Eline Vere (57 page)

‘Do you really believe I was courting all those girls? I would have thought you could tell the difference between innocent fun and serious intent. Anyway, I didn't know it was a sin to be jolly.'

‘That kind of fun and jollity ought to be beneath you, Paul. And I might remind you that some people are more susceptible than others when it comes to your ill-advised pleasantries.'

There she was, preaching again; she hated herself for it, but a twinge of jealousy had impelled her to speak her mind.

‘Are you accusing me of being a heartbreaker?' he said with a
forced laugh. ‘Believe me, Freddie, you are mistaken. Those girls are not naive, you know; they are perfectly capable of telling when I am being serious or just having a lark. It seems that you are not. And I can assure you that if my intentions towards any of them had been in the least serious, my behaviour would have been totally different.'

There was a hostile edge to his voice, which almost made her fearful, and she kept silent.

‘But you said just now,' he continued in a gentler tone, ‘that you couldn't take me seriously when I said I loved you. So tell me honestly, Freddie, what would I have to do to make you believe me?'

She was greatly confused, which did not escape his notice.

‘Go on, Freddie, please tell me!' he urged.

‘If I believed you, Paul,' she said, recovering herself, ‘I would feel very sorry for you. As it is, I believe you will get over your disappointment in no time, and so I would really like us to remain friends. There's no need for either of us to have any hard feelings simply because you took it into head to propose and I didn't take you seriously. And I am not naive, either, I'll have you know.'

He said nothing, crushed by her contempt, inwardly incensed at her dismissive attitude. Slowly he rose to his feet.

‘Very well, then,' he said evenly. ‘So be it.'

He took his whip and tapped the sand off the legs of his velvet riding breeches, then consulted his watch.

‘Ah, almost midday. We should be getting back, don't you think?' he asked, as if nothing had happened.

‘Yes, we should,' she replied.

She too stood up, donned her hat and adjusted the veil, then shook out her train and arranged it over her arm before starting up the sandy incline.

‘Will you take my arm?' he offered coldly.

‘No thank you, I am all right,' she said.

At the top he untied the horses and silently helped her to mount.

‘Merci,' she said.

They rode off side by side, but very soon he urged his horse to go faster, so that he was ahead of her. At the end of the wood they took the country lane, where he quickened his pace further.
She followed at some distance in the scorching midday sun, her eyes fixed on his back, her mind filled with consternation. A bleak sense of dissatisfaction came over her, and she feared that she might have been wrong to respond as she did, that the victory of her family pride and self-esteem might have been gained at too great a cost.

When Paul reached the iron gateway of De Horze he halted his horse and waited for her to catch up, after which they rode side by side up the drive to the big house. At the stables beyond they found Klaas and the stable boy cleaning the wheels of the old covered wagon.

Paul and Freddie dismounted. Coffee would be served presently, and Freddie hurried indoors to change out of her riding habit. In the vestibule she brushed past Etienne, who was looking more civilised now, in a jacket and with combed hair.

‘Ah, there you are!' he snapped. ‘Back at last! You ought to be ashamed of yourself – going off for a ride like that without me.'

She turned on him irritably.

‘And I hope you won't wish me bad luck ever again, even as a joke!' she burst out. ‘I very nearly cut my face on an overhanging branch – I missed it by a hair's breadth! Look at this scratch on my forehead! Don't you ever say something like that again, do you hear? I'm more superstitious than you think!'

. . .

Paul announced that he would be leaving the following morning to join his friend Oudendijk, Françoise's brother, in Cologne, whence the young men would travel together across Switzerland to Italy. During dinner he was the same as usual, conversing on various topics in sarcastic tones with a supercilious expression hovering beneath the blond moustache. Frédérique was very subdued; it was generally assumed that she was suffering from the after-effects of the accident with the branch when out riding.

But it would not have been so easy for them to dissemble what had transpired between them had not that very afternoon seen the riotous homecoming of young Willy and Gustaaf. The two
boys, fourteen and fifteen years old, were thrilled to be home from boarding school for the summer holidays, and in the midst of their boisterous capers with the children no one noticed that Paul and Frédérique were avoiding each other.

