Eline Vere (60 page)

. . .

Above all, Eline liked conversing with Uncle Daniel's physician, a man of indeterminate age who was remarkably polite in both manner and speech, and who always seemed to be watching her closely. His interest in her had initially put her on her guard, as if he might discover something within her that she herself was unaware of, some secret that would put her to shame. Yet she was drawn to his amicable, steady gaze as to a magnet, and before long she took to asking him, when she had one of her headaches, to hold his cool outstretched hand close to her forehead for a moment. The first time he had done so had been on his own initiative, and Eline had immediately felt as though a refreshing, invigorating current were
passing through her brain. Since then she had become addicted, in a manner of speaking, to the emanations of that hand, which, without even touching, seemed capable of making a cool breeze blow through her overheated skull.

Eline had told him of the difficulties she had sleeping at night, and he had said he would like to try and induce her to sleep by the sheer force of his will, but she had begged him not to: she had so little willpower of her own, and feared losing it altogether if he were capable of exerting such a strong influence on her from afar. Thereupon he had supplied her with a sleeping draught of morphine, which was extremely expensive and which he had mixed himself; he counted out the drops for her in a glass of water. That night she laid herself down to sleep in a haze of blissful contentment; she felt her body becoming weightless, rising up from her bed, her pillows and sheets, and for a moment she found herself floating on currents of softly swirling blue air.

Then she sank into a profound slumber, from which she did not wake until late in the morning. And she was full of praise for Uncle Daniel's physician for having succeeded where Reijer had always failed – at least he knew how to send her to sleep.

. . .

Life went on in much the same manner, with Eline accommodating herself to the humour of the moment. She still had a bad cough, but felt comparatively content nonetheless. Eliza, though a compulsive talker, seemed to like her well enough, and Uncle Daniel, ever gallant if a touch remote, was no less well-disposed towards her. Sometimes, however, she had the feeling that they were putting on an act, in the same way that everyone had put on an act in The Hague. But she had no desire to analyse this doubt, preferring to let her brain slumber in untrammelled lethargy.

One day an envelope arrived from Vincent Vere in New York; it was addressed to Uncle Daniel, to whom it came as rather a surprise, as they were not in the habit of writing to one another. But Eline, who had not heard from her cousin for some time, was all aflutter at the unexpected mention of his name, and couldn't wait
to hear what her uncle would say about the letter. She would not be surprised if Vincent were asking for money.

But in this Eline was mistaken. He had not asked for money, nor did he need a letter of introduction or some other favour. Vincent simply wanted to let them know that he and his friend Lawrence St Clare were planning a trip to Europe, and that they would be stopping in Brussels. They would be sailing to Liverpool, from where they would travel to London and Paris before arriving in Brussels. By the time Uncle Daniel received this news they were already halfway across the Atlantic.

Vincent's letter revived Eline to some degree from her psychic lethargy. She remembered how Vincent, pale and sickly, had lain on her couch in his Turkish chamber cloak, and how she had nursed him back to health. Her next thought was of Otto, and she fumbled agitatedly for the black enamelled locket on her watch-chain. Had she not fancied that Vincent was in love with her, and she with him? Were there any such feelings still lingering in her heart? No, those feelings were far, far away, like birds that had vanished out of sight.

Uncle and Eliza discussed Vincent's impending visit briefly, then said no more on the subject. But Eline, though she kept silent, thought a great deal about him and his American friend. She recalled having seen the photograph of St Clare when it fell out of his letter to Vincent; it was on the same day that she had lost her temper with Otto during dinner. She recalled having asked Vincent whether his friend's hair was fair or dark, but not what he had replied. Nor could she recall what St Clare looked like. She was very curious to see them both.

. . .

After some weeks a second letter from Vincent arrived; this time posted from Paris. A few days later the two friends arrived; it was late afternoon, and they stayed to dinner. Uncle and Eliza offered to put them up, out of courtesy, but St Clare declined politely: they had already taken rooms at the Hotel des Flandres.

