“Are you mad? two giggling ninnies—and no money, is there?”
“Some say there is, others declare that they live too extravagantly; any way you might try and find out. But were you in earnest, Vincent, or was it only by way of saying something?”
“Not at all. I think I should do well if I married. Don’t you think I’m right?”
Betsy looked at him searchingly, and her glance was full of secret contempt. With his lack-lustre eyes, his languid movements, his indolent voice, he did not much impress her as an ideal husband for a young girl.
“Not quite. I think you are a terrible egotist; neither do I believe that a wife would find much support in you. You are weak—I mean morally, of course.”
She soon regretted her words and felt irritated at her own imprudence. She nearly shuddered when he looked at her with that mysterious smile, with those soft, dull, snake-like eyes.
“And a wife has always need of support, eh?” he said in measured tones. “You too, don’t you—you find your support in Henk? you depend entirely upon him, and he is strong enough—I mean physically, of course?”
Every word he uttered he emphasized as with a spiteful meaning, and every word pierced sharp as a needle into her domineering nature; but she dared not answer him, she shrank back in fear and only smiled, as if he had merely made a jest. He too laughed, a kindly gentle laugh like hers, but full of veiled revengefulness.
They were both silent for a while, conscious of the struggle under that outward show of good-nature, until Betsy began gently to murmur some complaints about old Madame van Raat, who always misunderstood her, and with whom she could never agree; and whilst he sat indifferently listening to her, she felt how she abhorred him, how glad she would have been, after having him in the house for a month, to give him his congé; but she knew that she could never do it without risking a terrible scene; he would continue hanging about till the end of time, and she could not think of any means to [[203]]get him away. It was all Henk’s fault; if he’d only given him that wretched little sum the idea would never have entered her mind to ask him into the house. She detested Vincent, and she detested herself for her fear of him. She was rich and happy; what harm could he do her? But the more she argued, the more the fear clung to her, like an enervating idiosyncrasy, of which she could not free herself.
Madame van Raat and Henk were slowly returning from the garden, and they sat down in the conservatory at one of the open glass doors. But after a few words about the roses, the old lady grew quiet and pensive. Amid the luxury of her son’s house a certain chill, a vacuum, seemed to seize her and make her melancholy, even more melancholy than she was in her own lonely house. She had never had that feeling before when she was with Henk; but now it seemed as if her love for her son did not yield sufficient warmth to dispel that chill vacuum. And suddenly the truth struck her. She missed Eline—Eline who, wherever she went, beamed forth the light of her fascination; she missed her dear child, so different from Betsy, so loving and sympathetic. And she could not help saying in her sad voice—