That evening, in the big bed, Frédérique was thankful for Marianne's chatter about the novels she had been reading, as her rambling discourse on the psychological and philosophical ramifications of
Adam Bede
and
Romola
safeguarded Frédérique from thinking her own thoughts. The following morning, when Paul took his leave, she offered him her hand, which he pressed briefly. Not a word passed between them. When he had gone she felt sad and distraught, and longed to unburden herself. But to whom could she turn? Not to Marianne, for she was only a child, and not to Mama either, because it always upset her to see any of her offspring suffer. To her older sister, then?

She went looking for Mathilda and found her in the sitting room with her foursome, about to begin their daily lessons. Schoolbooks and copybooks lay scattered on the table. Nico was scribbling noisily on his slate.

‘Oh, I have disturbed you! I am so sorry!' said Freddie. ‘I had forgotten all about your lesson. I just wanted a chat, that's all.' She made to withdraw, but looked so crestfallen that Mathilda checked her.

‘What about?' she asked.

Frédérique hesitated, glancing at the children.

‘I'll come back later, shall I?' she said.

But Mathilda told the children they could have an hour's breaktime, and they rushed happily out of the room and down the stairs. Frédérique began to cry and Mathilda drew her to the sofa.

‘I simply had to come and tell you!' said Freddie between sobs. ‘Yesterday morning Paul proposed to me, and I turned him down!'

Mathilda was taken aback. Paul and Freddie had known each other for a long time; they were friends, of course, but she had never imagined the amity between them blossoming into love on either part, let alone his.

‘I'm afraid I was too harsh with him,' continued Freddie. ‘I hurt his feelings without meaning to. It's strange how one can be driven
to say things one has no intention of saying at all! I mean, there was no need to be cruel. Why couldn't I simply have told him I didn't love him enough to marry him, instead of telling him it was impossible for me to believe him when he said he loved me.'

‘Did you wish you could believe him, then?' asked Mathilda, curving her arm about Freddie's waist.

Mathilda was asking her almost the same question as Paul! But Freddie could not bring herself to disclose her true feelings, even to her sister, and she demurred.

‘Well, no!' she said, blushing. ‘No, I didn't; it was just that afterwards I regretted having been so inconsiderate. I didn't regret it at the time, though, so why should I regret it now? How awkward it is when there's something you know you have to do, but you don't know how to do it. I don't think I have ever felt quite so unsure of myself.'

‘I know what you mean,' murmured Mathilda encouragingly, for she could tell that Frédérique was not telling her the whole truth. ‘Decisions can be so heart-rending. Sometimes you make a decision without thinking, in a blur of happiness, and you regret it afterwards, and sometimes you consider all the aspects carefully beforehand, only to discover after a time that your feelings have changed, which doesn't get you anywhere either. And sometimes you simply aren't brave enough to commit yourself one way or the other–'

Mathilda's voice trailed off as her thoughts drifted to Eline, then to Freddie, who, she could guess, had not dared to make the decision of her choice, and whose refusal to commit herself seemed to her to stem from indecision rather than indifference.

‘Yes, that's exactly right!' Freddie cried. ‘I wasn't brave enough, I didn't have the courage! Why? Because I was stupid enough to put myself up on a pedestal, because of my wretched self-worth, as Theodore calls it. Oh yes, I know: Paul has his faults, quite big ones actually, but I love him with all his faults, maybe I love him because of his egotism, because he's no paragon of genius and virtue, but a man of flesh and blood, with all the good and the bad! Who do I think I am, placing myself above him, thinking he might not be worthy of me? As if I can claim to be a paragon of genius and
virtue! Me, with my preposterous pride! My breeding! Oh yes, I have breeding all right!'

She burst into tears and threw her arms about her sister. Mathilda was overcome with sympathy for Freddie – Freddie, who was humbling herself for the sake of the man she loved! But her humility came too late. She should have humbled herself before, if it was happiness she was after.

