In the midst of the sunshine on that summer day a spirit of melancholy descended upon the whole of the big house and set the nerves of all the inmates tingling. Addie had been, had read Guy's letter, had left at once . . . for Rotterdam. Downstairs, in the morning-room, Adeline sobbed without ceasing; and from the sunlit conservatory the old grandmother stared at her through the vista of the rooms, because she did not understand. . . . Adeline lay sobbing in Emilie's arms; Marie and Paul were with her too; upstairs, Adeletje and Mary remained with Constance. Brauws appeared at the door:
"What has happened?" he asked, in a whisper.
Van der Welcke seized him by the arm, took him into the garden. Klaasje lay half-asleep against the thick trunk of a beech, with Jack nestling in her little skirts, both tired with playing. The child was humming a tune, looking up at the sky, dreaming away amid all the gold that rained down upon her from between the leaves like glittering coins.
"What has happened?" Brauws asked again.
But Van der Welcke could not speak; his throat refused to let the words through.
"Good-morning, Uncle Brauws!" cried Klaasje, dreamily. "Look, Uncle Brauws, I'm very rich. It's raining golden sovereigns over me . . . out of the beech-tree, out of the beech-tree! . . . Out of the beech-tree golden sovereigns are raining over Klaasje!" she hummed rhythmically.
"Hans," asked Brauws, "what's the matter, old fellow?"
"It's that idiot of a Guy!" said Van der Welcke, at last, hoarsely. "I was looking for him this morning, couldn't find him anywhere. His bicycle was gone. . . . He has cleared out. He left three letters behind him: for his mother, for Addie and for us. He writes that he can't work at books, that he wants to try his own way. . . . I've read all the letters. . . . He tells Addie . . . that he feels that he must stand alone . . . that he must stand alone if he's to do any good . . . that . . . in this house. . . ."
Van der Welcke gave a sob.
"Well?"
"He feels himself growing flabby . . . because there's too much affection, too much leniency for him. . . . That's the sort of thing he writes. . . . Who would have thought the boy was so silly? . . . He writes that he won't do any good . . . if he stays here. . . . That he wants to go and face the world. . . . A boy of his age! . . . The most ridiculous idea I've ever heard of! . . .
"The boy may be right," said Brauws, very gently.
But Van der Welcke was not listening:
"I shall miss him," he confessed. "I miss him now. He was my favourite . . . among them all. He consoled me for the loss of Addie. . . . I loved him as my own son; so . . . so did Constance."
Brauws was silent.
"Life is a damned, rotten encumbrance!" said Van der Welcke, explosively. "We do everything for those children, we do everything for that boy; and, all of a sudden, he goes away . . . instead of . . . instead of staying with us, causes us sorrow, breaks his poor mother's heart. . . . He writes about America. . . . Addie went straight to the station to make enquiries. He was going on to Rotterdam. Addie . . . Addie never has a moment's peace. . . . He was looking tired as it was, tired and sad; and, instead of having a day's rest . . . with us . . . with all of us . . . I wanted to go with him . . . but he said he preferred to go alone. . . . Why not have told Addie . . . that he would rather do something else . . . than go into the Post Office? . . . God, we'd have been glad enough to help him! . . . He—Addie—does everything . . . does every blessed thing for the children. . . . Oh, Brauws, it's as if a son of my own had run away . . . run away in a fit of madness! . . . Addie has gone to Rotterdam. It was Addie's idea, Rotterdam. But Guy can just as well have gone to Antwerp, to Le Havre, to God knows where! . . . He hadn't much money with him. . . . What will he do, what were his plans? . . ."
