And in her room she hardly slept for nervousness about the great event that was to happen on the morrow. All the night through, while the wind moaned against the panes, she lay in bed, with unclosed eyes, listening whether she could not hear in the voices of the wind yet other voices, strange voices, voices warning or commanding the living.
She had never spoken to her husband about the voices, though he was well aware that she read the strange book and disapproved of her reading it, because it could not be fit and proper reading for people who, from their childhood, had believed that the best of all books was the Bible and the best of all beliefs the belief in the Lord, from Whom every sorrow came and every blessing. And she had hidden the strange book also from the old minister, who came to see them every week, since they both, growing older each year and ailing, had ceased to go to church: she put the strange book out of the way when he was expected on a Sunday-afternoon; but she studied it without concealment from her old husband and yet in silence, as though guilty of a secret heresy. He had asked her once:
“What are you reading there?”
And she told him the strange title and said that she wanted to enquire into things, but nothing further had been uttered between the two old people, though she heard him silently express his disapproval. But, since the day when, years ago, she had yielded to her husband and consented to the superhuman sacrifice of surrendering her son to the woman whom that son had plunged into unhappiness—because this sacrifice was the duty which was required of her by divine and human equity—since that time she had had no peace, read as she might in her Bible, talk as she would with the minister, pray as she did for hours on end. She had had no peace: deep down in herself she had always borne a grudge because Heaven had laid so heavy a sacrifice upon her, the mother. Her husband had had the strength of a man who pursues the straight path, the path of duty, and he had surrenderd his son and lost him without a superfluous word. But she, though she also spoke no word, had not resigned herself; and her soul had rebelled; and she had thought that she was lost for all eternity . . . until a gentle ray had come, by accident, to comfort her out of the strange book which, by accident, she had taken up and opened. And, still a believer, though she no longer went to church and though, in her heart, she did not agree with the minister, did not agree with her old husband, she nevertheless endeavoured to unite, to reconcile, to blend what remained of the old faith, which had once stood firm as a rock, with the new faith; and, when she prayed, she prayed indeed to the same God of her old, former faith, but she listened also to the voices, to that part of the invisible world which hovers around us and saves us and guides us and warns and protects us and sets its soft-smiling compassion between us and the rigid immutability of the divine grace or displeasure, tempering the divine brow into a softer glance. That was her secret; and what she silently told her husband of the new faith still remained an unpenetrated secret to him in the dumb evenings when they sat together and read and he heard her, in silence, say that she believed differently from what she once did because she had found no peace in that divine immutability.
And now the day came which was Henri’s birthday. She dressed very early, with difficulty and with shaking hands, and, when Piet told her that there was a train at nine o’clock, she blushed and remained quietly waiting for the carriage to be got ready and for Piet to come and tell her. She was her ordinary self at breakfast, but tried, without attracting attention, not to eat, because the bread stuck in her throat; and, when, at the breakfast-table, her husband asked if she had not telegraphed to Henri, she answered:
“No.”
Almost inaudibly and silently, she thus conveyed to her husband that she wished to give Henri a surprise.
She remained sitting motionless; did not wash up the breakfast-cups that morning, as she was always wont to do; was a little uncomfortable in the presence of her husband and the parlour-maid and Piet at this omission of her usual habit. She heard the clock ticking, the seconds falling away; and she was afraid that, if Piet loitered so, she would be late, or that there would be an accident. Luckily, the morning-paper came; and the old man plunged into its pages while she remained waiting, in her cloak and her unfashionable, black, old lady’s bonnet, for Piet to come and say that it was time to go. The parlour-maid washed up the breakfast-cups; and she was afraid the maid would break one, because she was not used to it. It made quite a change, throughout the house, that she was going this morning by train, to the Hague, to Henri, whose birthday it was. She was uncomfortable and she feared that the people along the road and at the station would stand looking and wondering why Mrs. van der Welcke was going on a journey. And, when, at last, Piet came to tell her, she could not get up at first, because her old legs shook so and her feet pricked her, as though they had been asleep. But she made a painful effort, stood up, gave Piet her purse; and the old man said:
“Piet, will you look after mevrouw, getting in and out of the train?”
