“Jeanne Ferelyn is going early, because her child is unwell, and [[21]]I wanted to ask Emilie and her brother to come too. Henk can stay at home. It is a box for four, you know.”
“Very well; I don’t mind.”
Well satisfied with herself, Eline was just putting down the last tray, when all at once a violent altercation broke out in the kitchen, accompanied by the silvery clattering of forks and spoons. It was Grete and Mina engaged in rather forcible argument. Betsy hurried out of the room, and very soon, curt commands and impudent answers followed each other in rapid succession.
Ben in the meantime remained standing open-mouthed, and somewhat drowsily, on the spot where his mother had pushed him, full of silent alarm at all the hubbub.
“Come, Ben, to auntie’s room,” said Eline, and smilingly she held out her hand towards him. He came, and both proceeded up-stairs.
Eline occupied two rooms on the ground floor, a bedroom and a boudoir. With the economy and good taste which were common to her nature, she had succeeded in imparting to these rooms a semblance of luxury, with somewhat of an artistic polish. Her piano occupied an angle in the wall; the heavy foliage of a giant azalea cast a softening shade over the low, damask-covered couch. In a corner stood a small table laden with innumerable precious trifles. Statuettes, pictures, feathers, palm branches, filled every nook. The pink marble mantelpiece was crowned with a miniature Venetian mirror, suspended by red cords and tassels. In front stood an Amor and Psyche, after Canova, the group depicting a maiden in the act of removing her veil, and a love-sick, light-winged god.
When Eline entered with Ben, the ruddy glow from the hearth shone on her cheeks. She threw the child a few tattered volumes of engravings, and he settled himself on the sofa, soon absorbed in the pictures. Eline entered her bedroom, the windows of which were still covered with daintily-formed leaves and flowers, the effect of the night’s frost. Yonder stood a toilette duchesse—a vision of tulle and lace—touched up here and there with the satin bows of old ball bouquets, and laden with scent phials of Sèvres and fine cut-glass. In the midst of all this wealth of pink and white the mirror glittered like a sheet of burnished silver. The bedstead was hidden among red draperies, and in the corner against the door a tall cheval glass reflected a flood of liquid sunshine. [[22]]
For a moment Eline glanced round, to see if her maid had arranged everything to her satisfaction; then shivering in the chilly atmosphere she returned to her sitting-room and closed the door. With its semi-Eastern luxury the room was a most pleasant one, its comfort seemingly enhanced by the cold white glare reflected from the snow outside.
Eline felt as though brimming over with melody—a feeling which could only find adequate expression in song. She chose the waltz from Mireille. And she sang it with variations of her own, with modulations now swelling into a full, rich volume of melody, now melting away into the faintest diminuendo, with brilliant shakes and roulades clear as those of a lark. She no longer thought of the cold and snow outside. Then suddenly remembering that she had not practised for three days, she commenced singing scales, brightening her high notes, and trying a difficult portamento. Her voice resounded with a metallic ring, somewhat cold, but clear and bright as crystal.
Ben, though well used to these jubilant tones, which reverberated through the whole house, sat listening in open-mouthed wonder, without bestowing a further glance on his pictures, now and again giving a sudden start when some exceptionally shrill high si or do would penetrate his ears.