but that time when she had criticised him for being lazy and arrogant and having the wrong kind of friends had been even more ridiculous. What made it worse was that there had been a ball the very next day, during which she had been completely won over by his irrepressible sense of fun. She did so enjoy some gaiety, she loved dancing, and she was glad that he had asked her to dance, but afterwards, when it was all over, she had felt very dissatisfied with herself. Not that she could think of anything she had done wrong, but still.

‘Madeleine, do stop teasing Hector! You'll get bitten if you're not careful,' Mathilda cried out.

Frédérique found it hard to concentrate her thoughts with the spray pattering on the broad rhubarb leaves, the children whooping with excitement and Hector's constant yapping, but she kept wondering what she had done to make herself feel so dissatisfied.

She did have a vague idea, but shied away from thinking it through. Paul's flirtatious behaviour with all those girls had stung her; he danced attendance on every one of them, and he didn't mean a word of what he said. Were they taken in by his blandishments? Was it just innocent fun, or was there a touch of malice there? But he was not a bounder, nor did she even think him frivolous, really; he was just getting a bit too big for his boots because he was handsome and had money. His heart was in the right place, though; he wouldn't hurt a fly. Besides, what concern was it of hers? What did she care if he flirted with Ange and Léonie, not to mention that goose of a Françoise! Why did she mind any more about that than about the behaviour of any other young man in her social circle? Because he was a friend of the family? Because he was Marie and Lili's cousin? Surely not.

It irritated her that she did not dare confront the stirrings of her soul with the same honesty as when she looked in the mirror.

Still, she couldn't help noticing that he was different with her than with the other girls, in both manner and tone, and she was flattered by this. Clearly he had more respect for her. Or was it just that he knew she wouldn't be impressed by his cajolery? Could he
be a little in awe of her, just because she gave him a piece of her mind from time to time? Oh, she would hate him to be in awe of her! If that were true she would never dare to have another tête-à-tête with him; she would, if the worst came to the worst, have to be like all the other girls and play the coquette. But no, she could never do that! Besides, what difference did it make if Paul was in awe of her?

All those questions went round and round in her head, as though trapped in a labyrinth without issue. Deep down, however, she did have an inkling of where the exit might be, but was not ready to admit it to herself.

‘Freddie, would you be so kind as to help me pack?' asked Mathilda. ‘Then I'll start by putting the children to bed.'

Freddie promised to give assistance. The youngsters rolled up the garden hose with much ado, after which Mathilda joined forces with Miss Frantzen to shoo the boisterous foursome upstairs. In the morning the whole party would be leaving for De Horze. That they should spend the summer months in the country had been Theodore van Erlevoort's idea; life was less expensive on the estate, and it was becoming increasingly difficult for his mother to keep up the standards expected of her in the big house on the Voorhout. She had even considered moving permanently to De Horze, but had come to the conclusion that leaving her beloved home in The Hague would be too great a sacrifice. As it was, she would try to extend her stay at De Horze, possibly until November, and she looked forward to a happy sojourn in the countryside in the bosom of Theodore's dear little family.

Mathilda, too, was glad to go to De Horze, and had agreed to take Tina and Jo out of school a few months before the summer holidays: she would see to their lessons herself, as she had done in the old days, and was secretly delighted at the prospect. Freddie felt less enthusiastic about leaving The Hague, and her own puzzlement at this increased her dissatisfaction. On the surface, however, she was the same as ever, cheerful and on friendly terms with everyone in the house, except with Etienne, whom she had treated rather coldly earlier that day, not only because of that business about borrowing money from Paul but also because he kept grumbling about
them all going away. He said he was thinking of taking a room somewhere in the interim, in Leiden or The Hague; he had not yet decided which.

Otto had been a regular visitor at De Horze of late. He had spoken at length with Theodore, as he was thinking of taking a position in the provinces and leaving The Hague for good. In fact he already had something in his sights: thanks to an old friend of his father's, he had a good chance of being appointed steward of the royal estates in Gelderland.

Although Madame van Erlevoort warned him repeatedly about the dangers of becoming a recluse, he had grown too disaffected with The Hague to find any distraction there. He was so despondent nowadays, desiring nothing but to be left alone in his private quarters, where he would not bother anyone with his gloomy presence. To her he seemed cowed and broken, languishing under his irredeemable loss. Not that he ever complained, nor did he stoop to the indignities of impatience or churlishness; in that respect he resembled Mathilda.