Thoughts such as these made Eline feel utterly wretched. Oh God, it was those ghosts again. . here they were, evil and leering, the same as the one that had appeared to her so suddenly during her conversation with Vincent! No, she would not let them get the better of her, she would chase them away! But they kept returning, one after another, chilling her soul with doubts, and she gathered herself to do battle with them. She forced herself to think back on the sweet emotions she had known during those halcyon days at De Horze, to relive that gentle happiness, that blue haze of ecstasy. . but the happiness, the ecstasy, were gone! And then, one night as she lay in bed staring wide-eyed into the soundless dark, unable to sleep, she faced the cruel reality of her loss, and broke down into wild, racking sobs, clinging on to her pillow as though it were her very happiness, as though it were the bird struggling to escape from her grasp. She tossed her head from side to side. . No, no, she did not want this! She wanted to be happy the way she used to be, she wanted to love her Otto the way she did then, in the pine grove! Dear God, was it possible that she no longer loved him? It was unthinkable, it could not be, she would not allow it, she would summon all the fortitude of her will to go on loving him as before, she would cling on to him as she now clung to her pillow, and no leering ghost would ever pry them apart. . Listening to the silence in the house, she could make out the insistent, metallic sound of the big clock ticking in the kitchen downstairs, on and on, and she was seized with mortal fear. . fear that her happiness would not allow itself to be forced back into her soul, fear that there were invisible forces pushing her down a steep slope, while all she wanted was to rise up and up. . And then her agony turned into rage, rage because she was being assailed by thoughts she did not wish to think at all, and because she felt herself too weak to turn around and fight those invisible forces.
. .
When Eline awoke the next morning she felt relatively calm. She was tired and had a slight headache, but the horror of the past night had faded into a bad dream, which she had no desire to recall, much less meditate on. No indeed, she would become her old self again, never again would she allow herself to think such nightmarish thoughts, which only came to her, casting her into a bottomless pit of wretchedness, because she could not sleep. That was all — she wasn’t well, she had trouble sleeping, and it was always during those wakeful nights when all was quiet as the grave that those terrible notions came to torment her. She made up her mind to consult Dr Reijer about her insomnia, and oh, how much better she felt already, seeing the pale light of day coming in through a chink in the curtains. She got up early, had a little romp with Ben downstairs, took Vincent his morning roll and hot chocolate as usual — a task she never entrusted to Mina — and settled down with Betsy to go over the catalogues and swatches of materials yet again. She studied the relative merits of fine tablecloths and table napkins, and was much taken with a set of smartly monogrammed pillow cases that were very reasonably priced at the Louvre shop, and she reminded Betsy that from now on she had to be careful not to spend too much, but oh, how attractive those tea towels looked in the other catalogue!
While she kept up her bright patter there was, deep within her, a patch of gloom, like a slag of black mud on the bed of an apparently limpid blue lake. But she did her best to ignore it, and throughout their discussion Betsy noticed nothing unusual in her demeanour. Then Eline went upstairs, taking a large envelope that had been delivered for Vincent.
He was in his Turkish dressing gown as usual, lying on the couch. His condition, however, was improving: Dr Reijer had even said he might try taking a short stroll, but his repose had become dear to him, and he had replied that he did not yet feel up to it. When Eline entered he nodded affably; he relished having her waiting on him hand and foot, and his gratitude brought to his lustreless eyes an amicable glimmer, which Eline mistook for love.
She handed him the letter and asked him how he was feeling.
‘Not bad; getting better, I suppose,’ he said tonelessly, then sat bolt upright and tore open the envelope. Eline was about to sit down at the piano.
‘Ah, at last!’ she heard Vincent exclaim, almost joyfully.
She gave him a questioning look. A portrait photograph slipped from the envelope onto the floor, and she bent down to retrieve it.
‘It’s from new York, a letter from Lawrence St Clare!’ said Vincent, running his eye over the contents. ‘He’s found something for me, apparently. There seems to be a vacancy at the trading company he’s affiliated with.’
Eline was startled; she studied the portrait, which had suffered some damage in the post.
‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.
‘About what?’
‘What do you think you’ll do?’
‘I’ll go as soon as I’m better,’ he said. ‘But that won’t be for quite a while,’ he added mournfully.
‘Go to America, you mean?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Will you be glad to go, once you’re better?’
‘Naturally. Not much point in hanging around here, is there, now that I can get a situation.’
With scarcely a thought for what he had said, he lay back on the Persian cushions, and a profusion of brightly coloured visions floated into his mind. He recalled his former life of endless variation, of ever-changing perspectives and horizons. Variety was life itself, variety would make him better, it would make him young again. He recalled his friend, a fine fellow in body and spirit, and the only man who gave him the feeling that there was more to life than world-weariness.
Eline, however, was filled with pity for Vincent.
It was only natural that he should wish to leave the country, to be well away by the time her wedding came around, so that he would be spared the agony of witnessing it. No wonder he jumped at the opportunity, really. . he was obviously in love with her, and it was making him suffer!
She was still holding the portrait in her hands.
‘Is this St Clare?’ she asked, close to tears for the pain she thought he was going through.
‘Yes,’ he replied, taking it from her. ‘It’s a fine likeness! It shows him the way he is: open, upstanding, full of life and good humour.’
‘Is he dark or fair?’
‘His hair is tawny; so is his beard. Dashing, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he’s handsome. But Vincent. .’
‘What?’
‘Vincent, are you sure? Why don’t you think it over? You’re still very frail, you could have a relapse. You’d better ask Reijer’s opinion first.’
‘My dear Elly, I’m the same as I ever was; my health has never been robust, and besides, who’ll support me if I do stay here — not you, surely?’ he asked, smiling.
To her that smile seemed wistful, and she reproached herself for trying to dissuade him. No, he was quite right to go, but on the other hand, something might happen, something that would turn everything upside down, so that there would be no need for him to leave, or at least not like this. Her head spun, she no longer knew what she wanted him to do, and she shrank from pursuing the thought that now entered her mind. It would be too awful. Too awful for Otto, and too awful for herself as well.