“Because of the fan, I suppose,” he laughed.
“Oh, you do tease me,” she pouted. “No; not because of the fan, I have a dozen of them, but because—because you care for her.”
“Let us make a compact together then. You go and find me a nice girl whom you consider fit to be my wife, and of whom you are not jealous; then when you have found her, and I like her, I shall think no more of Eline. What do you say to that?”
She answered nothing, but rose, and wiped away her tears. His badinage displeased her, and made her fear that he thought her foolish. She approached the table, pointed to the cup of tea, and said—
“Your tea is getting cold, Otto; why don’t you drink it?”
Ere he could reply, she had gone, full of conflicting thoughts, pleased that she had given vent to her feelings, and had obtained Otto’s confidence; and yet uncertain whether she would not have done better to have said nothing.
For five days Eline had not met Fabrice on her early walks, and the disappointment of the mornings spoilt the whole of the days that followed. At first she grew quiet, morose, and irritable; very soon she became more melancholy, she sang no more, she refused to see Roberts, her master, or to accompany Paul van Raat in his duets. One morning, after her walk, about half-past ten, she returned home, and threw herself musingly on her sofa, while, with wandering fingers, she unclasped her cloak. She could not bear Ben near her, and sent him away to the nursemaid; and thoroughly tired out, with her big, hazel eyes moist and glistening with unsatisfied longing, she let her glance wander along the palms, the pictures, the group by Canova. A melancholy oppressiveness fell upon her like a cloud, and she asked herself the [[108]]question, Why must she live, if she were not to be happy? To give her sorrow a definite shape, she searched about for grievances, and made the most of them; she was in need of affection, and there was no one to love her. With Betsy she could get on no longer, as it seemed; she was continually at variance with her sister, and it was not always her fault; Frédérique was conspicuously cool towards her, for what reason she had not the remotest idea. It was only old Madame van Raat who continued affectionate as ever; but just at present she felt but little in the humour to display that amiable frankness, tempered with a flavour of veneration, which had won the old lady’s heart. Yes; her life was a useless existence, she was continually swinging from one day to another, without any object, and she longed for—for something like the vague vision, without definite shape, which seemed to rise as in a sphere of love, sometimes purely ideal, like an idyll, sometimes simpler in form and suffused with a halo of homeliness and domestic happiness.
She sighed as she raised her hand towards the azalea, and crumpled the leaves between her nervous fingers. With an effort she compelled her musings to assume some definite form before her mental vision, and by a sudden caprice of her fantasy, she saw herself together with Fabrice, and both of them were singing at the opera in some great city. They loved one another, and they were famous; they were overwhelmed with wreaths and bouquets, and the whole vision rose before her vivid and entrancing, as it had done one day whilst she was singing with Paul.
But her imagination not receiving any fresh fuel, not having seen Fabrice for so long, lost its vivid colouring; her vision faded, and left her in a gray, sombre mood—a seeming reflex of the sky outside, which was heavy with dark rain-clouds. She felt the hot tears glide along her lashes; she had a great longing for Henk, to whom she was anxious to confide her sorrow, he was so fond of her, and knew how to administer such comforting words to her in his own kindly, clumsy way; the mere sound of his voice alone, so kindly, so genial, and heavy, fell like a healing balm upon her soul.
And so she sat sobbing, and thought how disagreeable all that sulking with Betsy was. To-morrow it would be her, Eline’s, birthday. Would Betsy take the first step towards a reconciliation, or did the cause of the quarrel really rest with herself? Had she [[109]]felt sure of her reception by her sister, she would gladly have ventured a rapprochement, or even have apologized, if necessary; but she feared Betsy’s coolness. So she would wait; yes, she would wait.