Henk stood still in blank amazement, and could not utter a word. But Eline lifted up her head, and wringing her hands and nearly delirious with grief, she said—
“Yes, oh heavens! yes, I have broken it off. A long letter—I have sent him—and, oh! ’tis terrible—’tis terrible—but I don’t know what I am doing, I don’t know what I want, I don’t know if I care for him or if I don’t, or if I care for any one else. I don’t know anything—and, oh! ’tis all a-throbbing, a-throbbing in my head. I wrote him—because—because I thought it was my duty—I should have made him unhappy. But it is terrible, terrible—that I should have done it. Perhaps I ought not to have done it, perhaps I could have yet cared for him. Oh, God! I would it was all over with me now, I would I were dead, for I can bear it no longer, I can bear it no longer!”
Dull and lifeless the words fell from her, while she crouched down on the floor, wrung her hands, and slowly rubbed her forehead on the carpet.
Betsy glanced at Henk: what should she do? The secret spite she felt against her sister melted away for the moment in a great pity at the sight of Eline’s grief. And when she saw her husband continue staring like one demented at Eline, she felt annoyed that he could find nothing better to do. She lit the gas, and wrapped a cloak about her—and Eline’s altered features alarmed her, now that she sat staring vacantly before her with her eyes red with weeping, her hands folded on her knee. [[224]]
“Oh, Elly, Elly! How could you do such a thing?” said Henk in a husky voice, as he thought of Otto.
Eline did not answer, and only slightly moved her head.
“Oh, my head is bursting!” she faintly murmured.
“Are you in pain?” asked Betsy.
“Oh!” groaned Eline.
Betsy dipped a handkerchief in some water and bathed Eline’s face, her temples, and her forehead, from which she brushed away the dishevelled hair.