When he failed to respond she sank to the floor, convulsed with sobs, and pressed her forehead to his knees.
‘Oh forgive me, Lawrence, forgive me! I never thought you could love me! I felt so ill, always coughing, too weak to do anything! I thought I’d grown ugly, and that no man would ever want me! Otherwise I wouldn’t have shown you that I cared for you! You spoke of us as brother and sister! Why do you speak differently now? And now I have caused you pain, but I had no choice. It would be wicked of me to become your wife while I have this weighing on my conscience.’
He pulled her gently to her feet and drew her towards him.
‘Eline!’ he said. ‘You once told me that you had thrown away your happiness. I did not ask what you meant by that. But I am asking you now. Did you mean the letter you wrote to Otto?’
‘Yes!’ she sobbed.
‘You threw away your happiness by writing that letter, is that it? Are you quite sure that you won’t be throwing it away again if you stand by the answer you gave me? Or could I never make you happy? Only Otto?’
‘Oh, Lawrence!’ she murmured passionately, stepping closer. ‘If only I had met you when I was younger, before all those things happened, I could never have loved anyone but you. But it was not to be. It was my fate.’
‘Oh, don’t talk about fate. Fate is just a word. Everyone shapes their own fate. You are too weak to take yourself in hand. Let me be your fate.’
‘It’s impossible!’ she wept, tossing her head from side to side against his chest. ‘I can’t help it, but it’s impossible!’
‘No, Eline, it is not impossible!’ he replied. ‘You say you could have loved no one but me if you had met me before. But if we had met before, you might not have had the same effect on me; in any case, all that is mere speculation, and beside the point. The point is that I love you; I love you the way you are now. You say that you are ill, but I know that you will recover. I can feel it.’
‘You can’t be sure!’ she wept.
‘That is true, but neither can you be sure that you ruined Otto’s happiness. You can see that, can’t you? You don’t know for certain.’
‘Oh, but I am! I can feel it!’
‘But you don’t know for certain,’ he persisted. ‘And you tell me, when I ask you to be my wife, that it’s impossible, out of the question. Aren’t you being rather cruel?’
‘Oh, please don’t say that!’ she sobbed.
‘You said yourself a moment ago that you are always doubting, never certain about anything. So what makes you so certain that you can’t marry me? How do you know you won’t regret your decision when I’m gone, when it’s too late?’
‘Oh,’ she moaned. ‘How can you make me suffer like this? You’re tormenting me—’
He lifted her face to his.
‘I shall stop tormenting you, Eline. There is just one more thing. Please don’t give me a flat refusal. You might yet have a change of heart. At least allow me to hope. Vincent and I are leaving the day after tomorrow. Five months from now you will see me again. I shall ask Vincent to write to you from time to time, so that you always know where to reach me. One word from you and I shall come straight back. You needn’t promise me anything, just don’t refuse me just yet. Allow me to hope, and try to be hopeful yourself. Will you do that for me? Is that asking too much?’
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Oh no, it’s not too much. I will give you my answer five months from now.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s all I ask. And now I will wait here for your uncle and aunt to return, so that I can take my leave of them. Vincent will look in tomorrow. And, since we’re alone now, may I take this opportunity to say goodbye to you?’
She did not answer, but held his gaze until he took her in his arms and kissed her.
‘Five months from now?’ he whispered, smiling.
Drawing back a moment, she looked at him intently, then flung her arms about his neck and pressed a long, tender kiss on his forehead.
‘Five months from now,’ she echoed.
XXXIV
At the onset of winter it seemed to Frédérique that her soul, which had previously felt as light and free as a bird, was labouring under a burden of lead. It seemed to her that she had committed some secret crime, that she had murdered Paul, as it were, and that Mathilda and Marie were the only people in the world who knew about it. She had grown taciturn and withdrawn, and her remorse tempered the dark shimmer of her eyes to a soft, soulful glow.
She had not seen Paul since he had moved to Bodegraven, and he very rarely visited The Hague nowadays. Had he left on her account? Or was his ambition to become a mayor just another fad, much like his earlier efforts at making a career out of singing, or painting, or his short spell at Hovel’s law office? Did he ever think of her? Or had he forgotten all about that sunny morning at De Horze when he kissed her and asked her to be his wife? And supposing he still thought of her, was it with regret or with indifference?
She could not answer these questions, which plagued her the moment she found herself alone.
At length she had resigned herself to the idea that she would not be seeing Paul any more, so it came as rather a shock when she spotted him in the street one day, coming in her direction. Her heart pounded, the blood left her cheeks, and had she been obliged to speak she would have found it impossible to utter a syllable. When he drew near he tipped his hat, to which she responded with a brief nod of the head, and they passed one another wordlessly. She proceeded on her way with quaking knees, wondering whether he had noted her consternation.
That afternoon, when she rang the bell at Prinsessegracht and the door was answered by Bet, she began by asking:
‘Are there any other callers?’
‘Yes, Miss, that is to say, young Madame van Raat with her young lad, and also the Eekhof ladies.’
‘No one else?’
‘No, no one else, Miss.’
Frédérique hesitated a moment. Paul might yet arrive. But it was also possible that he had already called earlier. Whatever the case, she could say she was pressed for time and leave quickly; it was just that she dearly wished to see Marie for a moment.
Frédérique went in. The elders were in the conservatory with Betsy; Marie was in the drawing room with Ange and Léonie; Ben sat quietly on Ange’s lap while tea was being served. After greeting Marie’s parents, Frédérique went to sit with the girls. Suddenly she overheard Betsy in the adjoining conservatory:
‘Paul is in town, you know. He had coffee with us today.’
Ben twisted round on his aunt’s lap, slowly repeating in his slurred voice:
‘Uncle Paul — Uncle Paul had coffee with us.’
‘Did he now? And did you like that, my podgy little poppet?’ cooed Ange, slightly disconcerted by the child’s docility.
The conversation turned to Paul; the Eekhof girls asked how he was getting on in Bodegraven and would it be long before he was appointed mayor. They thought it very odd of Paul to want to be a mayor — surely he was not stiff enough.
‘Has he been here?’ Frédérique asked with apparent indifference, but Marie understood how much she cared.
‘No,’ she answered. ‘He might drop by later, though.’
Frédérique’s mind was a blur: did she want him to see him arrive unexpectedly, or did she not really want to see him at all? She had come because she wanted to see Marie, and here she was, with Marie, but she could hardly pour her heart out in the presence of the Eekhof girls. Ah well, perhaps that was a good thing.