Eline Vere (63 page)

‘No, that is quite right.'

‘Well, if you were my sister, I would ask you to do me a great favour by not going to that ball tonight.'

She did not answer.

‘If you were my sister, I would tell you that Vincent and I made some enquiries as to the guest list for the ball, and that I am certain that a large proportion of the guests are even less reputable than some of the people your uncle and aunt count among their friends. If you were my sister I could hardly express myself more plainly. But I hope you will understand my concern, now that you have some idea of the type of people that have been invited.'

She lowered her eyes.

‘And therefore, at the risk of interfering in a matter that does not concern me, at the risk of your uncle and aunt taking offence at my meddling in your affairs, at the risk of you yourself, having forgiven me one indiscretion already, becoming very angry with me, I ask you again: please don't go to the ball. You do not belong there.'

Still she remained silent, twisting the sash of her peignoir around her finger.

‘Are you very angry?' he asked.

‘No,' she replied very softly after a pause. ‘No, I am not angry. And I shall do as you ask. I shan't go.'

‘Do you mean that?' he exclaimed joyfully.

‘I mean it,' she said. ‘I shan't go. I am very grateful to you for making enquiries about the kind of people who will be there. To tell you the truth, I had a feeling that you might not approve, but I dreaded having to stay at home all by myself. I find it so depressing.'

‘You had a feeling I might not approve?' he echoed, smiling.

‘Yes!' she replied. ‘You are such a good friend to me; I would hate to do anything against your wishes. As for tonight – your wish is my command.'

‘Thank you!' he murmured, pressing her hand. ‘I appreciate that very much.'

‘Oh, as well you might!' she said brightly, although she was somewhat startled by her own submissiveness. ‘Do you realise that it took me almost an hour to arrange all those coins in my hair? And all for nothing!'

‘I am serious – I appreciate it very much, really!' he said earnestly.

Uncle Daniel came in.

‘Bonsoir, St Clare. You are not coming with us, are you? But Eline! Shouldn't you be getting dressed?'

Eline's stammered reply was lost in the vociferations of Eliza, who was berating the manservant in the adjoining room, and a moment later Eliza swept in, resplendent in Algerian draperies and a headdress of coins, with dainty Moorish mules on her feet.

‘Bonsoir, St Clare! What a shame you won't be joining us! Good gracious, Eline, look at you!'

Vincent emerged from the winter garden.

‘It's almost half-past nine and you've only done your hair!' pursued Eliza. ‘What's the matter with you?'

‘I don't believe your niece will be accompanying you, dear lady,' said St Clare, as Eline was too flustered to speak. ‘We heard, Vincent and I, that the society would be rather mixed this evening – and consequently I have advised Miss Vere to stay at home rather than expose herself to undesirable encounters. I hope you don't mind. Of course I knew she would be in safe hands with her uncle and you to chaperone her, but I couldn't help feeling that keeping such company would be rather less suitable for a young girl than for a married lady – even such a charming one as yourself! Was I very wrong?'

Eliza wondered whether or not she should take offence, since his tone, though determined, was friendly enough. Daniel Vere shrugged his shoulders.

‘Wrong?' echoed Eliza. ‘Well, I wouldn't know. Of course Eline can do as she likes. If she would rather not go, eh bien, soit, then we shall have to pretend she has a headache. Easy as kiss-your-thumb. But you will be abysmally bored, Eline.'

‘No, really, I would rather stay at home,' said Eline. ‘That is, if you don't mind.'

‘Not at all, my dear. Liberté chérie, as they say.'

The servant came in with the fur coats, and announced that the carriage was waiting. He held up Eline's cloak.

‘If your uncle and aunt have no objection, I should like to keep you company for a little while,' said St Clare.

They had no objection, and Eline felt mildly confused.

‘Goodbye, have fun!' she said with a timid smile when Uncle Daniel, Eliza and Vincent took their departure.