. . .

The following week Hetty returned from her boarding school in Bonn to spend the holidays with her family at De Horze. The Van Stralenburgs left for Zwolle, and in their place the Howards arrived from London. Notwithstanding the bustle of arrivals and departures, and notwithstanding Mathilda's sympathy, Frédérique felt lonely. She suggested inviting Marie Verstraeten to stay, and Theodore and his wife were happy to oblige, as there was plenty of room in the big house.

Frédérique went to fetch her friend from the station in the old-fashioned buggy, taking the reins herself, and during the ride homeward the girls chatted nineteen to the dozen. Although they were alone – Freddie having left the stable-boy at home – she did not feel ready to bare her soul.

‘What about Paul? Has he been amusing?' asked Marie.

‘Oh, that can wait; I'll tell you about him later,' said Freddie.

There was a strange note of anxiety in her voice; Marie looked at her a moment in wonder, then quickly changed the subject to the practicalities of her luggage, which she had left at the station to be collected by wheelbarrow later. When they pulled up at the entrance to the house all the children came running to give Marie a joyous welcome. That night Marianne kindly gave up her place in the large bedroom for Marie, and it was then that Freddie finally confided her secret in her friend.

Wearing their white nightgowns, they settled themselves on the wide window seat overlooking the cavernous room, which was lit by a single night light. Frédérique began to cry, covering her face with her hands, which Marie tried gently to prise apart.

‘But Freddie, if you love him surely things can be put right. All he wants is for you to love him. I shall write him a letter.'

Frédérique straightened up.

‘No, Marie,' she said firmly, between her tears. ‘I would never allow you to do that. I turned him down, and I can't go back on my word and make demands on him now. I'm not crying because I've lost him, I'm just upset because I was unnecessarily harsh with him, because I got on my high horse and didn't take him seriously. So if he feels hurt, it's my fault. And I respect him for the way he kept his dignity with me afterwards, which just goes to show that his sense of self-worth is just as strong as my ridiculous pride. He has “breeding” too, as much as I do.'

‘That leaves you butting your heads together like a pair of stubborn goats, just because you both have breeding,' Marie exclaimed. ‘Very sensible, I must say! No, Freddie, be honest, why don't you admit that you misjudged his character, then you can set things right. What do you have against him, anyway? His egotism? All men are egotistic, so how can you expect him to be any different! Try and be sensible, take things as they are. I am not referring to your brothers, mind: Otto is in a class of his own, and besides,' she continued, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, ‘besides, Otto has been through so much. As for Etienne, he's still a boy, he's good and kind, but only a boy nonetheless. So it's no use comparing Paul with them; just think of Paul as someone who happens to have money and who simply wants to enjoy life. I'm not saying that Paul has a strong character, that he's his own man, quite the opposite, in fact. I'm saying he's a bit weak.'

‘I could never love a man who is weak,' responded Freddie gruffly.

Marie put her arm around Freddie's shoulder.

‘My dear Freddie,' she said, ‘after everything you've told me, you can't expect me to believe that you're not in love with him. He may be weak, he may be an egotist, he may be anything under the sun – but it's quite obvious that you love him.'

‘Yes,' said Freddie, with a rueful smile. ‘I suppose I do. You are right. I've already confessed to Mathilda that I love him, faults and all. I didn't tell you before because you rose to his defence, and it
was such a relief to hear you do so.'

‘Well, let me write him a letter, then.'

‘No!' said Freddie. ‘You must promise me you won't write to him. Not ever. I don't want you abusing my confidence. I have been very foolish, I have thrown away my chance of happiness, and I will suffer for it. That is as it should be.'

The summer drew to a close without Paul and Freddie meeting again. The Howards went back to London, Hetty and the boys returned to their respective boarding schools, and Marie, too, took her leave. Freddie soon received a letter from Marie in The Hague, with news of Paul: he had fallen in with a group of artists in Rome and had rented a studio there in which to paint.