But she took a fresh sheet of paper and started again:
My dear Otto!
The subsequent lines, being virtually identical to the note she had torn up, followed easily enough. But how to go on from there? How to tell him? Suddenly the words came, and her pen flew over the paper, her writing becoming an almost illegible scrawl of passionate, rambling sentences.
Truly, my heart is breaking as I write to you now. . now that I must ask you. . whether it would not. . be better for us to cease raising hopes in one another. . hopes of finding happiness together. It is so cruel having to ask this, because it was such a lovely time, when we. .
On and on she wrote, lost in the cruel remembrance of those days, her breast heaving with spasmodic sobs, and her head began to ache with mounting ferocity, as if there were a tight band of iron clamped around her brain and hammers pounding on her temples.
A lovely time, when we. . were so deeply in love. . I can’t tell you how I suffer in the writing of this. . more than I had thought possible for a human being to suffer, but I believe that it is my duty, and that I would cause you even greater unhappiness by not writing to you.
We must forget one another, we must never think of one another again. . That will be best, for both of us, but especially for you. Oh, if I could still hope that I might become a better person, that I might become worthy of you one day, then I would tear this paper to shreds, but all my hope is gone.
I do realise, dearest Otto, that I am causing you grief by this letter, but I beg you to forgive this final act of injury, and banish the thought of me from your mind. You are so good and kind; I am sure that one day, when you have forgotten me, you will find someone, a young girl. .
She dropped her pen, anguish-stricken, and lurched forwards, pressing her face to the tear-sodden handkerchief lying on the table. The sobs now convulsed her entire frame while the hammers pounded on her temples, between her eyes and at the base of her skull. She tossed her head from side to side, but the throbbing was aggravated by a thousand pin-pricks, so she raised herself and resumed writing, intermittently striking her head with the clenched fist of her free hand. Unable to tear herself away from the missive that would set a seal on her loss of Otto, she floundered on, repeating over and over how happy she had been with him, how she suffered in losing him, and that it was her moral duty to write him this letter. The notion of duty filled her with a romantic sense of purpose, and she got quite carried away, writing the word over and over again: duty, duty, duty. . She also felt that as long as she was still putting pen to paper they would still be connected in some way; not until she had written her name at the end would it all be over, for ever after. . she could not bring herself to place her signature, and kept adding phrases to defer the moment.
Then one day you will meet someone who is worthy of you, and who will love you unconditionally. I am sure of that. Then you will be happy, and you will have forgotten me. But oh, please don’t forget me completely: just forget your love for me, and think of me once in a while.
That final entreaty reverberated in the depths of her soul.
Think of me, without anger or hate, and feel a little pity for your poor Nily, who. .
‘I can’t do it, I can’t!’ she moaned, grasping the tear-smudged sheet of paper with a mind to tearing it up, but instead she took a deep breath and quickly wrote a few closing words. Then she dried her eyes and set about copying out her missive, somewhat calmer now that she no longer needed to think about what to say.
A postage stamp was all she needed after this, and an envelope, upon which she wrote the address:
The Right Honourable Baron
O. van Erlevoort ter Horze,
Lange Voorhout. The Hague.
She reread her letter a final time. Her anguish flared up again at the cruelty of it, and when she reached the end and had only to slide it into the envelope, she hesitated yet again. Was this really what she wanted? To break with her Otto? No, no, it was not a question of wanting anything, it was what she was obliged to do; it was her duty, her moral duty! So she pressed a long kiss on her letter and sealed the envelope.
Oh God, why must she live while such grief existed?
She rose, and stood for a time staring at the envelope as though willing it to vanish, but it remained there, lying squarely on the writing table with Otto’s name and address on the cover.
Eline cast a rapid glance in the mirror, and she barely recognised herself in the ghostly apparition confronting her, the pallid, tear-streaked features, the dishevelled mane of hair. Then she gave two firm tugs on the bell-pull, keeping her eyes fixed on the letter.
There was a knock at the door. Gerard entered.
‘What time is it, Gerard?’
She was startled by how dull and hoarse her voice sounded.
‘Almost midnight, Miss.’
‘Is the master still up?’
‘The master is in his study; milady has gone to bed, and so has Mr Vincent.’
‘Can you take this to the post for me?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Can you do it at once?’
‘Certainly, Miss.’
‘Here you are, then. But do it at once, will you? When is the first mail collection tomorrow morning?’
‘Eight o’clock, I believe, Miss.’
‘Here, take it. Off you go now, all right?’
‘At once, Miss.’
Gerard departed with the letter, leaving Eline behind in a daze. She heard Gerard go down the stairs, she heard the thud of the front door being shut. Then all was still in the big house.
She had a sense of cold panic, like icy water trickling down her back.
At this very moment Gerard was making his way down the street, now he was turning the corner, now approaching the letter box on the Nassaulaan. . She fancied she could hear the letter drop with a dull thud, like the lid on a coffin, and was on the verge of swooning away from the monstrous visions bearing down on her like evil ghosts. And suddenly, as though jolted awake from a nightmare, she realised the finality of what she had done. She felt her entire body begin to tremble, as in a fever. By tomorrow, by tomorrow morning even, Otto would receive the letter. . her letter!
Oh God, it could not be! It must not be! It was her very happiness that she had just flung away with both hands, and only because she had found the sheer restfulness of it boring! Her life’s happiness, irredeemably lost!
She felt the walls and the ceiling closing in on her, crushing her so that she could scarcely breathe. She staggered to the door, then across the landing, and burst into Betsy’s bedroom.
‘My God, Oh my God! Betsy!’ she gasped, as though a hand were clamped round her throat.
Betsy was abed in the dusky room, lit only by a weak night light; she started awake in fright, with disordered thoughts of calamities such as fire or murder.
‘Who? What? What’s happening? What is it, Eline?’
‘I — oh my God — I—’
‘What on earth is the matter, Eline?’
‘I–I’ve written to Otto.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve sent him a letter.’
‘A letter?’
‘I–I’ve broken it off. I’ve broken off our engagement. Oh God, oh God!’
Betsy leapt out of bed and stood shivering over Eline, who had collapsed on the floor, hiding her face in her long, tousled hair.