“Dorine,” asked Constance, “where is Papa’s portrait?”
“In the boudoir.”
“Oh, so Mamma has moved it! I want to see it.”
She went with Dorine through the drawing-room, past the card-tables. . . . She noticed that the conversation at once stopped at the table where Adolphine and Uncle Ruyvenaer were playing and that her sister raised her voice and said:
“Did I deal? . . . Diamonds!”
“They were talking about me,” thought Constance.
She went into the boudoir with Dorine: there was a card-table, with cards and markers, but there was no one in the room. Decanters and glasses, sandwiches and cakes had been put out in readiness for later.
“Papa,” said Constance, softly.
She looked up at the big portrait. It was not a work of art; it was painted in the regulation, wooden style of thirty or forty years before; and it struck Constance as an ugly daub, dark and flat, in spite of all the gold on the governor-general’s uniform, all the stars of the orders. The portrait represented a tall and commanding man, with a hard face and dark, stony eyes. “I . . . I used to think that portrait much finer,” said Constance. “Was Papa so hard? . . .”
Her eyes were riveted on her father’s face. . . . She had certainly been his favourite daughter. Her marriage to De Staffelaer, his friend, a man much older than herself, had pleased him, because it flattered his ambition. . . . But then, then he fell ill; he died soon after, soon after the thing that happened: that and her marriage to Van der Welcke. . . . Oh God, was it she who had killed him?
She drew Dorine to her:
“Tell me, Dorine. . . . Was Papa ill for long?”
“Yes, Connie, very long.”
They were silent. They thought of their father, of his ambition, of his longing for the greatness which he achieved; of his wish to see his children also great, high-placed and powerful. . . .
“I say, Dorine, how strange it is . . . that not one of Papa’s sons . . .”
“What do you mean, Connie?”
“Nothing. . . . I don’t know. . . .”
Papa had always helped Van Naghel. . . . Her thoughts ran on:
“Dorine, is Karel still a burgomaster?”
“Oh, no, Connie! Karel and Cateau have been living at the Hague for years.”
“And Gerrit is . . . a captain?”
“Yes, in the hussars.”
“I am quite out of everything. . . . And Ernst . . . does nothing? . . .”
“Ernst has always been rather strange, you know; he really fights shy of people. He collects things, all sorts of things: china, books, old maps. . . .”
“And Paul?”
“No, Paul does nothing.”
“But how strange!”
“What?”
“That they have none of them done anything to distinguish themselves: none of Papa’s sons. . . .”
“But, Connie, they’re all quite nice!” cried Dorine, indignantly. “Well, yes, Ernst is rather queer; and of course it’s not right that Paul should do nothing. . . .”
“I oughtn’t to have said it, Dorine. . . . But Papa would have liked to see his children distinguished. . . .”
Dorine felt annoyed, and at the same time, confused: distinguished, distinguished. . . . And her thoughts muttered within her mind, while Constance stood looking at the portrait: distinguished, distinguished. . . . Constance did well to talk of being distinguished! . . . True, she had made a great marriage: De Staffelaer, the minister at Rome, an old diplomatist, a friend of Papa’s. . . . True, she had been distinguished, no doubt; and it had turned out nicely, her distinguished marriage. Distinguished indeed! . . . Could Constance really be vain still . . . perhaps because she was now Baroness van der Welcke? A fine thing, that scandal with Van der Welcke! . . . Distinguished, distinguished . . . well, no, they were none of them distinguished. But then everybody couldn’t be Viceroy of the East Indies. . . . Constance had always had that sort of vanity; but Constance talking or thinking unkindly of her brothers, whom she hadn’t seen for years, that Dorine could not stand, no, that she couldn’t: they were the brothers, they were the family, they were the Van Lowes; and she couldn’t stand it. . . . She had always stood up for Constance, for Constance was a sister, was herself a Van Lowe; but Constance must not start giving herself airs and looking down upon them with her “distinguished,” her “distinguished.” . . . Very well, the brothers were not distinguished, but there was nothing else to be said against them, never had been; and against Constance there was! . . . And Dorine’s voice suddenly sounded very cold, as she asked:
“Shall we go back to the drawing-room?”
Constance, however, absorbed in thought, did not notice the cold voice and took Dorine’s arm. But, when she again passed Adolphine’s table, she heard her call quickly, in a startled tone:
“No trumps!”