‘Ridiculous,' grumbled Uncle Daniel when they were seated in the carriage. ‘Ridiculous! He won't have her going to the ball, but thinks it perfectly all right for him to stay with her and keep her company. I suppose it must be American! I mean, which is more compromising – going to a ball with us or spending an evening alone with a young man? Ridiculous!'

Vincent, thinking it beneath his dignity to defend his friend, made no comment. With much ado Eliza prevailed upon her husband to keep silent, saying that it would not do to speak ill of a niece who was living under his roof, nor of a friend whom they saw so frequently.

‘Speak ill of him? Not at all!' huffed Uncle Daniel. ‘He's American! And he has American ways, I suppose.'

. . .

Eline was still flustered.

‘I don't think my uncle was very pleased that I took your advice,' she said when they were alone. ‘Nor did he seem to approve of – of you staying behind.'

St Clare looked at her in calm surprise.

‘Then why didn't he say so? I asked him if he had any objection. And you? Would you rather I left?'

‘Oh no, I'd be very grateful if you stayed a while.'

‘With pleasure. Because I have another favour to ask of you, albeit a less important one.'

‘What is it?'

‘Could I have one of those coins you have taken so much trouble to arrange in your hair?'

Eline smiled; carefully she unwound the string of coins from her head and pulled one off, which she presented to him.

‘Thank you!' he said, and attached it to his watch chain.

Eline was bemused. She felt very pleased, happy even, and yet somewhat abashed. And she wondered which Betsy would have thought the greater evil: going to the ball chaperoned by her uncle and aunt, or spending the evening unchaperoned with St Clare – in
her peignoir, of all things. The latter to be sure, she thought. But he seemed to consider it all so simple and natural that she didn't even dare to excuse herself to go and change her dress.

‘And now let's have a nice chat!' he said, settling himself in a Turkish armchair while she remained seated on the couch, shyly fingering the string of coins. ‘Why don't you tell me some more about yourself, about your childhood, or your travels, perhaps?'

She said she did not know what to tell him, so he asked her questions, which she answered with pleasure and growing confidence. She told him about Aunt Vere, about how much she had enjoyed reading Ouida's novels, and above all about her father and the large canvases that he never completed. She told him about her singing, and about Betsy and Henk, adding that she used to think quite differently then, and that she used to look quite different, too.

‘What do you mean by “then”?'

‘I mean before my illness and before I went travelling with my uncle and aunt. Before . . . before my engagement.'

‘And how did you look then?'

‘Much healthier, and . . . fresher.'

‘You mean: more beautiful?'

That he could read her thoughts made her laugh, and also that he did not make the slightest effort to be gallant. She suggested that he might be interested in seeing some of her photographs from those days, and as she reached for one of the albums lying on a console, it occurred to her that she might as well give him leave to call her by her first name, but in the next instant forgot her intention.

He leafed through the album, which contained many fine portraits of her: with a ribbon in her hair, wearing a pearl necklace, and several in a low-necked gown.

‘Well? What do you think?' she asked, in response to his silence.

‘Very pretty,' he said indifferently. ‘But that smile . . . so coquettish, so sweet . . . a pretentious kind of sweetness. A bit off-putting. Did you always look like that, or were you doing it for the photograph?'

She was piqued.

‘Goodness me, I didn't know you could be so harsh!' she said accusingly.

‘Was I harsh? If so, I beg your pardon. They are portraits of you, after all. I was confused. It's hard for me to recognise you in them. But to be quite honest, I would have been put off if I had seen you looking like that. Beautiful, but off-putting. You look thinner now, and rather frail, but there is something very appealing about your expression, whereas the portraits are just coquettish poses. I prefer you as you are now.'

He closed the album and laid it aside.

‘And you?' he resumed. ‘Would you rather be the way you were then? Do you miss your old life?'

‘Oh no,' she sighed. ‘I wasn't happy then, either.'

‘But from now on you will do your best to be happy, won't you?'

She laughed softly and shrugged her shoulders.

‘Happiness can't be forced,' she murmured dreamily, in English.

‘I didn't know you spoke English!' he exclaimed.

