CHAPTER XXVIII
Addie, downstairs, helped his father with the bicycle, took it for him to the little room by the kitchen, promised Papa to see to it for him in the morning.
"Am I late for dinner?" asked Van der Welcke. He was tired and hot; his clothes were sticking to him.
"Mamma has a head-ache," said Addie. "Go and change your things first: dinner can wait."
Van der Welcke dragged himself upstairs. He had bicycled so hard that day—both morning and afternoon—with his eyes fixed in front of him, his thoughts fixed in front of him, that his body was tingling with weariness, his eyes blind with that fixed staring, as if they had been full of dust and sand.
"Come and help me," he said to Addie.
And, going to the bathroom, he flung off all his clothes and took a shower-bath, while Addie brought him fresh things.
He was ready in ten minutes, doing everything in a feverish, tired hurry:
"Now we can have dinner. Isn't Mamma coming down?"
"No."
They sat down opposite each other, but Van der Welcke was not hungry, did not eat. The servant took something up to Constance. Dinner was over in a quarter of an hour.
"I am tired!" Van der Welcke confessed.
The maid had soon cleared the table. And they remained in the dining-room, which was now growing dark.
The French windows were open and the sultry evening filled the room. Van der Welcke, who had thrown himself into a chair, got up restlessly, strode into the garden, came back again. When he saw Addie sitting quietly on the sofa, he flung himself beside him, laid his head on the boy's knees. Then, with a deep sigh, he fell asleep, almost immediately.
Addie sat without moving, let his father sleep there, with his head on his son's knees.
From another villa, a stream of yellow light flowed across the garden and cast dim shadows in the dark dining-room. And in the kitchen the maid went on drearily humming the same tune as in the afternoon, as though she were humming unconsciously.
The boy sat still, with set lips, looking down at his father, whose chest rose and fell peacefully, with the deep breathing which Addie felt against his hand . . .
That afternoon, those two, his father and mother, had spoken to each other, for the first time, seriously, in truth and sincerity, as his mother had told him. And now the thought was whirling in both their minds that, after years and years of wretchedness and disunion, they were going to separate after all! For Papa's happiness, Mamma had said; and Addie believed that that was how she meant it.
Apart from this, there had been no names mentioned; but Addie knew that both Mamma and Papa, that afternoon, had thought—as he was thinking now—had thought, behind their spoken words, of Marianne. And now jealousy—that heritage from both his parents—sprang up in the boy's breast, jealousy no longer vague and formless. He felt it with a keener pang because Papa, at this moment, cared more for Marianne than for him. He felt too, for the first time, that, though he did not mean to, he loved his father better than his mother: his father who was like a child, who was himself a boy, a brother, a friend to him, something more than a father almost. In their brotherly comradeship, they had seemed gradually to lose sight of the difference in age, of filial respect; and in Addie's love for his father there was an element—not yet fully developed, but slowly gathering strength—of protection almost, a feeling that he was perhaps not yet the stronger, but that he would become so when he was a little older. It was a strange feeling, but it had always come natural to him, that way of looking upon his father as a younger brother to be loved and protected.
It was perhaps all for nothing, useless, he thought, and worthless. It was Marianne that Papa cared for now. And he remembered how he had sometimes thought that Papa was so young that one could imagine him with a very young wife, a young girl like Addie's cousins, a girl like . . . Marianne.
So it was to happen . . . Papa and Mamma . . . would separate . . . and . . .
He felt the sadness of it all . . . and his heart was very heavy . . . and his lips became still more compressed because he did not want to cry. He wanted to stand firm against the cruelties of life; and, if Papa could do without him, if Mamma also thought it better so, if perhaps it was also better for Mamma and would make her happier, why, then it was all right and he could bear it with strength and fortitude. He was a child, a boy; but he felt vaguely that soon the world would open before him. He must forget everything therefore: everything about his parents, their ill-assorted lives, in which he had been the only comfort and consolation. No, it would all be different in future; and, if nothing else could be done, well then, it must be like that. When Papa, later on, was tired or in the blues or anything, he would not lay his head on Addie's knees, just like a little brother, and go to sleep: Marianne would comfort him instead.
Addie tried to suppress that feeling of jealousy, but it kept on shooting through him, like a painful, smarting sting . . . But suddenly, in the dark room, in the silent house—the servant was no longer singing—Van der Welcke woke, drew himself up, rubbed his neck, which was stiff with lying down.
"Well, you've had a good long nap!" said Addie, making his voice sound rough.
There was nothing in that voice and in the boyish phrase to suggest the jealousy, the melancholy and the great sorrow that was weighing down his childish soul.
