Addie remained in the drawing-room for only a second:
"I'll go and keep Papa company for a bit," he said.
And he went and looked up his father in his room, where Van der Welcke always smoked his three or four cigarettes after dinner, alone.
"Daddy, am I disturbing you?"
"Disturbing me, my dear fellow? Do you imagine that you ever disturb me? No, you never disturb me. . . . At least, I can count the times when you have disturbed me."
"But I've come to disturb you this time. . . ."
"Well, that's a bit of luck."
"And have a talk with you."
"Good. That doesn't happen often."
Addie knitted his brows, which gave him an expression of sadness:
"Don't be satirical, Father. How can I help it?"
"I'm not being satirical, my dear boy. I accept the inevitable. I've been accepting it now for five days. After dinner I would come up here quietly and smoke my cigarettes in utter resignation. Of those five days, two have been windy and three have been stormy. And I sat here calmly and listened to it all."
"And . . .?"
"And . . . that's all. Life's an insipid business; and the older I grow the more insipid I find it. I don't philosophize about it very much. I never did, you know. . . . But I do sometimes think, nowadays, what a rotten thing life is, with all its changes. At least, I should have been glad to let it remain as it was. . . ."
"How, Daddy?"
"As it used to be when you were a small boy. I have gradually come to lose you entirely . . . and I have so little, apart from you."
"Oh, nonsense!"
"Yes, I have gradually come to lose you entirely. . . . In the old days, when you were a schoolboy . . . then you belonged to me. Then came your time at college: that took a bit of you from me. Your eighteen months in the hospitals at Amsterdam: I never saw you. Your year, after that, in Vienna: I never saw you. I was lucky if I got a letter now and again. Then you came back, took your degree. And then . . . then you went and got married."
"And we have always remained with you."
"And every year I lost a bit more of you. You no longer belong to me. There was a time when I used to share you with Mamma; and you remember that I used to find that pretty hard occasionally. But now I share you . . . with all the world."
"Not with all the world, Daddy."
"Well, with half the world then. With your wife, with Aunt Adeline and your nine adopted children, with all your outside interests."
"Those are my patients."
"You have a great many of them . . . for a young doctor. And . . ."
"Well, Daddy?"
"Nothing, old boy. I only wanted to give you a piece of advice; but who am I to advise you?"
"Why not, Daddy?"
"I don't count."
"Now then!"
"I never have counted. You used to manage me; and I just did what you told me to."
"Give me your advice now. Haven't we always been pals?"
"Yes, but you were the one with the head."
"There's not much head about me just now. Give me your advice, Daddy."
"You won't take it from me."
"Out with it, all the same!"
"Well, my boy, listen to me: keep something of your life for yourself."
"What do you mean?"
"You're giving it all away. I don't believe it can be done. I believe a man to stand as much in need of a healthy egoism as of bread and water."
"I should say that I was egoist enough."
"No, you're not. You keep nothing for yourself. You'll think it funny of me that I should talk to you like this; but, you see, the older I grow and the more cigarettes I smoke the more I notice that . . ."
"That what?"
"That both your parents have never—considering your character—taken your own happiness into account: Mamma no more than I."
"I don't agree with you."
"It is so, all the same. The years which you spent as a child between your two parents made you an altruist and made your altruism run away with you."
Addie smiled and gazed at his father.
"Well? What are you looking at me for?"
"I'm looking at you, Father . . . because I'm amused to see you so utterly wide of the mark."
"Why?"
"I may have had a touch of altruism in me, but of late years . . ."
"What?"
"I have thought a great deal of myself. When I got married . . . I was seeking my own happiness. I wanted to find happiness for myself in my wife and children, for my own self . . . and hang the rest!"
"Ah, was that your idea? Well, it was a healthy idea too."
"A healthy idea, wasn't it? So you were wide of the mark, Daddy. I wanted a wife who belonged to me, children who belonged to me: all forming one great happiness for myself."
Van der Welcke wreathed himself in clouds of smoke.
"So you see, Daddy, the advice which you gave me I followed of my own accord."
"Yes, old boy, I see."
"That's so, isn't it?"
"Yes. Well, that's all right, then."
"I'm glad to have had a talk with you. But now I must talk not about myself but about something else."
"Of course. You can never talk for more than two seconds about yourself. However, you're right, I know now; and you had already followed my advice . . . of your own accord. What else did you want to talk about?"
"Daddy, I've been to Amsterdam."
"For Alex. Well, is that settled . . . about the Merchants' School?"
"Yes, he can go up for his examination. But afterwards . . ."
"Well?"
"I went to Haarlem. Near Haarlem."
"What took you there?"
"Someone sent for me."
"A patient?"
"A dying man."
"Who?"
Suddenly, from the look in Addie's face, Van der Welcke understood. He went very pale, rose from his chair and stared in consternation into his son's sad eyes:
"Addie!" he exclaimed, in a hoarse voice. "Addie, tell me what you mean! I had no idea . . . that you knew anyone near Haarlem! I didn't know . . . that you had a patient there!"
He seemed to be trying to deceive himself with his own words, for he already understood. And Addie knew by his father's eyes and his father's voice that he understood; and, speaking slowly, in a gentle voice, Addie explained, as though the name had already been mentioned between them:
"Six days ago . . . I received a letter . . . written in his own hand, a clear, firm hand. . . . The letter was quite short: here it is."