Vincent had not changed a whit, either in appearance or demeanour. When he and Eline were standing side by side, talking, she
caught their reflection in the pier glass, and suddenly noticed that she had aged. He was the same elegantly dressed young man as two years before, and beside her sallow skin and sunken cheeks he looked healthier than she had ever seen him. She, in black lace – she wore nothing else these days – stood there with her thin shoulders and lacklustre eyes gazing at the ruins of her former youthful radiance . . . ruined inside and out.

Lawrence St Clare directly made a very favourable impression upon both ladies. Eline had rather imagined him, as an American, to be a little coarse and uncivilised – possibly even spitting, swearing, or demanding whisky – and she was pleasantly surprised by his engaging, easy manner. He was tall and rugged, with a full, dark-blond beard, and in his clear eyes there gleamed a certain pride, but it was a pride that, without a trace of arrogance, betokened character and strength of will. His masterful bearing and air of independence inspired confidence in Eline. Although Vincent had not told her very much about St Clare, she felt almost at once that she had known him for a long time. His frank smile and mild yet penetrating gaze pleased her, and when she glanced about the dinner table she was struck by the calm, wholesome uprightness he exuded, compared to which her uncle's civility and Eliza's frothy chitchat, as well as the vague melancholy shared by herself and Vincent, seemed to her false and jaded.

After dinner they took coffee in the reception room. Eline felt at ease in St Clare's company, and hoped there would be no further callers to disturb them. She had little opportunity to converse with him, though, as Eliza bombarded him with questions about New York, Philadelphia and St Louis. He replied in French, speaking slowly, with a strange accent that Eline found rather charming.

Vincent clasped her hands and stared at her intently; he was grateful for what she had done for him in The Hague, and now felt a pang of compassion for her.

‘I have missed you, Elly!' he said as they settled themselves in the balcony. ‘But you really ought to put on some weight, you know!'

She gave a light laugh and nervously poked the tip of her shoe into the fleecy white rug.

‘I am quite all right!' she said. ‘Indeed, I have been feeling rather well lately. Better than before, anyway. And I am very glad to see you again, very glad. You know I have always been fond of you.'

She put out her hand with a generous gesture; he pressed it and moved his chair a little closer.

‘And what do you think of Lawrence?' he asked. ‘Do you like him?'

‘Yes, he seems very nice.'

‘He is the only man I have ever known who is as good as his word. I don't trust anyone, not a soul, you see; not even you, not even myself, but I do trust him . . . Don't you find his French accent rather amusing?'

‘He speaks French very well!' responded Eline.

‘Oh, you can't imagine how loyal he is to his friends!' Vincent continued familiarly. ‘If I were to tell you all the things he has done for me, you wouldn't believe me. To be honest, his generosity towards me has been enormous, almost embarrassingly so, as it happens. You see, I was taken very ill in New York, very ill indeed – my life was in danger. At that time I was employed by the same company St Clare has invested his money in. He took me into his home and looked after me with almost as much tender care as you showed me in The Hague. I don't know what I have done to deserve his friendship, nor can I ever repay him. But I don't think there is anything I would not do for him. If there is a grain of goodness in me at all, it is thanks to his influence. During my illness he arranged for a temporary replacement for my position – I was second in command in the accounts department – so that I would not be without an income once I had recovered. But then a while ago he conceived the idea of going on a tour; he knew little about Europe, and was concerned about my working too hard. In short, he invited me to accompany him on his travels. I declined at first, because I was already so beholden to him, but he insisted, and in the end I agreed. He wants to go as far as Petersburg and Moscow this winter, and to spend next summer touring southern Europe. Well, as you know, I have done a fair bit of travelling myself, and so I am glad to offer my services as a guide. But I have never travelled in such style before!
We stay at the best hotels, no expense is spared. Nothing but the best, don't you know!'

He paused, tiring of his prolonged whispering.

‘Has he so much sympathy for you?' murmured Eline. ‘How remarkable! Of course I hardly know him, but it seems to me that his temperament is not a bit like yours, Vincent.'