Van der Welcke seemed to be waking up to life and reality after his vain attempt to lose himself in that mad devouring of distance. He remembered his conversation with his wife, in which she had been so unusually gentle, so indulgent, showing such self-effacement and self-sacrifice . . . so much indeed that he had had to kiss her in spite of himself.
"I have been speaking to Mamma," said he.
But he was silent again, could get no further.
"So have I," said Addie, to make it easier for him.
But he also did not know what to say; and they remained sitting side by side in the dark dining-room, both staring at the shaft of yellow light that streamed across the garden from the villa at the back. Each now knew, however, that the other knew; and Addie threw his arm over his father's shoulder, almost protectingly.
"It is an idea of Mamma's, Addie . . . that it would be better . . ."
"For both of you."
"For me, Mamma thought."
"And for her too."
"And you, my boy, what would you think . . . if it did come to that . . . at last? . . ."
"If you both consider . . . calmly and dispassionately . . . that it would be a good thing . . ."
"And you, you would spend a part of the year with Mamma and a part with me . . ."
"Yes, of course."
"You're taking it very coolly, Addie."
"Dad, what else is there to do? If it's better like that . . . for the two of you . . . I'm bound to think it all right."
"If you can talk like that, it's because you're not so fond of us . . ."
"No, I'm just as fond of you: of Mamma, Dad, and of you. But, if it's got to be, it's got to be . . ."
"It's strange, Addie, how everything suddenly, one fine day, seems likely to become different . . ."
"Mamma saw it like that . . ."
"Yes. Mamma has changed lately, don't you think?"
"Mamma has become rather gentler, not so quick-tempered."
"Yes, not so quick-tempered."
"That's all . . ."
"Yes, that's all. Tell me, Addie, tell me honestly: do people, as far as you know, still . . . talk about us . . . as much as they did?"
"I don't know, Dad. I don't bother about 'people.' I just go to school, you see. But I think . . ."
"Do they talk about Mamma?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
"I never hear anything."
"About me?"
"Yes."
"They talk about me?"
"Yes, they talk about you, Dad."
"What do they say?"
"They talk of you, Dad, and . . ."
"Well?"
"Marianne."
"She is going to Baarn . . . and then we sha'n't see each other any more. People are always ready to jabber . . . because I've gone cycling and motoring . . . with Marianne."
It was as though he were confessing and denying in the same breath.
"Addie," he continued, "I cycled a great way to-day."
"Yes, Dad."
"I can always think best when I'm cycling like mad."
"Yes, Dad, I know."
"When I'm scorching along the roads, like a lunatic, I can think. At any other time, I can't."
"Yes."
"And I thought a great deal to-day, Addie. As a rule, I never think about anything. It tired me to-day even more than the cycling itself. I'm tremendously tired."
"Well, Dad, go to bed."
"No, I want to talk to you. I want to sit with you like this. You're my friend, aren't you, your father's friend? Or aren't you that any longer?"
"Of course I am."
"You're so cold, Addie, you don't care a bit."
"Yes, Dad, I do care."
And he pulled Van der Welcke to him and pressed his father's head against his chest:
"Lie like that now and talk away. I do care."
"I thought a great deal, Addie, cycling. This morning, I was angry, furious, desperate. I could have done something violent, broken something, murdered somebody."
"Come, come! . . ."
"Yes, murdered . . . I don't know whom . . . I felt, Addie, that I could have become very happy if . ."
"Yes, Dad, I know . . ."
"You know?"
"Yes."
"You understand?"
"Yes, I understand."
"When I came home, I was tired and mad with misery. Mamma came upstairs and talked to me. She told me that Van Vreeswijck . . . had asked her to go to the Bezuidenhout and speak to Aunt Bertha . . . and to Marianne, because Van Vreeswijck . . . do you understand?"
"Yes, Dad."
"Mamma went. I was furious when I heard that she had been. But she said that Marianne refused . . ."
"Marianne refused him?"
"Yes. Then . . . then Mamma said . . . then she asked . . . if it wouldn't be better that we—she and I—do you understand?"
"Yes, Dad."
"She said it in a very nice way. She said it gently, not at all angrily. It was nice of her to think of it, you know, Addie."
"Yes, Dad, she is nice."
"Well, old chap, then . . . then I gave her a kiss . . . because she was so nice about it and said it so kindly. And then . . . then I went cycling again."
"Yes."
"I can think best when I'm cycling. I rode and rode. Meanwhile, I was thinking, would it be a good thing? . . . My boy, you are more than my son, aren't you: you're my friend?"
