The afternoon passed slowly, the hours dragged themselves along, as though weary under the burden of her melancholy. Then she dressed for a dinner-party at the Hydrechts’, without the slightest expectation of finding any amusement there. She would gladly have asked Betsy to say that she was ill at home; but it would not do. Unlike the Verstraetens recently, the Hydrechts might take offence, and besides, Betsy might perhaps refuse to do as she asked. So she went, and screwed herself up to a coquettish gaiety which, with her natural tact in hiding her feelings, effectually blinded the eyes of all.
The next day was the twentieth of January, her birthday. She stayed late in bed, surrounded by the warmth of the blankets, in the soft red light reflected by the curtains, without any desire to rise, or any longing for her morning walk. She would not see him if she went, her presentiment told her. She began to feel childishly superstitious. It was now close upon nine. If Mina should come in before the clock struck nine, to arrange her washstand for her, she would meet Fabrice in the Bosch to-morrow. But Mina came after nine, and when the girl had put everything straight and had left the room, she thought of something fresh. If last evening she had laid her bracelet in the large vase she would meet Fabrice; not, if she had placed it in the small one; and she raised herself up, drew the red damask bed-curtains aside, and glanced round. There lay the bracelet in the large vase. With a smile, she once more lay back in the pillows.
She struggled with herself to get up, but why not stay in bed in the cosy warmth? She was weary with grief, why commence another day? Ere long her friends would come to congratulate her; she would have to be nice and amiable, and receive their presents with delighted ecstasy, and she was in a far from amiable humour; she felt no desire to see any one.
It struck half-past ten, and she thought perhaps Betsy would soon be coming in, and in a few friendly words make up the quarrel; she listened for her sister’s step on the stairs, but her expectations were in vain, and at last, unnerved by her languor, [[110]]she rose, and lazily proceeded to dress. The glass reflected her image with something of sadness in the eyes and a weary expression about the mouth, and to herself she seemed quite ugly. But what did it matter after all? for whose sake should she be pretty? There was no one who loved her with such fervour as she thought that her heart was capable of.
She was dressed, and all at once a shivering overtook her. She did not feel equal to going down-stairs; how should she approach Betsy? Should she take up an attitude of expectation merely? Why did not Betsy meet her half-way? Why must she continue bearing a grudge like that, about such a trifling matter? Eline felt almost afraid to see Betsy in the breakfast-room, and she walked into her boudoir, where the fire was already burning brightly, and threw herself on her sofa, wretched and weary with grief and loneliness. Why, yes, why did she live?
Deeper and deeper she sank into the abyss of melancholy, when at last some glimmer of light came to pierce the gloom that enshrouded her, for she heard Henk and Ben coming up the stairs. They came nearer; she heard their voices; there was a noisy knocking at her door.
“Where are you, old girl; still in bed?” cried Henk.
“No; I am here, in my boudoir,” she answered, slightly raising her voice.
The door was opened and Henk appeared, shaking his head, while Ben slipped through between his father’s high riding-boots, a bouquet clasped in his little fists.
“Auntie, many happy returns of your birthday—and this is from Ben,” said the child, as though he were repeating a lesson learnt by heart, while he laid the bouquet in her lap.