‘Me?' she responded in French, waking from her dream.

‘Yes, you!'

‘Me? Speaking English?'

‘Not now; a moment ago.'

‘Was I speaking English? I didn't realise–'

‘Why did you never speak English to me before?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Yes you do.'

‘No, truly, I don't.'

‘Of course you know. Come now, tell me why.'

She gave a light, gay laugh.

‘Because of the way you speak French! Your accent is so charming.'

‘So you have been laughing at me behind my back all this time?'

‘No, truly I have not!'

‘Then which language shall we speak from now on? English or French?'

‘French, or you'll only think I was laughing anyway.'

‘There's no logic at all in what you're saying.'

‘I dare say, but I want to go on speaking French.'

‘See? You aren't as weak as you thought. You're getting braver already.'

‘Am I?'

‘This is the first time I've heard you say “I want”. It's a good start. Mark my words: first you exercise your will over some small matter, and soon it will become firmer. Once it's firm and strong, you'll become brave. Promise me you'll try to cultivate that small will of yours, think of it as a hothouse seedling that needs a lot of care.'

She continued to smile sweetly.

‘I could become very wilful under your influence.'

‘Well, I hope not. But I'd be delighted if you became a little braver under my influence.'

‘I shall do my best.'

‘And I shall keep you to your word. Now I must be off. It is nearly eleven.'

She wanted to exclaim ‘What, already?', but checked the impulse.

‘Now tell me honestly, don't you think you are far better off going to bed early and getting a good night's sleep instead of staying up until six in the morning and dancing with strange men and associating with an even stranger assortment of ladies?'

‘You are absolutely right. I am very grateful to you.'

‘And so am I to you, for the coin you have given me.'

She sensed that his gratitude extended further than the coin.

‘And now I must take my leave. Goodnight, Eline.'

She was moved to hear him call her by her first name; it struck a new note of familiarity and warmth.

‘Goodnight, Lawrence,' she whispered.

She extended her slender hand. He held it a moment, gazing into her eyes, then let go.

‘Adieu!' he said with a final cordial nod, and left.

She remained standing a while, sunk in thought, then ordered the servant to turn off the light in the reception room, and retired to her bedroom. She took the string of coins from her hair and laid it on her dressing table. The shimmering draperies of her oriental costume were spread out on a chair, with her Moorish mules on the floor beside it.

While she was getting dressed for bed she could hear his voice speaking in that light accent of his. She tidied away her jewellery with deliberation. Her eye fell on her watch, and from there on the
black locket attached to the chain. She opened the locket and gazed at it for a long moment, moist-eyed.

Then she pressed a soft kiss on the likeness it contained, as though she were kissing someone who had just died. She had a momentary impulse to detach the locket from the chain and put it away in one of the little drawers of her jewellery box, where she kept various trinkets that she no longer wore. But she did not act on it.

She climbed into bed. She did not sleep. Nor did she take any drops. At half-past five she heard Uncle Daniel and Eliza return home, sighing with exhaustion. But her wakeful hours had been undisturbed by grim thoughts of any kind; indeed, she felt bathed in a calm, rosy glow of repose.

Towards morning she dozed off, and when she awoke she felt less lethargic than usual.

. . .

Eline did not see Eliza again until lunch the following day. Uncle Daniel had already left on one of his numerous missions, the nature of which was never fully disclosed, so that his occupation remained a mystery to Eline. She asked Eliza whether she had amused herself at the ball.

‘Oh, yes, well enough,' Eliza responded genially. ‘Rather a brouhaha. Perhaps it was just as well that you didn't go. You would have been a nervous wreck. Le cher poète était désolé. Did St Clare stay long?'

‘Until eleven.'

‘Ah well, personally I didn't mind about him advising you to stay in. But Daniel thought it a bit strange that you were so easily persuaded. He's got over it now, though! You are as free as you like as far as we're concerned, you know that.'

Eline said nothing.

‘But you have to admit,' Eliza continued with a chuckle, ‘that it was a bit odd. Makes you think, doesn't it?'