Piet promised; and she took leave of her husband. The carriage was at the door; and she dared not look at Dirk, the coachman, because she was shy, while Piet held open the carriage-door and helped her to step in, with some little difficulty. In the carriage, she shrank back, because the woman with the vegetables was just passing and she was afraid that she might see her. Also she reflected that the people in the other villas would be sure to see the carriage drive out and wonder what was happening, so early in the morning. But, when, at the station, Piet helped her to alight and led her to the little waiting-room and went to take the tickets, she was very shy before a lady and gentleman who were also waiting and who no doubt thought it very strange that she, an old woman, should go travelling like that. Fortunately, Piet had calculated the time and she had not long to wait, at which she was very glad, because the whistling of the trains and the ringing of the bell made her very nervous, terrified lest she should miss the train, and she did not know to a minute at what time it started. But Piet came to tell her and fetched her; and she tried to walk straight and, assisted by Piet, to climb into the carriage not all too painfully and laboriously. Piet had taken a second-class ticket for himself; and she would rather have had him come into her compartment, but he had, of course, not dared, from respect for his mistress, and she had not dared ask him. But she resolved to sit very quiet until Piet came to fetch her. The lady and the gentleman were in the same compartment as herself, but they were very polite: the gentleman had bowed and the lady too; and fortunately they did not look at her again, but talked to each other in low voices. And, when the train moved off, the old woman sat quietly, with set lips, looking out of the window at the meadows speeding past. . . . Now she was beginning to wonder what Henri would say and she also thought of Constance and of her grandson, Adriaan. And she was a little frightened at what she had done. They might be out, or very busy with the Van Lowes, Constance’ relations. She did not quite know in what way Henri and Constance lived, at the Hague. Henri, it was true, had been to Driebergen again, just once more, by himself, but she had received no distinct impression from his words, because she had hardly listened, had only sat gazing at him, her son, whom she had not seen for so many years, who had not been allowed to exist for her. . . . She trembled suddenly at what she had dared to do, but it was now too late. She was sitting in the train; and the train was carrying her along; and also she did not know how to tell Piet, when the train stopped, that she would rather just go back again. Then, from sheer inability to do otherwise, she at last found courage to sit still and let the train take her on until it slowed into the station at the Hague and Piet came to fetch her and helped her climb down the high steps of the railway-carriage. Piet now led her slowly and quietly through the busy crowd of people, which he allowed to flow ahead of them, and out of the station, chose a nice cab, helped her in, gave the address of Baron van der Welcke, Kerkhoflaan, and got up on the box, next to the driver. And now, seated in the cab, which rattled over the cobble-stones, she was glad, after all, that she had persevered and she thought that it was not so very difficult, after all, and believed that, after all, Henri would perhaps think it nice of her to have come without notice. It was a long drive; and she had not been to the Hague for years and had forgotten the streets and squares; but, at last, the cab stopped and she looked out while Piet climbed down from the box, rang the bell, opened the door of the cab, helped her out. . . .
Yes, she was there now and she trembled violently when the maid opened the door and she entered the hall. She was there now. And she could find nothing to say when a door in the passage opened and Constance, amazed, came out to her. This was the second time that she had seen that woman. . . .
“Mamma!”
“Yes, I thought I would come, because it was Henri’s birthday. . . .”
She knew—she had not failed to understand—that her son was not happy with that woman and she felt a certain disappointment that it was not Henri himself who came out to welcome her.
But the astonishment in Constance’ face changed to a look of soft and glad surprise. She was very sensitive to kindness and she felt that it was kind of this old woman to come: this old lady who never went anywhere, who had come with her butler. . . .
“How pleased Henri will be!” she said, gently, and her eyes grew moist. “How very pleased Henri will be! He is out now, on his bicycle, but he’ll be back soon. Come in, take off your cloak inside: I’m afraid there’s a draught out here. Good-morning, Piet: so you’ve brought mevrouw? Go into the kitchen, Piet, will you? Come in, Mamma. How delighted Henri will be! He is sure to be in very soon. And this is my mother, who has also come to see us this morning.”
She led Mrs. van der Welcke into the morning-room; and there stood old Mrs. van Lowe. And, when Constance closed the door, the two old ladies looked at each other and were both very nervous; and Constance felt like that too, trembling in her limbs. The old ladies looked at each other; and it was as though the two mothers, with that long, long look, asked each other’s forgiveness, after many long years, for their two children. Then Mrs. van Lowe approached and put out her two hands; and her words sounded very simple:
“I am so delighted to make your acquaintance, mevrouw. . . .”
Yes, they asked, without saying so, they asked each other’s forgiveness for the offence which their two children had committed, years and years ago, against each other and against themselves and against their lives. They asked each other’s forgiveness with the unspeakable gentleness of two very old women who still looked upon their children, whatever their age might be, as children, as their children. They asked each other’s forgiveness without words, with a glance and a pressure of the hands; and Constance understood so plainly what they were asking each other that she quietly left the room, feeling suddenly like a child, a tiny child that had behaved badly towards those two mothers. . . . Constance felt it so intensely that she went by herself, through the dining-room, into the conservatory and wept, very quietly, swallowing her tears behind her handkerchief. And the old ladies were left together, the two mothers, so different one from the other: one, Mrs. van Lowe, a woman who perhaps had seen much more of life and understood it better than the other, Mrs. van der Welcke, who had always lived quietly, always at Driebergen, with her Bible . . . until the strange book had fallen into her hands. . . .
