‘An urgent request?’
‘Indeed, an urgent request. And I run the risk that you will be very angry with me when I tell you what it is; that you will feel hurt, and that you will tell me to mind my own business.’
It began to dawn on her, vaguely, what his request would be.
‘Come on then, out with it!’ she said simply.
‘You said I might take the same interest in you as a brother would take in a sister. Is that right, or am I mistaken?’
‘No, that is quite right.’
‘Well, if you were my sister, I would ask you to do me a great favour by not going to that ball tonight.’
She did not answer.
‘If you were my sister, I would tell you that Vincent and I made some enquiries as to the guest list for the ball, and that I am certain that a large proportion of the guests are even less reputable than some of the people your uncle and aunt count among their friends. If you were my sister I could hardly express myself more plainly. But I hope you will understand my concern, now that you have some idea of the type of people that have been invited.’
She lowered her eyes.
‘And therefore, at the risk of interfering in a matter that does not concern me, at the risk of your uncle and aunt taking offence at my meddling in your affairs, at the risk of you yourself, having forgiven me one indiscretion already, becoming very angry with me, I ask you again: please don’t go to the ball. You do not belong there.’
Still she remained silent, twisting the sash of her peignoir around her finger.
‘Are you very angry?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she replied very softly after a pause. ‘No, I am not angry. And I shall do as you ask. I shan’t go.’
‘Do you mean that?’ he exclaimed joyfully.
‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘I shan’t go. I am very grateful to you for making enquiries about the kind of people who will be there. To tell you the truth, I had a feeling that you might not approve, but I dreaded having to stay at home all by myself. I find it so depressing.’
‘You had a feeling I might not approve?’ he echoed, smiling.
‘Yes!’ she replied. ‘You are such a good friend to me; I would hate to do anything against your wishes. As for tonight — your wish is my command.’
‘Thank you!’ he murmured, pressing her hand. ‘I appreciate that very much.’
‘Oh, as well you might!’ she said brightly, although she was somewhat startled by her own submissiveness. ‘Do you realise that it took me almost an hour to arrange all those coins in my hair? And all for nothing!’
‘I am serious — I appreciate it very much, really!’ he said earnestly.
Uncle Daniel came in.
‘Bonsoir, St Clare. You are not coming with us, are you? But Eline! Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?’
Eline’s stammered reply was lost in the vociferations of Eliza, who was berating the manservant in the adjoining room, and a moment later Eliza swept in, resplendent in Algerian draperies and a headdress of coins, with dainty Moorish mules on her feet.
‘Bonsoir, St Clare! What a shame you won’t be joining us! Good gracious, Eline, look at you!’
Vincent emerged from the winter garden.
‘It’s almost half-past nine and you’ve only done your hair!’ pursued Eliza. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘I don’t believe your niece will be accompanying you, dear lady,’ said St Clare, as Eline was too flustered to speak. ‘We heard, Vincent and I, that the society would be rather mixed this evening — and consequently I have advised Miss Vere to stay at home rather than expose herself to undesirable encounters. I hope you don’t mind. Of course I knew she would be in safe hands with her uncle and you to chaperone her, but I couldn’t help feeling that keeping such company would be rather less suitable for a young girl than for a married lady — even such a charming one as yourself! Was I very wrong?’
Eliza wondered whether or not she should take offence, since his tone, though determined, was friendly enough. Daniel Vere shrugged his shoulders.
‘Wrong?’ echoed Eliza. ‘Well, I wouldn’t know. Of course Eline can do as she likes. If she would rather not go, eh bien, soit, then we shall have to pretend she has a headache. Easy as kiss-your-thumb. But you will be abysmally bored, Eline.’
‘No, really, I would rather stay at home,’ said Eline. ‘That is, if you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all, my dear. Liberté chérie, as they say.’
The servant came in with the fur coats, and announced that the carriage was waiting. He held up Eline’s cloak.
‘If your uncle and aunt have no objection, I should like to keep you company for a little while,’ said St Clare.
They had no objection, and Eline felt mildly confused.
‘Goodbye, have fun!’ she said with a timid smile when Uncle Daniel, Eliza and Vincent took their departure.
‘Ridiculous,’ grumbled Uncle Daniel when they were seated in the carriage. ‘Ridiculous! He won’t have her going to the ball, but thinks it perfectly all right for him to stay with her and keep her company. I suppose it must be American! I mean, which is more compromising — going to a ball with us or spending an evening alone with a young man? Ridiculous!’
Vincent, thinking it beneath his dignity to defend his friend, made no comment. With much ado Eliza prevailed upon her husband to keep silent, saying that it would not do to speak ill of a niece who was living under his roof, nor of a friend whom they saw so frequently.
‘Speak ill of him? Not at all!’ huffed Uncle Daniel. ‘He’s American! And he has American ways, I suppose.’
. .
Eline was still flustered.
‘I don’t think my uncle was very pleased that I took your advice,’ she said when they were alone. ‘Nor did he seem to approve of — of you staying behind.’
St Clare looked at her in calm surprise.
‘Then why didn’t he say so? I asked him if he had any objection. And you? Would you rather I left?’
‘Oh no, I’d be very grateful if you stayed a while.’
‘With pleasure. Because I have another favour to ask of you, albeit a less important one.’
‘What is it?’
‘Could I have one of those coins you have taken so much trouble to arrange in your hair?’
Eline smiled; carefully she unwound the string of coins from her head and pulled one off, which she presented to him.
‘Thank you!’ he said, and attached it to his watch chain.
Eline was bemused. She felt very pleased, happy even, and yet somewhat abashed. And she wondered which Betsy would have thought the greater eviclass="underline" going to the ball chaperoned by her uncle and aunt, or spending the evening unchaperoned with St Clare — in her peignoir, of all things. The latter to be sure, she thought. But he seemed to consider it all so simple and natural that she didn’t even dare to excuse herself to go and change her dress.
‘And now let’s have a nice chat!’ he said, settling himself in a Turkish armchair while she remained seated on the couch, shyly fingering the string of coins. ‘Why don’t you tell me some more about yourself, about your childhood, or your travels, perhaps?’
She said she did not know what to tell him, so he asked her questions, which she answered with pleasure and growing confidence. She told him about Aunt Vere, about how much she had enjoyed reading Ouida’s novels, and above all about her father and the large canvases that he never completed. She told him about her singing, and about Betsy and Henk, adding that she used to think quite differently then, and that she used to look quite different, too.
‘What do you mean by “then”?’
‘I mean before my illness and before I went travelling with my uncle and aunt. Before. . before my engagement.’
‘And how did you look then?’
‘Much healthier, and. . fresher.’