She wanted to say something more, but could find no words, and once more her lips sought Betsy’s forehead. She, however, pushed her lightly aside.
“All right; let us say no more about it then. I am no more angry. But not so much kissing, you know I don’t care about it.” [[114]]
Her birthday passed by gloomily enough for Eline. The reconciliation with Betsy had not made the desired impression on her; she had pictured something much more cordial—a sisterly embrace, an intermingling of tears—the prelude to future affectionate intercourse with each other. But what had been the reality? On Betsy’s part an icy condescension, by the side of which she, in her attitude, had cut a somewhat sorry figure. She knew herself to be weaker than her sister, and yet she would resist her over-ruling; but with every attempt at opposition, and especially after this latest one, followed as it was by a temporary, hollow victory, she felt herself more and more powerless to continue the struggle with such unequal moral weapons. Her pride had only proved a frail reed, breaking with every gust of wind, and in her dismay a hopeless gloom seemed to enshroud her thoughts as with a thick veil of crape.
For all that she kept up a semblance of gaiety that afternoon in the midst of the cheery company of the friends who came to congratulate her. But Madame van Raat, from whose dreamy, light-blue eyes she would have been so glad to have seen a ray of sympathy beam upon her, was indisposed, and sent an apology through Paul, and this was a great disappointment to her. Madame van Erlevoort and Mathilde came to add the excuses of Freddie, who was at home with a cold, and again Eline wondered why Frédérique should be so reserved towards her. Jeanne Ferelyn overwhelmed her with a string of domestic troubles, and it required all her tact and amiability not to display any undue impatience in listening to them. Little Cateau van der Stoor, who, like Madame van Raat, she would have been glad to see, appeared to have forgotten her birthday; she neither saw nor heard anything of her. But Emilie de Woude brought her own boisterous gaiety with her. Her lively chat infused a little brightness into the dull atmosphere of the drawing-room—in which the gas was not yet lit—into which, along the heavy folds of the draperies, a darkening twilight penetrated which seemed to transform the brightness of the gilded panelling, and the glistening sheen of the fawn-satin cushions, into undefined and gloomy shadows. Emilie wanted to see Eline’s presents, charming trifles—a few bouquets arranged on a table, round about a big basket full of flowers and fruit.
“What a splendid corbeille!” cried Emilie. “Peaches, grapes, roses—lovely! From whom, Elly?” [[115]]
“From Vincent; pretty, is it not?”
“I wish I had such nice cousins.”
“Hush!” whispered Eline.
Vincent had just entered the room, and his eyes went in search of the hostess. Betsy received him, as usual, with a certain warmth and geniality in her constant, vague fear of what that cousin might do. Eline thanked him, and clasped both his hands in hers.
Vincent apologized for coming so late; it was a quarter past five, and the Verstraetens and the others were taking their leave in the gathering twilight, after which Gerard came in to light the gas, close the blinds, and draw the curtains.