‘Eline, there’s no need for such big words. Calm down.’
‘I am not using big words, I am quite calm. I speak with reason, oh, with hopeless reason!’ she cried, standing up to face him. He caught her hands in his. ‘I know what I am saying, and I can’t bear it! Listen to me, Lawrence. You know that I was engaged to be married, don’t you?’
‘Yes. You broke it off.’
‘Yes I did. I broke it off, and yet I loved him. Even when I was writing that final letter telling him it was over, I loved him. Do you realise how awful that is?’
His only answer was a look of bewilderment.
‘You don’t understand, do you?’ she burst out, her hands shaking in his grasp. ‘You have no idea what it feels like to be a woman whose heart is lacerated by the most horrible doubts! I don’t even know what I feel sometimes, or what I want, or even what I’m thinking! You see, there’s a part of me that is undeveloped, incomplete. I’m always racked with doubt, never sure about anything. I loved him – oh, please forgive me saying this to you now, but I loved him so very much, he was so good and he would have given his life for me! And then one day I began to wonder whether I really loved him. I even thought I loved someone else for a time, while I loved no one but him. I know that now, but I discovered it too late, and I may have ruined his life!’
‘Why do you think that, Eline?’
‘I just know it. When I was in The Hague people gave me to understand that he had got over the disappointment. But I never believed them! Now that it’s too late, it has all become clear to me, only now do I realise how much he loved me. And he hasn’t forgotten me; if I had heard that he had married someone else in the meantime, I still wouldn’t believe he had forgotten all about me. I know he still thinks of me, just as often as I still think of him.’
‘Do you still love him?’ he asked dully.
‘Not the way I loved him before. Not any more, Lawrence. I think what I feel for him now is pity more than anything else. But I think of him often. I have his portrait here.’
She opened the locket and held it out for him to see Otto’s likeness. He stared at it.
‘Do you keep it with you at all times?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes, I do,’ she said in a barely audible whisper. ‘Always. It is sacred to me. And that is why, Lawrence – oh, that is why it can never be! The thought of him would always come between us. I could have been happy with you, if it weren’t for that thought haunting me. But I could never be happy while I knew him to be sad, oh, no, I could never do that!’
When he failed to respond she sank to the floor, convulsed with sobs, and pressed her forehead to his knees.
‘Oh forgive me, Lawrence, forgive me! I never thought you could love me! I felt so ill, always coughing, too weak to do anything! I thought I’d grown ugly, and that no man would ever want me! Otherwise I wouldn’t have shown you that I cared for you! You spoke of us as brother and sister! Why do you speak differently now? And now I have caused you pain, but I had no choice. It would be wicked of me to become your wife while I have this weighing on my conscience.’
He pulled her gently to her feet and drew her towards him.
‘Eline!’ he said. ‘You once told me that you had thrown away your happiness. I did not ask what you meant by that. But I am asking you now. Did you mean the letter you wrote to Otto?’
‘Yes!’ she sobbed.
‘You threw away your happiness by writing that letter, is that it? Are you quite sure that you won’t be throwing it away again if you stand by the answer you gave me? Or could I never make you happy? Only Otto?’
‘Oh, Lawrence!’ she murmured passionately, stepping closer. ‘If only I had met you when I was younger, before all those things happened, I could never have loved anyone but you. But it was not to be. It was my fate.’
‘Oh, don’t talk about fate. Fate is just a word. Everyone shapes their own fate. You are too weak to take yourself in hand. Let me be your fate.’
‘It’s impossible!’ she wept, tossing her head from side to side against his chest. ‘I can’t help it, but it’s impossible!’
‘No, Eline, it is not impossible!’ he replied. ‘You say you could have loved no one but me if you had met me before. But if we had met before, you might not have had the same effect on me; in any case, all that is mere speculation, and beside the point. The point is that I love you; I love you the way you are now. You say that you are ill, but I know that you will recover. I can feel it.’
‘You can’t be sure!’ she wept.
‘That is true, but neither can you be sure that you ruined Otto’s happiness. You can see that, can’t you? You don’t know for certain.’
‘Oh, but I am! I can feel it!’
‘But you don’t know for certain,’ he persisted. ‘And you tell me, when I ask you to be my wife, that it’s impossible, out of the question. Aren’t you being rather cruel?’
‘Oh, please don’t say that!’ she sobbed.
‘You said yourself a moment ago that you are always doubting, never certain about anything. So what makes you so certain that you can’t marry me? How do you know you won’t regret your decision when I’m gone, when it’s too late?’
‘Oh,’ she moaned. ‘How can you make me suffer like this? You’re tormenting me–’
He lifted her face to his.
‘I shall stop tormenting you, Eline. There is just one more thing. Please don’t give me a flat refusal. You might yet have a change of heart. At least allow me to hope. Vincent and I are leaving the day after tomorrow. Five months from now you will see me again. I shall ask Vincent to write to you from time to time, so that you always know where to reach me. One word from you and I shall come straight back. You needn’t promise me anything, just don’t refuse me just yet. Allow me to hope, and try to be hopeful yourself. Will you do that for me? Is that asking too much?’
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Oh no, it’s not too much. I will give you my answer five months from now.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s all I ask. And now I will wait here for your uncle and aunt to return, so that I can take my leave of them. Vincent will look in tomorrow. And, since we’re alone now, may I take this opportunity to say goodbye to you?’
She did not answer, but held his gaze until he took her in his arms and kissed her.
‘Five months from now?’ he whispered, smiling.
Drawing back a moment, she looked at him intently, then flung her arms about his neck and pressed a long, tender kiss on his forehead.
‘Five months from now,’ she echoed.
XXXIV
At the onset of winter it seemed to Frédérique that her soul, which had previously felt as light and free as a bird, was labouring under a burden of lead. It seemed to her that she had committed some secret crime, that she had murdered Paul, as it were, and that Mathilda and Marie were the only people in the world who knew about it. She had grown taciturn and withdrawn, and her remorse tempered the dark shimmer of her eyes to a soft, soulful glow.
She had not seen Paul since he had moved to Bodegraven, and he very rarely visited The Hague nowadays. Had he left on her account? Or was his ambition to become a mayor just another fad, much like his earlier efforts at making a career out of singing, or painting, or his short spell at Hovel’s law office? Did he ever think of her? Or had he forgotten all about that sunny morning at De Horze when he kissed her and asked her to be his wife? And supposing he still thought of her, was it with regret or with indifference?
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 o
ne 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.
&nb
sp; ‘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.’
Eline Vere Page 50