They were left together and the very many things which they said to each other and asked of each other, in silence, were not audible in the simple words of Constance’ mother:
“May I help you take off your hat and your cloak, mevrouw?”
And, as she assisted Mrs. van der Welcke, she apologized for Constance and said:
“I think your arrival must have agitated her; you must not mind her leaving you for a moment. . . .”
Then the old ladies sat down side by side.
“They seem to be very comfortable,” said Mrs. van der Welcke and looked around her nervously.
“I am so glad to have my child back with me,” said Mrs. van Lowe.
There was very much to be said between them, but they spoke only simple words, doubtless feeling all the unuttered rest. Their thoughts went back, many years back: how hostile they had then felt towards each other’s children, who had disgraced each other and their two families; if they had met each other then by chance, as now, they could not possibly have looked at each other gently, as now. . . . But the years had toned down the pain and the cruelty; and now it was possible and even agreeable for these two, mother and mother, to press each other’s hands and to exchange glances that asked for forgiveness.
“I also came to wish Henri many happy returns. He is sure to be back with Addie for lunch,” said Mrs. van Lowe.
But Constance returned; and now, in her own house, in her own drawing-room, she felt shy and quite different from what she felt when, offended and slighted, she had stood before Henri’s parents, at Driebergen, on that first and only visit. It was as though the combined presence of those two mothers made her like to a child that had done wrong. She felt as she had never felt before, felt small and childlike; and, when, as was often her habit, she went to sit close by Mrs. van Lowe, she took her mother’s hand and laid her head upon her mother’s breast and no longer controlled herself, but wept.
And Mrs. van Lowe again looked at Henri’s mother, as though she wished to say:
“If it can be, do not condemn my child too severely, even as I do not judge Henri too severely.”
And, because there now flowed through her soul a gentle happiness that had its source in contentment, Constance felt the poignancy of that moment of Henri’s home-coming when, tired after his ride, he walked in with Addie and found his mother there, his mother, who never left her house, sitting there in his house, between Constance and Mrs. van Lowe. . . .
Had some bond really been established at last, after long years? Had those who could find no point of union that other morning, at Driebergen, at last come closer? Was there really some sort of tie? And was it just that it took a very long time—years and years and then months after that—for things to become more or less easy and pleasant?. . . In this mood, Constance’ voice instinctively had a softer note; and she felt at the same time a child to those two mothers and very old to herself, very old in this lulling of passion and anger and nerves. Would it be like this with her now, would her life just go on in a succession of more and more placid years, would she just live for her son? She asked herself this, deep down in her soul, almost unconsciously; and a shadowy melancholy floated over her, because of those two old mothers, because of Henri, because of herself. Was that how old age approached, like this, with these gentler years? She was forty-two, she was not old, but, still, was old age approaching in this way, so softly? And, while she asked herself this, in a passive, melancholy mood, devoid of anger and passion, there hovered about her a vague feeling that she would now grow old and that she had never lived. . . . Never lived. . . . Never lived. . . . It hovered, that shadowy discontent, in the midst of her gentle content. . . . Never lived. . . . She did not know why, but she thought for just one moment—a ghost of a thought—of Gerrit, of Buitenzorg, how they two, the little brother and sister, used to play in the river. . . . It was as if it had not been she, that little girl with the red flowers, as if it had been another little girl. . . . Never lived. . . . But what ought she to have done to feel that she had lived, now that she was growing old? Vanity, balls, her marriage, Rome, her love-affair, the scandal: was that living? Or was it all a mistake, mistake upon mistake, fuss and excitement about nothing? . . . Now, now it was over. Existence was becoming placid, less bitter, more kindly; but, still, she felt it, she had never lived. . . .
But she did not know what she ought to have done to make her now feel that she had lived; and she let the strange feeling be lulled to rest in the soft melancholy that filled her, because of this gentle kindliness that had come now, with the years, the grey haze of years. She sighed the strange thought away and she thought that it had to happen and that it could not have been otherwise and that even so she would never have known anything different. . . . Never lived. . . . But, then, had hundreds of men and women around her ever lived? . . . And she now shook herself free of this strange mood; and, laughing softly, happy in spite of her melancholy, she saw that the table was laid and asked the two mothers to come in to lunch.
Was it the grey haze of years then? . . . Was she growing old and were things becoming easier and more pleasant? . . . And had she never lived? . . .
“I do think it so very nice,” she said, “to have both the Mammas together at my table. . . .”