“Ss! Ss! Ss!” Uncle Ruyvenaer, who was losing, hissed between his teeth. “What a cardholder! . . . Constance, won’t you cut in after this rubber?”
Constance was sure that they were still talking about her:
“No, thanks, Uncle; I really don’t feel like playing to-night. . . .”
Her voice sounded faint, in spite of herself. . . . She stopped for a moment, but, when nobody else spoke, she moved on aimlessly, leaning on Dorine’s arm. . . . She felt contented and yet strange, in those rooms, in which she saw herself as she was on that last day, the day of her marriage with De Staffelaer; she could see herself at the wedding-breakfast and afterwards, when the time came to say good-bye. . . . Since then, her own people had become strangers to her.
Like a little child, she went in search of her mother, who was talking to Aunt Ruyvenaer, sat down in a chair by her and took her hand. . . .
“Well, Constance, it is nice, to have you back again!” said Auntie, energetically, laying a firm, Indian stress on her words. “So nice for Mamma too, kassian! Where are you staying now?”
“At the Hôtel des Indes, for the present, Auntie. . . . As soon as Van der Welcke arrives from Brussels, we shall look out for a house.”
“I am so curious to meet your husband.”
Constance gave a vague laugh. . . .
“Do you often go to India, Auntie?”
“Yes, child, almost every year: Uncle likes going . . . because of the business, Daranginongan, the sugar. And then home again, on our return-tickets. Oh, it’s so easy, with the French mail. . . . No trouble at all. . . . And Alima, my maid . . . she knows everything . . . knows Paris, the custom-office, does everything, helps Uncle with the tickets. . . . You should see her: dressed just like a lady, stays and all, splendid; you’d laugh till you cried! . . . How long did you live in Brussels?” “We were eight years in Brussels.”
“Small, Brussels, I think, compared with Paris. What made you go to Brussels? Tell me.”
“Well, Auntie,” laughed Constance, “we had to live somewhere! We used to travel a great deal besides. We were often on the Riviera. But suddenly I got terribly homesick for Holland, for Mamma, for all of you. Then I talked about it to Van der Welcke, about moving to the Hague; and he too was longing to get back to his country. And there was Adriaan, my boy: he’s thirteen now; and we wanted him to have a Dutch education. . . .”
“Does your son talk Dutch?”
“Of course he does, Auntie.”
“What is he going to be?”
Constance hesitated:
“He’ll probably enter the diplomatic service,” she said, in a low voice, thinking involuntarily of her years in Rome, of De Staffelaer, of all that had separated her from her people.
“Really?” asked Mamma, greatly interested.
“Yes, Van der Welcke would like it. . . .”
She was still holding her mother’s hand; and Mrs. van Lowe sat very erect, looking pleased to have Constance back.
“Marie,” said Auntie. “Do you know what I think so funny of you? You’re mad on your children, mad on them. But, when you see your daughter after all these years, you let her sleep at the Hôtel des Indes! Why is that? Tell me.” “I saw Constance once or twice in Brussels,” Mrs. van Lowe protested.
Constance laughed:
“But, Auntie, Mamma’s like that, she has her own ways! And Adriaan, Addie, would be too much for her . . . though he’s a very quiet boy.”
Mamma said nothing, smiled peacefully. Yes, she was like that, she had her own ways.
“I was saying to Uncle to-day,” Auntie continued, “if it didn’t look too funny, I’d ask Constance myself to stay with us. ‘There’s that Marie,’ I said. ‘She’s got a big house and leaves her child at the Hôtel des Indes!’ It’s beyond me, Marie. . . . Constance, you must come and eat rice with me and bring your husband and your boy. Do you like nassi?”[1]
“Yes, Auntie. We shall be delighted.”
Constance and Auntie stood up; Constance walked towards the conservatory. The young nephews and nieces were sitting at their round game, but had stopped playing. And Constance shrank from going farther and talking to them, for they hurriedly took up their cards again and went on playing.
And she turned away and thought:
“They were talking about me. . . .”
The servants came in with the trays:
“Who’ll have a sandwich? Uncle, shall I mix you a drink?” asked Dorine, moving restlessly about the rooms.
- ↑ Rice.