Would he never then burst forth in a storm of passion, in a tempestuous torrent about—about anything, whatever it was? Would he ever remain so calm, so placid, so eternally equable? did he then never feel conscious of something struggling with something else within his heart, something that boiled and seethed within him, and which must pour itself forth in a torrent of words? Could nothing move him, nor rouse him from that rest which seemed all but lethargy? Kind and affectionate, yes, that he was, but he was incapable of deep feeling; perhaps his calmness was nothing but egoism after all, an egoism which another’s grief was powerless to move!
Thoughts such as these made Eline feel wretched and unhappy. Oh, great heavens! they were the spectres, the grim spectres, that were fast crowding in around her. No, no, they should not drag her along with them, she would scare them away, away; but in vain, still they rose up, one after another, chilling her with their icy breaths of gruesome doubts, and she struggled against them—a fearful struggle! She forced herself to think again those sweet thoughts which had filled her with an idyllic happiness during her stay at the Horze; she forced herself once more to find back her placid peacefulness, her ethereal ecstasy—but alas, it was in vain! And when she began to feel conscious of that one sleepless night, when a deep silence prevailed throughout the house, and when she, with great staring eyes, was lying so lonely on her bed; when for the first time she felt conscious of that, in all its cruel truth, and felt that those days had passed away for ever, that they would never more smile upon her with their golden glory of light and joy, then at last she burst out in a wild, tempestuous sobbing, so tempestuous and wild as she had never sobbed before, and in her passionate outburst she flung herself upon her pillow as though that were her happiness, as though that were the bird that slipped through her fingers. She shook her head—no, no, she would, she must be happy again as before, she would, she would love her Otto, as she did before in the pine wood—love him! No, it was impossible, it must not, it should not be—she would, would force herself, with all the strength and energy of her will, to continue to love him, as she had done hitherto; she would still [[213]]cling close to him, as she now clung to her pillow and the gruesome, grinning spectres should not be able to tear him from her arms. All remained silent in the house; only, there she heard the big clock in the kitchen down-stairs, tick, tick, unceasingly, and an intense terror seized her as she listened to that hard, metallic, rhythmic sound. A terror lest her happiness should not allow itself to be forced back into her soul; a terror lest some invisible power should push her down, down along some steep sloping path, while she would fain ascend upward, ever upward. And then followed a fury, a tempestuous fury, because she felt it so plainly, and yet would not feel, and because she remained too weak to make a strong, decided effort to resist the encroachment of the unseen powers that ever seemed to mock and taunt her.
The next morning Eline went early to see Vincent; she wanted to hand him a big letter that had come for him. He was lying as usual in his Turkish dressing-gown on the divan. Still, slowly and gradually, he was recovering; Dr. Reyer had even told him that he might take a little walk, but the rest had become dear to him, and he answered that he did not yet feel equal to walking. When Eline entered he gave her a friendly nod; he had grown used to her thousand little cares, and he felt grateful to her for them, and this gratitude brought a kindly glow into his eyes which Eline mistook for love. She handed him the letter and asked how he felt.
“Pretty well. I am getting on gradually,” he said wearily, but suddenly he raised himself up and quickly tore open the envelope. Eline was about to sit down at the piano.
“Ah, at last!” she heard Vincent exclaim almost joyfully.
“It is from New York, from Lawrence St. Clare!” said Vincent, quickly reading through the letter. “He has found something for me—a place at a good business house.”
Eline felt suddenly alarmed.
“And what do you think of doing?” she asked. “What do you mean?”
“To go as soon as I am better, but—but I am not, and I am afraid I shall not be yet awhile,” he concluded languidly.
“To go where—to America?”