He felt for his pocket-book, took out the letter and handed it to his father. Van der Welcke read:
"Dear Sir,
"Though I have not the pleasure of your personal acquaintance, I should consider it a great privilege if I might see you and speak to you here at an early date. I hope that you will not refuse the request of a very old man, whose days are drawing to an end.
"Yours sincerely,
Addie rose, for his father was shaking all over; the letter was fluttering in his fingers.
"Daddy, pull yourself together."
"Addie, Addie, tell me, did you see him?"
"Yes, I saw him. I was with him twice."
"And . . . and is he dying?"
"He's dead. He died this morning."
"He's dead?"
"Yes, Daddy, he's dead."
"Did you . . . did you speak to him?"
"Yes . . . I spoke to him. He was very clear in his head: a clear-headed old man, for all his ninety-two years. When I arrived, he pressed my hand very kindly and nicely, made me sit beside his chair. He was sitting up, in his chair. That's how he died, in his chair, passing away very peacefully. He told me that he had wanted to see me . . . because I was the son . . . of my mother. . . . He asked after Mamma and made me describe how you two had lived . . . at Brussels. I told him about my childhood. I told him of my later life. He took a strange interest in everything . . . and then . . . then he asked after you, how you had been, how you were . . . asked if I was attached to my parents . . . asked after my prospects . . . asked after my aims in life. . . . I was afraid of tiring him and tried to get up, but he put out his hand and made me sit down again: 'Go on, go on telling me things,' he said. I told him about the Hague, told him how we were now living at Driebergen. He knew that Uncle Gerrit's children were here. He seemed to have heard about us. . . . When I went away, he said, 'Doctor, may the old man give you something?' And he handed me three thousand guilders: 'You must have patients, Doctor, who can't afford things,' he said. 'You won't refuse it, will you?' I thought it right to accept the money. It was an obvious pleasure to him to give it me. . . . Next day—that was this morning, when I went again—he was much less lucid. He just mentioned Mamma; and, when he spoke of her, I could see that he imagined that she was still quite young. Still he understood that I was her son. . . . Then he gave me his hand and said, 'I am glad, Doctor, to have seen you. . . . Give my regards to your mother . . . the old man's regards . . . and to your father too.' Then I went away; and, when I called again in an hour to enquire, the butler told me . . . that he was dead. . . ."
Van der Welcke sat in his chair, motionless and bent, with his hands hanging between his knees. He stared in front of him and did not speak. The past, the times of bygone days rose tempestuously before his eyes. It was as though that which had once existed never perished, as though nothing could ever change in what had once begun. . . . Life slid on unbrokenly. . . . His eyes saw Rome, an old palace, a lofty room . . . Constance fleeing down a back stair, himself standing like a thief in the presence of the old man . . . the good old man, who had been like a father to him. . . . Now . . . now the old man was dead. . . . And Addie had been at his death-bed! And Van der Welcke's son was bringing the dying man's message, his last message, his forgiveness! . . .
Van der Welcke stared and continued to stare, motionless; and a sob welled up in his breast. His eyes, which were like a child's with their ever youthful glance, filled with great tears. Nevertheless, he controlled himself, remained calm; and all that he said, quite calmly, was:
"Addie, does Mamma . . . know?"
"No, Daddy. . . . I wanted to tell you first . . . and to bring you . . . the old man's message and . . ."
'Yes?"
"His forgiveness. . . ."
Van der Welcke's head drooped lower still; and the great tears fell to the floor. Addie now rose and went up to his father:
"Daddy . . ."
"My boy . . . my boy!"
"The old man sent you this message: 'Tell your father . . . that I forgive him . . . and tell your mother so . . . too. . . . '"
Addie flung his arm round his father's neck; and Van der Welcke now sobbed on his son's breast. He could restrain himself no longer. He gave one great, loud sob, clutching hold of his own son, like a child. . . . Had it not always been like that, the child the consoler of his father? The son now his mother's consoler?
The emotion lasted but a moment, because of the calmness of older years; but it was a moment full as the whole soul and the whole life of a small being. The older man felt all his soul, saw all his small life. Was that coming for him: forgiveness? Was it coming to him through his son? Because of his son, perhaps . . . mysteriously, for some mysterious law and mystic reason? . . . He felt it . . . as an enlightening surprise . . . though he merely said, after a pause:
"I'm glad, Addie . . . that you went. And now you must tell . . . Mamma."
"I'll tell her this very evening, Father."
"This evening?"
"Yes, I can't wait any longer. Those last words . . . are lying like a weight . . . on my heart: I must hand them on . . ."
"To Mamma also . . ."
"To feel relieved. . . ."
"Then go to her," said Van der Welcke, very calmly.
And he remained sitting in his chair. His fingers mechanically rolled a fresh cigarette. But in his eyes, which had always remained young, there was seen a faint inflexion, of surprise, as though for the first time they had looked into the deeper life. His son kissed him, gently, went away, closed the door. And Van der Welcke's fingers continued to fumble with a newly-rolled cigarette. He forgot to light it. He stared in front of him. . . .
Outside the house the wind blew moaning along the walls and drew its tapping fingers along every window, as along a vast keyboard. . . .
Forgiveness, the very possibility of it, whirled before his staring eyes. . . .