The sunny summer day passed gloomily: just a telegram from Addie, "Coming to-morrow," without any further explanation. Constance had found the strength to go to Adeline in her room; the girls were overcome with a silent stupefaction, at the thought that Guy, their cheerful Guy, kept so much hidden under his light-heartedness: a deeper dissatisfaction with life, vague and unclear to all of them, who were so happy to be with Uncle Henri and Aunt Constance in what had so long been their family house, since they had been quite small children; and, when Alex arrived in the evening from Amsterdam, he too could not understand why Guy had felt a need so suddenly to go away from all of them, without taking leave, with that queer idea of making his way in the world alone. . . . On the contrary, he—Alex—valued in the highest degree all that Uncle, Aunt and Addie did for him: without them, he would never have made any headway in the world and he was making headway at last, he thought. He was now working methodically at Amsterdam and almost methodically making his melancholy yield ground: it was as though Addie inspired him with the love of work and the love of life, wooing to life in him the strength to become a normal member of society, oh, he felt it so clearly! After every talk with Addie he felt it once more, felt strength enough to stay one week in Amsterdam, to work, to live, to see the dreaded life—which his father had escaped by suicide come daily closer and closer, nearer and nearer, like a ghostly vista, at first viewed anxiously and darkly, but later entered, walked into, inevitably, until all the ghostliness of it was close around him. . . . And, when he thought of his father and always saw him lying, in a pool of blood, with his mother's body flung across the corpse in all the terror of despair, then at the same time he would think of Addie and reflect that life, no doubt, would not be gay but that nevertheless it need not always hark back out of black spectral dread to his youth . . . because Addie spoke of being strong and becoming a man gradually. . . . And Guy had gone, had evaded just that beneficial, strengthening influence of Addie! . . . No, Alex also could not understand it; and that evening he remained sitting gloomily between his sisters, not knowing what he could say to comfort his mother. . . . The next day was Sunday; and, if he did not see Addie on Sunday, he knew that the following week would not be a good one for him in Amsterdam, would be a bad, black week. . . .
And it was only Grandmamma and Ernst and Klaasje who did not feel oppressed by the sombre, sudden, incomprehensible and unexpected event which the others were all trying to understand and explain: to them the summer day had been all sunlight and the gloom had passed unperceived by them.
Next morning Addie returned. Constance, who was quite unstrung, had been twice and three times to the station in vain. At last she saw him:
"You didn't find him?" she asked, with conviction.
"Yes, I did."
"What? You found him? How? How was it possible?"
"I had an idea that he couldn't go farther than Rotterdam: he hadn't much money on him. I hunted and hunted until I found him."
"And you haven't brought him back with you!"
"No, I let him go."
"You let him go?"
"I think it's best: he was very anxious to go. He was angry at my finding him. I talked to him for a long time. He said that he wished to be under no more obligations, fond though he was of us, grateful though he felt. . . ."
Constance, trembling, had taken Addie's arm; they went home on foot; the road lay in a bath of summer under the trees.
"He spoke sensibly. He had a vague idea of working his passage on a steamer as a sailor or stoker. I took a ticket for him. He will write to us regularly. I told him that Mr. Brauws, if he liked, could certainly give him some introductions in New York. He said he would see. He showed a certain decision, as if he were doing violence to something in his own character. It was rather strange. . . . I thought that I ought not to compel him to come back. He told me that he was certain of not passing his examination and that this was what got on his mind and upset him, that he couldn't concentrate on his books, that he would now look after himself. . . . There was a boat going to London; I gave him some money. . . . It's better this way, Mamma. Let him stand on his own legs. Here, the way things were going, he might have gone drudging on. . . ."
She wept distractedly:
"We shall miss him so. . . . He was the life of the house. . . . Papa, Papa will miss him badly. . . . Oh, it's terrible! . . . Poor, poor Adeline!"
They reached home.
"Let me speak to Aunt Adeline first."
"My dear, my dear, make everything right . . . Oh, put it so that Aunt thinks it right and accepts it: you can do everything, dear!"
"No, Mamma, I can't do everything."
"You can do everything, you can. What should we have done without you? Now that you have found him and talked to him and made things smooth for him, perhaps everything will be all right for him. If you hadn't found him . . .! How did you know that he had gone to Rotterdam?"
"I felt almost sure of it, Mummie. But I didn't know anything for certain. I might have been mistaken."
"You look so tired."
"I have had a tiring day."
"Addie, to people outside, to the family we will say . . ."
"That he has gone to America . . . a sudden idea . . . with introductions from Mr. Brauws."
"My dear, how can you talk of it so calmly?"
"Mummie, perhaps it's better as it is . . . for him. He was doing no good here. He wasn't working. And he was getting enervated in the midst of all his relations. He has developed a sudden energy; it would be a pity to stifle it. I . . . I simply could not bring myself to do that."
"My boy, do you tell your aunt. Tell Papa, too, tell all of them, tell his sisters and Alex. I . . . I can't tell them. I should only cry. I'm going upstairs, to my room. You'll tell them, won't you? You'll make it appear as if it's all right, as if it's quite natural, as if it's all for the best."
"Yes, Mummie dear, you go upstairs. I . . . I'll tell it them, I'll tell all of them. . . ."