“Oh, now, now at last I begin to feel the luxury of rest,” she said wearily, “for I am so tired, so tired.”
“Shall I leave you alone then, if you want to sleep?”
“No, no, stay, do stay here; it is not the five hours in the train that has made me tired. I am tired, tired of everything, and that sleep will not cure; but still now I feel that I am resting, not because I am sitting down, but because it is on you that I am leaning, and because I know that you care for me. You see I needed it so much—in all this travelling, among all those strange people—I needed somebody upon whom I could lean, somebody who would give me a little, a very little love and affection, but it was all so cold, so deadly cold around me, with all the kindliness and courtesy. Uncle Daniel too is just like all the rest, very friendly, very kind, very polite, but so cold. With Elise I was always having some joke or another, all about her is light and airy as foam, but she too is cold, cold and cynical, and with all those strangers I was always obliged to be on my friendliest behaviour, and always smiling, for who would have cared to be bothered with a guest who was not jolly? And where was I to go to, if I did not lodge somewhere or was on my journey?”
“But, child, you could always have come to me, and I should have written to you before this if I had thought you were so unhappy, but I always imagined that you were very happy indeed.”
“Happy!” groaned Eline, “yes, happy as a horse that cannot go further, and is driven along by blows and kicks;” and she laughed, a laugh of bitter sadness.
Her laugh cut into Madame van Raat’s soul like a knife. The tears sparkled in her dulled eyes and she could not speak, she could only clasp Eline closer to her breast.
“Yes, that’s right, hold me close to you,” murmured Eline softly. “This is rest, rest indeed—my dear, dear old pet.”
Thus they remained seated for a long time, and neither of them spoke another word until the old lady insisted that Eline should [[256]]try and sleep. She would stay close to her, Eline need but open a door, and she would be with her.
“If you want anything say so, or you will ring, won’t you, child? Do exactly as if you were at home. Ask for whatever you want.”
Eline promised she would, and the old lady left her. But Eline’s heart was still too full for her to retire to bed at once. She glanced around her, and in every nook, in every corner, she recognized her own vases, her plates, and her photos. Then her glance fell upon a Japanese box on the table. Her little bunch of keys was lying beside it, she took it up, found the right key, and opened the box. In it there were a number of letters discoloured with age—letters from old schoolmates, letters from Aunt Vere, written at a time when she was at boarding-school. The former she would tear up, for she felt no longer an attachment for the gushing professions of girls whom she never saw, and whom she had forgotten as they had forgotten her. A letter or two she found also from her father—her father who had been so dear to her—and she kissed the paper with veneration as though it had been sacred. But all at once, while she was arranging her papers, there fell from those discoloured pages a small piece of cardboard. She stooped, picked it up from the floor—and she turned white as a sheet, while her eyes stared wildly in front of her.