CHAPTER XXVIII.

A month had passed, during which Eline had been living a life of semi-lethargy, of languid indifference, at the house of her uncle in the Avenue Louise at Brussels. Her cough was still very troublesome, but she felt herself comparatively at ease in her surroundings. Elise, though she chattered somewhat, seemed rather to like her; and Uncle Daniel, though he was somewhat cold in his studied politeness, was very amiable also. Sometimes, indeed, a suspicion rose to her mind that they shammed as every one in the Hague had shammed, but she would not stop to analyze this doubt; she was satisfied to allow her brain to be gradually enveloped by the lethargic indifference which was more and more becoming a part of her very being.

Quite unexpectedly one day Uncle Daniel received a letter from Vincent Vere from New York. They were not in the habit of corresponding, and uncle was somewhat surprised. Eline, whose correspondence with her cousin had not been of very long duration, now that his name sounded so unexpectedly in her ears felt her interest in him revive; she was very anxious to know what the contents of his letter might be. Perhaps he asked for money.

But in this Eline was mistaken. Vincent asked for no money, nor even for a recommendation or any help whatever. He simply wrote that he intended to take a trip to Europe with his friend Lawrence St. Clare, and they would visit Brussels. This letter roused Eline somewhat from her mental lethargy. She called to mind how Vincent, languid and weak, had reclined on her sofa in his Turkish dressing-gown, and how she had tended him. With this memory the thought of Otto became mingled, and with nervous agitation her fingers played around the black enamelled locket of her chain. Had she not fancied that Vincent loved her and that she loved him? Were any of those feelings now still remaining in her heart? No, those feelings were gone—vanished like birds that had flown away. Uncle and Elise talked a little about Vincent, and then remained silent; but Eline, though she said nothing, thought a great deal about him and his American friend.

After a week or two Uncle Daniel received a second letter from Vincent, this time dated from Paris. In a few days the two young men arrived, and they remained to dinner. Uncle and Elise out of politeness asked them to make their stay in the house, but St. Clare refused—they had already taken their rooms at the Hôtel des Flandres.

Vincent was not at all changed in his appearance and his movements, and Eline all at once remarked, when both of them were standing beside each other, and she saw her face reflected in the glass, how greatly she had aged. He in his elegant, gentlemanly attire was the same as he had been two years ago. His face even, beside her own yellow, emaciated features, seemed to her healthier than ever she had seen it before. She in her black lace, a material which she now constantly wore, with her drooping shoulders and her sombre, lack-lustre eyes, seemed a mere wreck of her former sparkling youth. Lawrence St. Clare made a very agreeable impression both on Eline and on Elise. With her ideas of a Yankee, Eline had rather fancied him somewhat boorish and rough—perhaps chewing, swearing, and eternally drinking whisky—and she was very agreeably surprised by his winning, easy manner. Tall, and of a powerful frame, with his full-grown beard, which fell upon his bosom, a certain pride gleaming from his eyes, not the pride of vanity, but one that denoted power and strength of will. Although formerly Eline had only now and then heard Vincent drop a word about St. Clare, it seemed to her now as though she had known him ever so long. His frank smile, his soft but penetrating eyes, charmed her and aroused her from her lethargy, and it suddenly struck her, when her glance went round the table, what a peaceful, calm, healthful truth beamed from him, by the side of which the studied politeness of her uncle, the airy effervescence of Elise, the misty melancholy of Vincent and of herself, seemed but vain, hollow hypocrisy and unhealthy sham. After dinner they took coffee in the large salon, and Eline felt herself contented in St. Clare’s company, and inwardly hoped that none of her other acquaintances would come and disturb the harmony. Yet she had not much conversation with St. Clare. Elise took him in tow altogether, asking him hundreds of questions about New York, Philadelphia, and other places. He answered her in French, and spoke slowly with a foreign accent, which charmed Eline. Vincent took both her hands in his and looked at her attentively. He was grateful to her for what she had one day done for him, and something like pity filled him now.

“I am rather disappointed in you, Elly,” said he, as they sat down in the balcony. “You must try and get a little stouter; do you hear?”

She laughed a little, and the tip of her little shoe moved about nervously among the soft white rugs.

“It is nothing at all,” said she. “I have not felt at all so unwell lately. I have been much worse than this, and I am very glad to see you once more, very glad indeed. You know I always rather liked you.”

She gave him her hand and he pressed it, and drew his fauteuil a little closer to her.

“And what do you think of Lawrence?” he asked; “do you like him?”

“Yes, I believe he is a very good fellow, is he not?”

“He is the only man whom I have ever known upon whom one can depend. There is no one in the world in whom I have any confidence—no, no one—not even in you, nor in myself; but him—him I trust. What funny French he speaks, eh?”

“He speaks it very nicely,” answered Eline.

“You have no idea what he would do for any one to whom he takes,” Vincent continued. “If I told you what he has done for me, you would not believe me. It is not every one whom I should like to tell what he has forced me to accept, and even when I tell you about it I certainly feel a bit ashamed. You must know that in New York I was very ill indeed, in fact, all but dying. At that time I had a situation in a house of business with which he is financially connected. Well, he took me into his own house and tended me almost with as much care as you