In an impulse of vanity she held the diamond spider this way and that to her hair, then to her neck. .
. .
Before going downstairs Eline opened a compartment of her writing table. With a secretive smile she removed the album and opened it. It contained nothing but portraits of Fabrice in various poses and costumes, which she had been purchasing over a period of time with much discretion and nervousness, now in one shop, then in another, never returning to the same one in case the shopkeeper might guess what was on her mind. On one occasion, when she was in Amsterdam for the day to visit some friends, she had been particularly daring: she had swept into a bookshop with an air of haughty indifference and had bought seven at once. No one there knew who she was, anyway, and she vowed never to set foot in that shop again for as long as she lived.
Her eyes shone with furtive delight as she surveyed her collection; on every page his swarthy features with the black beard met her gaze, and on some his expression was exactly the same as when she saw him in the Wood, wearing his soft felt hat and his muffler. Ah, there it was, that rush of emotion incomparably more intense than admiration, the sheer impropriety of which for a young lady of her station sent a little shiver down her spine. She pressed her lips to his beloved likeness; yes, she could feel it now, the passion that replenished her mind with bliss, the love for which she would make any sacrifice that might be demanded of her. . by him.
A romantic vision fired her imagination, now that her spirits had lifted somewhat thanks to Henk’s cheering words, and in the heat of her fantasy she saw herself with Fabrice, waiting for their train with trepidation, fearful of being pursued.
‘Auntie, Auntie! Let me in!’ cried Ben from the landing.
She slipped the album out of sight and opened the door. In came Ben, hugging the water-filled vase to his chest.
‘Well done, you clever boy!’ said Eline. ‘And not a drop spilled on the stairs?’
He shook his head from side to side, proud of his achievement, for which he had Mina to thank. He began to put the flowers in the vase, and it crossed her mind that the initiative for the little boy’s gift had doubtless come from Betsy, too. What a nuisance all this was.
But she braced herself and proceeded down the stairs with Ben. Betsy was in the dining room, issuing instructions to Grete.
‘Good morning, Betsy,’ said Eline.
‘Good morning, Eline, many happy returns of the day!’ said Betsy, without expression.
Eline did not wish to say any more in the presence of a servant, and told Grete she could clear away.
‘I shan’t be having any breakfast today,’ she said, and to hide her unease she turned to Ben and tried to make him laugh.
Betsy remained with her back to her, poring over the bills and receipts on her writing table with the air of a dutiful housewife.
Several seconds of awkward silence ensued, broken by Betsy scolding Ben for being such a dawdler and sending him off to the nursery, after which Eline stood up. She crossed the room and put her hands on her sister’s shoulders.
‘Betsy—’ she began.
She could not bring herself to say anything yet about the gift, the diamond spider.
‘Betsy dear, wouldn’t it be better if. .? I can’t tell you how sorry I am that we should be so. . oh please don’t be angry with me any more, it was wrong of me.’
‘Well, Eline, I am glad to hear you admit it. And I’m not angry with you.’
‘Are we friends again then?’
‘Oh, of course. You know there’s nothing I dislike more than unpleasantness. I am all for peace. So let’s say no more about it, shall we?’
The coldness of her tone was like ice to Eline, but she bent over to give Betsy a kiss.
‘No truly, I am sorry; of course I had no right to go against your wishes in your own house. I do apologise.’
There was something else she wanted to say, but she could not find the words, and again touched her lips to her sister’s brow, at which Betsy pushed her lightly aside.
‘All right then; let’s drop the subject. I’m not angry any more. But please stop kissing me, you know I don’t like it.’
. .
Eline spent her birthday in a sombre frame of mind. The reconciliation with Betsy had not gone as she would have wished; she had expected there to be more affection, a sisterly embrace, shared tears perhaps, after which they would have carried on in cordial companionship for a long period of time. But the reality had been, on Betsy’s side, nothing but icy condescension, which had made her own contribution appear rather feeble. She knew herself to be the weaker of the two, and yet she could not resist taking a stand against Betsy from time to time, but with each act of defiance, even if it resulted in temporary victory, she felt increasingly powerless to continue her struggle. The odds were against her, and their latest disagreement was yet another proof of the fickleness of her pride, which had let her down once more, casting a pall of doom over all her thoughts.
Nonetheless, she kept up an appearance of gaiety throughout the afternoon, in the cheer of friends as they came to convey their good wishes. But Madame van Raat, in whose pensive, pale-blue eyes she would have been so glad to detect a ray of sympathy, had sent a message through Paul saying she was indisposed. This was a great disappointment to Eline, which only deepened when Madame van Erlevoort and Mathilda arrived with the news that Freddie would not be calling because she had caught a cold, and again Eline wondered why Frédérique had taken against her. Jeanne Ferelijn spoke at length of her domestic troubles, and it required all the sweet civility that Eline could muster not to betray her impatience. Not only had she been abandoned by Madame van Raat, also Cateau van der Stoor, another visitor she would have liked to receive, failed to put in an appearance. Worse, she appeared to have forgotten all about the birthday as she hadn’t even sent a message. Fortunately Emilie de Woude did come, displaying her curiously irrepressible good humour. Her ebullience infused a touch of levity into the formal atmosphere of the salons, where the gas was not yet lit, and where the brightness of the gilded panelling, the sheen of the Havana-brown satin cushions, the burnished-gold plush of the curtains seemed to dissolve into the deepening shadows.
Emilie demanded to see Eline’s presents, and was directed to a side table bearing diverse pretty trifles arrayed about a large basket filled with fruit and flowers.
‘What a splendid basket!’ cried Emilie. ‘Peaches, grapes, roses, how lovely! From whom, Elly?’
‘From Vincent. Charming, is it not?’
‘I wish I had such charming cousins!’
‘Hush,’ whispered Eline.
Vincent had just entered, and his eyes, slightly narrowed, went in search of the hostess. Betsy, ever on her guard with their cousin, received him with her customary display of careful cordiality. Eline thanked him for his gift, catching his hands in hers.
He apologised for arriving so late; it was already a quarter past five, and the Verstraetens and the others began to take their leave in the gathering dusk, after which Gerard came in to light the gas, close the shutters and draw the curtains.
‘Vincent, you will stay to dinner, won’t you?’ asked Betsy.
Betsy did not fancy the prospect of a dull evening at home. They had not been invited anywhere, and besides, she had not thought it right to make plans to go out on her sister’s birthday while they were not on speaking terms. With Vincent being a close kinsman, she could easily extend an informal invitation at short notice. He had conversation when in good humour, and at least there would be a fresh face at the dinner table.