Yes, indeed, it was too true. The old lady could do nothing for her—no one could.
They found nothing more to say to each other. Both understood well enough that they could render each other no help in bearing the burdens of life, that neither could be of any comfort to the other. But now the old lady began to doubt, too, whether even Uncle Daniel or Elise could be of any comfort to Eline. And though they said not another word, still the old lady sat there with Eline clasped close to her bosom.
It grew dark, and a cheerless chill began to fill the rooms. Sombre shadows were descending in every corner behind the draperies and along the walls. The old lady shivered with the chill atmosphere, but she did not rise to ring the bell for the servant to look after the dying fire, for Eline had fallen asleep with her head resting on her shoulder. Were it not for Eline’s heavy breathing, Madame van Raat would have thought that death had overtaken her. The waxen pallor of those emaciated features was like unto the dew of death.
Eline slept on, and it grew chiller and chiller. The old lady glanced at the stove; not a spark of fire was to be seen. Slowly she removed the woollen pelerine from her shoulders, and gently spread it over Eline’s sleeping form. [[267]]
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A month had passed, during which Eline had been living a life of semi-lethargy, of languid indifference, at the house of her uncle in the Avenue Louise at Brussels. Her cough was still very troublesome, but she felt herself comparatively at ease in her surroundings. Elise, though she chattered somewhat, seemed rather to like her; and Uncle Daniel, though he was somewhat cold in his studied politeness, was very amiable also. Sometimes, indeed, a suspicion rose to her mind that they shammed as every one in the Hague had shammed, but she would not stop to analyze this doubt; she was satisfied to allow her brain to be gradually enveloped by the lethargic indifference which was more and more becoming a part of her very being.
Quite unexpectedly one day Uncle Daniel received a letter from Vincent Vere from New York. They were not in the habit of corresponding, and uncle was somewhat surprised. Eline, whose correspondence with her cousin had not been of very long duration, now that his name sounded so unexpectedly in her ears felt her interest in him revive; she was very anxious to know what the contents of his letter might be. Perhaps he asked for money.
But in this Eline was mistaken. Vincent asked for no money, nor even for a recommendation or any help whatever. He simply wrote that he intended to take a trip to Europe with his friend Lawrence St. Clare, and they would visit Brussels. This letter roused Eline somewhat from her mental lethargy. She called to mind how Vincent, languid and weak, had reclined on her sofa in his Turkish dressing-gown, and how she had tended him. With this memory the thought of Otto became mingled, and with nervous agitation her fingers played around the black enamelled locket of her chain. Had she not fancied that Vincent loved her and that she loved him? Were any of those feelings now still remaining in her heart? No, those feelings were gone—vanished like birds that had flown away. Uncle and Elise talked a little about Vincent, and then remained silent; but Eline, though she said nothing, thought a great deal about him and his American friend.
After a week or two Uncle Daniel received a second letter from Vincent, this time dated from Paris. In a few days the two young [[268]]men arrived, and they remained to dinner. Uncle and Elise out of politeness asked them to make their stay in the house, but St. Clare refused—they had already taken their rooms at the Hôtel des Flandres.