‘No, it is not; you are quite right. Maybe that is why he likes me. At any rate, he's always saying I'm a better person than everyone seems to think, myself included. Which is quite a consolation, wouldn't you say?'

‘Perhaps he finds you as interesting as Eliza finds me!' said Eline, laughing disparagingly in spite of herself. Seeing St Clare coming towards them, she felt a pang of conscience – how could she have compared the proud sincerity emanating from his person with the trivial coolness of Eliza!

Meanwhile Eliza busied herself with the liqueurs, asking Vincent whether he preferred kirsch or curaçao, or would he rather have a glass of cognac? Vincent went to sit with her and Uncle Daniel by the fire, while St Clare seated himself in the balcony beside Eline.

‘Ah, so you are the dear cousin Vincent told me so much about! The cousin who took such good care of him,' he said, smiling as he put his hands in his pockets and fixed Eline with his frank stare.

Eline was about to say that he too had proved his merit in that department, but checked the impulse, thinking it might be inappropriate to let on how much Vincent had already told her about their friendship.

‘Yes, I am the cousin who cared for him!' she replied, in French. Her English was good, but she found his French so charming that she had not offered to speak with him in his native language.

‘That was in The Hague, wasn't it?'

‘Yes it was; he was staying at my brother-in-law's house.'

‘And you were living there too at the time, weren't you?'

This seemed a touch inquisitive on his part, but he spoke in a tone of such candid interest that she didn't feel offended.

‘Yes,' she answered. ‘Did Vincent tell you that?'

‘He did. Vincent often spoke of you.'

He sounded as if he knew quite a lot about her. She had written to Vincent after her flight from Betsy and Henk's house, so he probably knew about that, too.

‘And you have done a good deal of travelling?' he pursued.

‘Oh yes, with my uncle and aunt. A great deal. You intend to travel extensively yourself, I gather?'

‘As far as Russia this coming winter.'

Neither of them spoke for a moment. It seemed to Eline that they both had much to say to one another, but did not know where to begin. She already felt she had known him for a long while, and now it turned out that she was no stranger to him either.

‘Do you care very much for Vincent?' she asked.

‘Very much. I feel very sorry for him. Had his health been more robust, he would certainly have made his mark on the world. He possesses energy and a hardworking spirit, as well as a broad view of life. But his physical weakness prevents him from giving his mind to one thing and bringing it to fruition. Most people have the wrong idea about Vincent. They think him lazy, capricious, egotistic, and refuse to see that he is simply ill. I can't think of anybody else who would be capable, despite suffering from such ill health, of sharing so much of his talent and intelligence with the rest of mankind.'

She had always had great sympathy for Vincent, but had never seen him in this light.

‘Yes, I believe you are right!' she said after a short pause. ‘But don't you think the trip you have in mind will be too tiring for Vincent? All the way to Russia, in winter?'

‘Oh no. The cold climate will have an invigorating effect on him. And he won't have to exert himself. I don't even want him to accompany me on every expedition I have in mind. But travelling by train poses no problem – all it requires is for him to put on his fur coat and sit in a railway car.'

His words made her suspect, as she had suspected from her conversation with Vincent, that St Clare set inordinate store by his friend's comfort and well-being.

‘I do believe you are very kind-hearted!' she could not help exclaiming.

He gave her a puzzled look.

‘What makes you say that?' he asked, laughing.

‘I don't know!' she said, smiling and colouring slightly. ‘It's just an impression I have. But I may be mistaken, of course.'

He gestured vaguely with his hand. A hint of coquetry had crept into her voice at the last, which she regretted.

‘Just now you spoke of energy and a hardworking spirit,' she resumed. ‘And you said that if someone is ill, that person deserves to be forgiven for not being energetic and hardworking.'

‘Naturally. What do you mean?'

There was an unhesitating singleness of purpose about his manner, which flustered her. During her tête-à-têtes with Vincent in the old days, their rambling, philosophical speculations had wavered this way and that without aim, rather like coils of smoke dissipating in the air, and the sheer directness of St Clare's question caught her unprepared.