But he did not tell him that day. He merely persuaded himself that it was not necessary, that it would even be wrong to tell his son, his child, who was still so young, the past of their lives, that which he would hear of himself and know and understand when he was a year or two older. And on the following days also, hesitating, Van der Welcke did not tell him. But the gloomy meals continued, Constance’ fits of helplessness continued; and she once again exclaimed:
“Oh, tell him! Do tell him!”
And they both felt so unhappy, because they were losing their child more and more every day, that he determined to tell Addie. He hesitated until the last moment, wavering, struggling within himself, not knowing what would be right, what wrong, knowing only that he was suffering beyond endurance. Then, one evening, he looked up his child in the “turret-room:”
“Addie, shall I be in your way if I sit here?”
“No, Papa.”
The boy was doing his home-work. Van der Welcke sat down. He reflected that he would rather tell him some other day, when Addie was not working. The child worked on, silently, gloomily, grimly. And Van der Welcke suddenly exclaimed:
“Addie!” “Yes, Papa?”
“Come here for a minute.”
The boy stood up and went to him.
“Tell me, why have you been so gloomy lately, my boy?”
“I’m not gloomy, Daddy.”
“You hardly speak to me or your mother. And it’s not like you, to sulk. Are you angry with us?”
“No, Daddy.”
“Aren’t you angry with us?”
“No, Daddy: what should I be angry for?”
“Then be as you used to be, Addie. When you’re not cheerful, everything in the house is so sad.”
The boy smiled.
“I’ll try, Daddy.”
“But why try? Just be it, be it!”
No, Van der Welcke would not, could not tell him.
“I’ll try, Daddy.”
And he moved to go back to his books.
“Addie!”
“What is it, Papa?”
“Come here, come to me.”
“I have my work to do.”
“Come along, I want you.”
The boy came.
“Come to me, here, on my lap. Perhaps it is the last time, Addie, that I shall take you on my knee. You are my little boy still; and presently, presently perhaps you will be a big son to me, with whom I shall discuss things . . . and who will no longer sit on my lap.”
He sat down on his father’s knee:
“What is it?” he asked, quietly, sensibly.
“I am going to tell you, Addie.”
The child understood:
“No, don’t tell me,” he said. “I am not inquisitive. And I am too young, perhaps, to know. It doesn’t matter. I dare say I shall know, later on. For the present, I’m just your little boy.”
He nestled against his father, in his arm:
“It’s so jolly, sitting with you like this. Uncle Paul always says, when he sees us bicycling, that we are just like chums, but he has never seen us like this.”
Should he tell him? thought Van der Welcke. Should he not tell him? If he told him, this would be the last time that he would take his son on his knees.
“I had made up my mind to tell you, Addie.”
“No, don’t.”
He did not tell him that evening. And the boy tried to be as he used to, especially at meals, but he was not very successful; his cheerfulness sounded forced. Then, two evenings later, Van der Welcke said:
“Come here, Addie. Come and sit on my lap.”
And that was the last time.
“Listen, I want to tell you all about it. When you know, perhaps you will feel a little older than you do now; but, when you know, you will be my child again, my son, won’t you? My son, yes, who is becoming a man, but still my son, my friend as always. I’ll tell you now. It’s better that I should tell you. . . .”
Then he told him, very simply. . . .
And it was very easy, very simple to tell Addie, in quiet words. He told his boy that he had fallen in love with Mamma when she was the wife of another and that he had stolen Mamma’s love, stolen it from that other man. He told the story so humbly, so quietly and simply as though it meant nothing, making this confession to his child, and as though he were pouring out all his sufferings of the old days into the heart of a friend. They sat talking for a long time; and it did them both good. Then said Van der Welcke:
“Addie, go to Mamma now. She herself asked me to tell you everything. Go to her now and give her a kiss.”
The boy kissed him first, embraced him with throttling arms, with the grip of a friend’s embrace. Then he went out; and Van der Welcke, quietly smoking, listened to his footsteps on the stairs. But then Van der Welcke started, with a shock, reflected:
“What have I done? O my God, no, no, no! I ought not to have told him. . . .”
But the house remained very quiet. Constance was sitting alone, in her boudoir. Her head was bent under the light of the lamp, over her needlework, and her hair, changing so gently to its cloudy grey, curled tenderly about the delicate oval of her still youthful face. There was a sort of gentle, resigned peace in her attitude, with much pensiveness and sadness. When Addie opened the door, he stood still and she did not look up, thinking that it was Van der Welcke. Then he went to his mother. . . .
She looked up, startled:
“Is that you?”
“Yes, Mamma.”
She looked up at him; and suddenly it flashed across her that he knew. . . .
“Papa has been speaking to me, Mamma. . . .”
She gave a violent start, as though she had had an electric shock; her eyes closed, her head fell back, her hands fell slackly in her lap:
“O God!” she thought. “No, oh, no, he ought not to have told him! . . .”
He knelt before his mother and passed his fingers softly over her face and gently opened her eyes. She looked at him, with a pale, terrified, shocked face and staring eyes and distorted mouth. She saw his own fresh, soft child’s face, smiling friendily. . . .
“I know the truth now, Mamma,” he said, “and, if people slander me now, I can bear it. . . .”
She threw her arms around him, dropped her head upon his breast. She felt him in that embrace grown older, bigger, stronger, now quite a man. She now felt a protector in him. But she was ashamed and again closed her eyes: “My boy!” she murmured. “Do you love your mother? . . .”
“Yes, Mamma.”
Her face grew calmer, but her eyes remained shut.
“My darling!” she whispered, almost inaudibly, with closed eyes. “Thank you. Thank you. But leave me to myself now. . . .”
He kissed her, with his manly tenderness, and then went out and shut the door. She opened her eyes, looked round the room. But it was as though she was ashamed before everything, before the walls of the room and the furniture around her; for she now closed her eyes again and hid her face in her hands.
And she sat like that for long, as though lost in thanksgiving for the mercy vouchsafed her by life. . . .
But, between the two of them, the boy now brightened, strong in the power of truth and certainty, even though window after window had opened before him, giving him a glimpse into the world. Between the two of them, he recovered his former self, his former voice, his childish tempers even, became once more the consolation and the aim of their two existences. She went for walks on his arm; he went bicycling with him for long distances, full of air and space. The house resounded with his young, serious, no longer treble voice. When she looked at him, however, she thought that he had grown, had become broader; that the shape of his head, the curve of his cheeks were losing the childish softness that still belonged to his years. . . .
And, when Van der Welcke felt bored in his smoking-room and went and sat with Addie in the “turret,” always first punctiliously asking his son if he was interrupting him in his work, he no longer took him on his knee. . . .