Eline Vere Read Online Free PDF

her hands on the sides of his chubby head and, taking care to avoid his buttery fingers and lips, pressed a fond kiss on his crown.
    She sat down, rather pleased with the way she looked today, and in her state of restored equanimity she felt agreeably lulled by the warmth of the stove while the snow fell outside in downy silence. Unconsciously smiling, she rubbed her slender white hands and inspected her rosy, white-tipped fingernails, and then, casting acontented glance outside, saw a fruit vendor, thin as a reed and bent double under a dingy grey shawl, pushing a barrow laden with snow-covered oranges. She took up a breakfast roll, and as she did so felt another stirring of contentment, a shade egotistically, upon overhearing the heated exchange between Betsy and the kitchen maid – shrill commands and terse, insolent ripostes ringing out above the clanging of metal pans and the porcelain rattle of a stack of plates being violently set down.
    Betsy came in, eyes flashing with indignation beneath the thick brows, her small, plump lips pursed up. She carried a set of cut-glass dessert plates, which she had decided to wash herself, as Grete had broken one of them. Carefully, despite her annoyance, she placed the dishes on the table, filled a basin with tepid water, and cast around for a brush.
    â€˜That dratted girl! Fancy washing my best cut-glass in boiling hot water. It’s always the same; you can’t trust those duffers to do anything.’
    Her voice sounded harsh and strident, and she pushed Ben out of her way without ceremony.
    Eline, solicitous in her pleasant frame of mind, promptly offered to help, and Betsy was glad to accept. She had a great many things to do, she said, but plumped herself down on the sofa instead to watch as Eline cleaned the dishes one by one with the brush and then patted them dry in the folds of a tea towel with light, graceful movements, taking care not to get her fingers wet or spill a single drop. And Betsy sensed the contrast between her own energetic briskness, arising from her robust health, and her sister’s languishing elegance, which implied a certain reluctance to exert herself or defile her hands.
    â€˜By the way, the Verstraetens said they wouldn’t be going to the opera this evening, as they need some rest after yesterday’s tableaux, so Aunt offered me their box. Would you care to go?’
    â€˜To the opera? What about your dinner guests?’
    â€˜Jeanne Ferelijn said she wanted to leave early as one of her children has come down with a cold again, so I thought of asking Emilie and her brother if they’d like to come along. Henk can stay at home.
    It’s a box for four, you know.’
    â€˜Good idea. Very good idea.’
    With a satisfied air, Eline dried the last sparkling cut-glass dish of the set, and just as she was putting away the basin another violent altercation broke out in the kitchen, accompanied by the silvery crash of cutlery. The quarrel this time was between Grete and Mina, the maid-of-all-work. Betsy ran out of the room, and there ensued another volley of irate commands and disgruntled replies.
    In the meantime Ben stood where his mother had pushed him, his mouth agape in dumb consternation at the clamour in the kitchen.
    â€˜Well now, Ben, shall we go up to Auntie’s room together?’ asked Eline, offering him her hand with a smile. He sidled up to her, and they climbed the stairs together.
    Eline occupied two rooms on the first floor: a bedroom and a spacious adjoining boudoir. With modest means yet refined taste she had succeeded in creating an impression of luxury with artistic overtones, particularly in the contrived disarray here and there, which evoked still-life compositions. Her piano stood at an angle at one end. The lush foliage of a giant aralia cast a softening shade over a low couch covered in a Persian fabric. A small writing-table was littered with precious bibelots, while sculptures, paintings,