She led Eline away like a child, and like a child she undressed her.
“Oh, my head!” groaned Eline, and she fell back exhausted on her pillow. Betsy undressed her further and covered her, then she bathed her face once more with a wet cloth.
“Come, try and sleep a little now. There is nothing more to be done for the present—perhaps it will all come right again later on.”
Eline shook her head.
“Shall I sit down by your bed?”
Eline did not answer, and lay staring vacantly before her. Betsy closed one of the red curtains and sat down.
The little white night-lamp glowed like a star on the table, and in the panelling of the wardrobe, in the toilet glass, over the flask and vases, on the muslin toilet duchesse, fitful gleams of light played hither and thither, while the big, black shadows lay about everywhere, motionless and gruesome, like so many dark spectres. [[225]]Betsy sat shivering in her dressing-gown; she wanted to think, but could not, for continually the one idea returned to her mind, that Eline had written to Otto. The hours dragged slowly by, and Betsy heard it strike one, half-past one, two o’clock. Then the groaning behind the bed-curtain died away. Betsy rose, and peeped through for a moment; it seemed Eline was asleep, she lay motionless with closed eyes. Slowly and quietly Betsy left the room.
In his own room Henk was still seated, leaning his head in his hands. Neither of them went to bed, and they sat whispering together, now and then listening whether any movement could be heard in Eline’s room. They both feared something indefinable, of which they could not speak, something that continually filled their thoughts with a vague, dread terror.
“Hush!” cried Betsy all at once, for Henk was still whispering, and she heard something. Both listened. From Eline’s room there came the sound of a violent sobbing, the sobbing of a soul in despair, passionate and loud. A chill trembling came over Betsy.
“I am so frightened,” she faltered in a quivering voice.