‘No, of course not! I wouldn’t dream of saying anything. But Bet has noticed, too, that something was up. Will you wait for a year, do you think?’
‘Oh, at least a year, but off you go now, Dien, go to bed.’
‘Yes, dear, but you see, when the little ones arrive — fair-haired they’ll be, what with the pair of you being fair — I shall leave your Ma’s service and stay with you, all right?’
‘As a nursemaid? But you’re far too old!’
‘Don’t you believe it! Dressing them, giving them baths — you could easily leave all that to me.’
‘Now now, Dien, I think you’re being a bit forward,’ said Marie.
‘What’s forward about it? Good gracious, it’s gone midnight already! I must be off. Just one more thing, Miss Marie: it’s your turn next. You won’t lag behind your little sister for too long, will you?’
‘I’ll do my best, Dien!’ said Marie.
‘Well, sweet dreams then, and you too, dear Lili, sweet dreams of your young man. And tell him Dien thinks he’s ever so pretty, with that little blond moustache of his. Will you tell him I said so?’
She gave Lili a playful tug on the shoulder.
‘Yes, Dien, I’ll tell him,’ giggled Lili. ‘But you needn’t shake me so, ouch! Goodnight, Dien, sleep well.’
‘Night, night then, my dears! Hush now, no more laughing or you’ll wake up your parents. . Hush, hush! I’m off.’
Dien gave them another wink and tiptoed out of the room in the yellow glow of her candle.
‘Funny old Dien!’ said Lili with a final chuckle as she fell back on her pillow, already half asleep. Silence reigned once more, and Marie lay very still with her eyes open, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
XXII
Vincent continued to feel very weak, and Dr Reijer ordered him to stay indoors for the next few weeks, as there was a possibility he might suffer another fainting fit at the slightest provocation. He dutifully followed this advice, for which the doctor praised him, adding that had Mr Vere not become so sensible lately he would no longer be among the living. He also praised Vincent for adopting a healthier way of life by not smoking, drinking little, and taking as much rest as possible in the soothing atmosphere of his cousin’s home. His only concern now was the patient’s lack of appetite.
Vincent passed his days in Eline’s boudoir, as Betsy could not spare him a sitting room to himself. He would make himself comfortable on the Persian couch, snugly wrapped in an ample Turkish dressing gown — a memento of his days of luxury in Smyrna. Sallow-skinned, his pale, lustreless eyes resembling dulled blue porcelain, and his light brown hair cut short, he reclined beneath Eline’s aralia, his anaemic fingers holding a book in which he read not a line. He felt as though the capacity to think had vanished from his brain, that he had sunk into a mindless state of inertia akin to the fatigue caused by a stint of strenuous physical exertion. Only petty, childish thoughts floated into his mind from time to time, like so many evanescent soap bubbles, and his pleasures and disappointments were likewise petty: he felt gratified when Dr Reijer commended him for his progress, and exceedingly sorry for himself when Eline was two minutes late bringing him his breakfast. Beyond that he felt nothing, he simply lay there letting his eyes wander about Eline’s room, taking in all the pictures, the potted palms, the profusion of fineries and bric-a-brac.
In the morning Eline kept him company, reading to him or singing snatches of songs to her own accompaniment on the piano, a phrase here and a roulade there, to which Vincent listened dreamily, lost in a strange vision brimming with unfamiliar fragrances and muted shades, all swirling together as in a kaleidoscope of colour and perfume. He maintained a pensive silence, and Eline too said little, suffused as she was by a romantic sense of fulfilment. During her vigils at Aunt Vere’s bedside she had experienced that same gratifying emotion, which arose from selfless dedication to the care of someone in need. Her fascination for Vincent grew, her heart went out to him, and she relished the opportunity to nurse the languishing invalid in his Turkish robe and Turkish slippers.
The afternoons were usually spent at home until four, at which time Otto collected her to go for a walk. Whenever he gently rebuked her for not taking sufficient care of her own health, and for upsetting herself far too much about Vincent’s illness, she would look at him tearfully in disbelief — how could he not feel the deepest, deepest sympathy for poor Vincent, who was so forsaken, so hapless and so delicate? All these cares caused her to lose interest in discussing the manifold details of her trousseau with Betsy, and one day she even remarked, with a distant look in her eyes, how awful it would be to have the wedding in November should Vincent’s life still be in danger at that time. Betsy merely shrugged her shoulders and fetched out more catalogues of household linen and swatches of damask and lace, but Eline, finding it impossible to concentrate, went back to Vincent, who, so she fancied, gave her a reproachful look as she entered the room. Only recently, the conversation they had been having just before he fainted had come back to her, unleashing a flood of emotion in her soul. She remembered having asked him whether her marriage to Otto was her foreordained destiny, and could not help thinking that he might have collapsed in despair, and that the cause of his illness might be that he harboured a secret passion for her. After all, he had never spent so much time in The Hague before, almost a year it was now, whereas previously he had never stayed longer than a few weeks at a stretch. Poor Vincent! At least he had her to nurse him. . only, wasn’t there a risk of her ministrations fanning the flames of his passion, a passion fated to be unrequited, since she could love only her Otto?
She wished she had someone she could take into her confidence. But it was all so complicated, and she could not think whom she could turn to. To Otto? That would not be quite seemly, she felt, and there was little point in telling Betsy, because she was bound to react as she always did — by asking where on earth Eline got her ridiculous ideas from. Madame van Raat, then?
Yes, that was a good idea, Madame van Raat would be able to advise her. She would go and visit her at home one morning alone, without Otto. Once there, however, she found it so difficult to put into words her suspicions about Vincent’s feelings for her that she departed again without any mention of the subject, consoling herself with the rueful notion that Vincent might yet die before she and Otto were married, in which case her tender care would have gone some way towards sweetening his final days.
As time went by her conviction grew that Vincent was secretly in love with her, and she felt herself being engulfed by pity for her poor invalid. Her tranquil happiness, which she had believed to be unassailable, began to slip from her grasp like a wild bird bent on escape, and a nervous agitation took possession of her being, which she did not dare mention to Otto. Any thought of Vincent seemed to raise a dense fog between her and Otto, and the idea of that fog thickening any further sent shivers down her spine. After spending half the day at Vincent’s side, ridden with anxiety, she would long to see her Otto again, under whose calming influence she hoped to regain her composure. He arrived at a little after four; they went for a stroll; he stayed for supper; the pair of them spent time together, and then, when he left at half-past eleven and she retired to her bedroom, she would be on the brink of tears at the realisation that his company no longer had the same soothing effect on her as before. On the contrary, his calmness even irritated her now and then; she took it as a sign of indifference, which she found increasingly objectionable, especially when she compared him to the sensitive, grief-stricken Vincent. Even Otto’s plain way of speaking, in which she had only recently discovered such a wealth of love, irritated her now. . Did he never have an outburst of passion about anything. . anything at all? Would he always remain so calm, so stolid, so eternally even-tempered? Had he never known the torment of warring emotions? Was there nothing that could jolt him out of his calm repose, which seemed to her almost like lethargy. . Oh yes, he was good and kind all right, but his feelings did not seem to run very deep; perhaps his calmness signified nothing but egotism, perhaps he was simply insensitive to the suffering of others! And as far as she was concerned, Vincent was human suffering personified. .