"Yes."
"All the time, I was thinking . . . of Marianne. I am fond of her, Addie."
"Yes, Father."
"I tried to imagine it . . . I know . . . that she is fond of me, Addie."
"Yes."
"I tried to picture it . . . And then, Addie . . . then I thought myself old. Tell me, I am old, don't you think?"
"You are not old, Father."
"No, perhaps not . . . Still, Addie, I don't know, I really don't know . . . Then, Addie, I thought . . ."
"Of what, Dad, of whom?"
"I went on riding, like a madman. That's how I think best. Then I thought of . . . you."
"Of me?"
"Yes, of you. . . . Tell me, my boy, if we did that . . . if everything was changed . . . wouldn't you be unhappy?"
"If it was for the happiness of both of you, no. Then I should not be unhappy."
"Yes, so you say. But you would have to be unhappy . . . inside. If you still love us both. I thought it all out till I was dog-tired. For I never think as a rule. Thinking bores me. This time, I had to . . . because Mamma had spoken as she did. Yes, you are bound to be unhappy . . . if you still care . . . for both of us."
"I tell you again, Dad . . ."
"Yes, I know. But I, Addie, I should be unhappy . . . afterwards, when it had once happened . . . I should be unhappy . . . because of you."
"Because of me?"
"Because of you. You would no longer have a home."
"I should have two homes."
"No, no, you would have none. You would go wandering to and fro between your parents. True, you will soon be a man. You will soon be leaving your parents. But I do feel now that you would have no home and that you would have a father and a mother . . . but no parents. Do you follow me? No parents. Even though they quarrel, you have parents now. Perhaps, in a few years, you won't care about them . . . and about their home. But just now, Addie, just for the present, you would be losing a great deal . . . You see, old chap, your father has thought it all out . . . and I frankly confess, it's made me dog-tired. I'm resting now, while I tell it you like this, leaning up against you."
"Yes, Dad."
"My boy, my own boy! . . . Well, you see, when your father had got so far . . . then he felt . . ."
"What?"
"That he cared more for you . . . than for Marianne, poor darling. Differently, you know, but more. Much more. Poor darling!"
A passion of joy swept through the lad; his chest, on which his father's head lay, heaved. But he felt that it was wicked to have that joy:
"Dad, once more, if it means your happiness . . ."
"No, old chap . . . for there would be something severed in me, something broken: I don't know how to put it. I should miss you all the time that you were not with me. I couldn't do it, Addie. It's an impossibility, Addie . . . You know, old chap, I oughtn't to talk like this to a son of fifteen. Fifteen? No, you're only fourteen. Well, you look sixteen. But that's nothing to do with it. I oughtn't to talk like this. I'm a queer father, eh, Addie? I don't give you a proper upbringing: I just let you go your own way. Lord, old chap, I can't do it, I can't give you a proper upbringing! I shouldn't know how. You'll bring yourself up, won't you? You're sure to be good and clever and honourable and all the rest of it. I don't know how, you see: I just let you run wild, like a colt in a meadow. Well, you promise me to turn out all right, don't you? To do nothing mean and so on? You know, if Grandpapa were to hear all this, were to hear me talking like this, he would think it very odd. And it is odd. It's not right. But your father, Addie, is like that: he's hopeless, quite hopeless. So now you know all about it. I couldn't do it . . . Poor Marianne, poor darling! But she's young still; she'll have her happiness one day, a different happiness. . . . Well, Addie, tell Mamma to-morrow. Tell her I would rather, if Mamma agrees, leave everything as it is, old chap, even though it's not always a paradise, that I'd rather leave everything as it is, old chap, for your sake . . . and also for my own: I could never do without you for six months. You may be going away quite soon: Leiden . . . and then your service . . . but, for the present . . . for the present . . . Will you tell Mamma to-morrow? Those serious conversations make me feel so tired . . . in my head. I would rather cycle for a week on end without stopping than spend one day thinking as I have done to-day . . . And now I'm going to bed, old chap, for I'm dead tired . . ."
He caught his son in his arms, held him closely, kissed him and went away abruptly. The boy remained alone in the dark room. The yellow shaft of light from the other villa died away. The house was quite silent; the servants had gone to bed. And the boy stayed on, knowing all the time that his parents upstairs, in their own rooms, were still separated, in spite of so much that might have united them; he sat there, still and silent, staring out into the hot summer night, through which the trees loomed like ghostly giants, sombre and oppressive . . .
Yet his soul was flooded with a great joy: his father loved him best!