She began to see his meaning, and was shocked by his forwardness.
‘Not congenial to me? This sort of company?’ she echoed slowly. ‘May I remind you that I am in the house of my uncle and aunt?’
‘I know that, but the company your uncle and aunt keep is hardly up to your standards, it seems to me. You are here with the consent of your other relatives, I take it?’
She began to tremble all over, and fixed him with the haughtiest stare she could muster.
‘Mr St Clare! I cannot think why you feel entitled to subject me to a cross-examination. I thought I was free to do as I please, and old enough to choose my friends without prior consent from anyone at all, not from my “other relatives” and not from you either.’
Her tone was needle-sharp. She made to turn away. He caught her hand. She snatched it away.
‘Do stay a moment, I beg you. Forgive me if I have hurt your feelings: that was not my intention. But I can’t help taking an interest in you. I have heard so much about you from Vincent. I knew you before I had ever set eyes on you. I thought of you as, how shall I put it, as an unknown sister, just as I thought of Vincent as my brother. And here you are, mixing with people who—’
‘Thank you most kindly for your good intentions,’ she broke in icily. ‘But be so good as to find more appropriate means of expressing your fraternal interest in future. You knew me before you met me, you say. C’est possible. I have known you for a week. Hardly long enough for you to dare to speak to me as if I required guidance. I am much obliged for your solicitude, but I have no need for it.’
He gestured impatiently and restrained her once more. She was still quivering with rage, but stood her ground.
‘Oh, please, don’t be angry with me!’ he said warmly. ‘Perhaps I was too outspoken. But what about you — would you yourself qualify the present company as suitable?’
‘I see no reason why the acquaintances of my uncle and aunt should not be mine, too. Whatever the case, it is no concern of yours.’
‘Why won’t you allow me take an interest in you?’
‘Because it’s presumptuous of you.’
‘Is there no pardon for such presumption, if it arises from a sense of true friendship?’ he asked, extending his hand.
‘Oh, certainly!’ she said coldly, ignoring his hand. ‘But please spare me your presumption as well as your all too friendly feelings in future. Too much interest can be tiresome.’
She turned on her heel and swept out of the balcony. St Clare, now alone, watched her as she mingled with the throng, rubbing shoulders with the circus-riders and the Russian prince, with the blonde lady, the two inebriated old gentlemen, and the Countcum-poet.
. .
The party was over at last, and in the solitude of her room Eline reflected on her bruised feelings. It was five o’clock in the morning, and she felt almost too exhausted to shed her clothes.
It was not so much his presumption that riled her, but it had been such a long time since she had been able to forget her sorrows, even temporarily. That evening she had actually begun to enjoy herself a little, like in the old days, and he had gone and spoilt her innocent pleasure with his remarks about the company being unsuitable. As if she didn’t know that! And it was precisely because she did know, and because deep down she could not but agree with him, that she felt hurt. Why couldn’t he have granted her that brief evening of amusement? Why did he have to mention her ‘other relatives’? What would Betsy and Henk care if she took up with some unconventional acquaintance of her uncle’s? But she hadn’t taken up with anyone; the only people she had exchanged more than a few words with were Vincent and him. She had enjoyed herself in spite of the company, couldn’t he see that?
Still wearing her black-satin gown, she threw herself down on a couch to think. The more she pondered the affront she had suffered the more tenuous it became, but before it eluded her completely she checked herself. Yes, she did feel hurt, she thought with grim resolve. Very hurt indeed.
On the other hand, was it really so serious? He had raised objections, on her behalf, to the unconventional coterie she found herself in, taking them for a disreputable lot. He had expressed his disapproval with brutal frankness, and she could still hear him say: ‘How do you come to be here? Are you here with the consent of your other relatives?’
In other words, he was interested in her welfare: genuinely, frankly interested. And she was seized with longing to beg his forgiveness and ask him what action he would advise her to take. What bliss it would be simply to follow his lead, to give herself up in complete surrender. . how restful. . how sweet.
At noon, after a brief slumber, she entered the reception room, looking very pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Eliza was bustling about with the maid and manservant, tidying up the remains of the previous evening’s orgy. She declared herself very pleased with her soirée.
‘Happy New Year, Eline!’ she said. ‘You can’t imagine how many glasses got broken last night! Thank goodness they were only hired. If you want some breakfast, you’ll find it in the salle à manger. Off you go now, you’ll only get in the way here, if you don’t mind my saying so. But it was fun last night, wasn’t it?’
Eline repaired to the dining room. She nibbled a piece of toast and lingered a while, hoping that St Clare would call. But neither he nor Vincent put in an appearance that day. Not the next day either, or the one after that. If Eline had dared, she would have sent him a note.
Before the week was out she received a letter from Madame van Raat, with news about Paul, whom she saw from time to time even though he had gone to live in Bodegraven; he seemed unhappy about something, but his mother knew not what. She was sorry to say that she and her son seemed to have become somewhat estranged, and expressed doubt as to whether she had been a sufficiently loving mother to him as a child.
‘She, not loving enough?’ Eline thought to herself. ‘I have never known anyone so loving. . to me, at any rate.’
She read on, and learnt that Lili was expecting a baby, due in March. But at the end of the letter she received a shock. Jeanne Ferelijn had died in Bangil. Eline’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Oh my God! Oh my God!’ she repeated slowly, and a nervous sob shook her frame. Her poor friend was dead! Oh, how tenderly Jeanne had nursed her when she was ill with bronchitis in that cramped little upstairs apartment! How kind and comforting she had always been, and how devoted to her husband and children! And now she had died. . What had life given her? Nothing, oh, nothing! Madame van Raat had her own sorrows; so did Paul. And Lili would receive her share of sadness and disappointment too, now that she was to be a mother. What was life but one great misery. .
‘Jeanne is dead! Jeanne is dead!’ hissed a voice in her ears and in her brain. She had so much to thank Jeanne for, and she would never see her again, for Jeanne was dead! Oh God, she was dead!
She threw herself back in her chair and hid her face in her hands. Hearing footsteps in the anteroom she looked up, and before she had time to compose herself, a figure appeared in the doorway. It was St Clare. She stared at him blankly through her tears.
‘I hope you will forgive me for disturbing you,’ he said softly, seeing that she was crying. ‘The maid said you were at home and receiving. Would you rather I came back tomorrow?’
She drew herself up, wiped her eyes and gave a sad smile.
‘Do you wish to go already?’ she said. ‘You are not disturbing me; on the contrary, I am glad to see you. Do take a seat. Is Vincent well?’
‘Thank you, he is very well!’ he said, and in his tone Eline could hear the affection he bore Vincent. ‘We have been to Liège and Verviers to visit some factories.’