She came to herself with a start and did not know whether she had been unconscious or asleep. At the same moment, she heard the bell and through the curtain she saw Brauws, standing outside the door.
"It is he, it is he!" an exultant voice cried inside her.
But at the same time she felt too nervous and overwrought to receive him, just ordinarily and naturally. She stopped Truitje in the hall, said that she had a headache and the girl must say not at home; and she fled to her bedroom and locked herself in.
"It was he, it was he!" the voice still sang, almost sorrowfully.
But she could not have talked ordinarily and naturally . . . Suddenly she did what she had not yet done that day: she thought of herself. If they were to separate, Henri and she, then she herself would be free! . . . Free! A violent longing surged up in her to see Brauws, to speak to him, to say just one word to him, to ask his advice, to abandon herself, as it were, to that advice! . . . At this moment, for the first time, the thought occurred to her that he must love her too. Would he come so often, if not? Would he speak as he did, reveal himself so completely, otherwise? Would he otherwise . . . she did not know what; but, as she recalled him since he returned from Switzerland, she felt, indeed she was certain that his whole being was permeated with love for her . . . a love that was strangely akin to regret, but still love . . . Was her love regret? No . . . Was her love hope? No, not hope either . . . Her love, hers, was only life, had hitherto been only life: the lives which another woman lives from her eighteenth year onwards she had as it were hastened to live now, late as it was. Oh, to live right on from those first young girlish dreams which had danced along radiant paths towards the high clouds above her . . . while all the time her incredulous little laugh had tempered their eager joy! . . . But now, since she had spoken to Van der Welcke, now, suddenly, since she had awakened from her sleep or her swoon after that breath of pure ether, that perfect sincerity, now she felt that her love was not only just existence, just life—the real existence, the real life—but that the most human emotions were suddenly passing through her soul; that she herself regretted what might have been; that she herself hoped—O Heaven!—for what might yet be. It was suddenly as though all her past had fallen from her and as though she saw a number of new paths winding towards new years, towards the wide fields of the future, nothing but the future. It was as though this new inner life of thinking and feeling, this new life of her soul, were also about to begin a new actual life, a life of fresh seasons, which lay spread before her broad and generous as summer and towards which she would fly in joyous haste, because it was already so late . . . but not yet too late, not yet too late . . .
She thought of herself, for the first time that day; and a violent emotion throbbed within her, almost taking away her breath. Henri would be back presently: would he tell her that that was best, that they would separate, with still something of affection and gratitude for each other, heedless of people and of everything that made up their world, because they were at last entitled to their own happiness, to the happiness of their own souls and to the happiness of those who loved them really? They would shake from them all that had been falsehood during all those long, long years; and they would now be true, honest with themselves and with every one; and they would be happy . . . It was as if these dreams were already lifting her up out of the ring of falsehood, the ring of small people, small souls. Sitting there in her chair, she hid her face in her hands, compressed her closed eyes until, in their blindness, they saw all the colours of the rainbow flashing before them . . . so as not to see her room, so as to see nothing but her dreams. . . .
"Mamma! . . ."
She started: it was Addie come home. And the start which she gave was a violent one, for she had forgotten him; and a quick compunction shot through those last flashes. She had forgotten him; and yet time after time she had said to herself that she must speak to him as if he were a man.
She now called to him to come in, for he always looked in on her when he returned from school in the afternoon. And, when she saw him, she felt as if she were waking from a dream. Still the violent emotion continued to throb in her; and she felt that she could not be silent. She began, at once:
"Addie, I have been talking to Papa."
It was impossible for her to go on. Not until he sat down beside her, took her hand in his, did she continue, with difficulty:
"Addie, would it make you very unhappy . . . if . . ."
"If what, Mamma?"
"If we, Papa and I . . . quite quietly, Addie . . . without any bitterness . . . were to separate?"
He started inwardly, but remained outwardly calm. He knew the struggle that was going on in both of them. Had he not constantly heard his father's name mixed up with Marianne's? Did he not know and had not he—he alone, within himself, without even letting his mother notice it—had he not guessed the real reason why Mamma had had a different expression, a different voice, a different step during the last few months? Did he not feel what prompted her to go for long, long walks—sometimes with him, sometimes alone—over the dunes, towards the sea? . . . Though he did not know her new life, he had guessed her love . . .
There was a buzzing in his ears as she talked, as she explained to him how it would be better like that, for Papa, and how they both loved him, their child. She mentioned no names, neither Marianne's nor Brauws'. He remained quiet; and she did not see what was passing within him, not even when he said:
"If you think . . . if Papa is of opinion . . . that it will be better so, Mamma . . ."
She went on speaking, while her heart throbbed violently with the force of her emotion. She spoke of honesty and sincerity . . . of happiness for Papa . . . perhaps. A curious shyness made her shrink from speaking of herself. He hardly heard her words. But he understood her: he understood what she actually wanted, the future which she wished to bring about and compel. But a passion of melancholy overwhelmed him and his heart was weighed down with grief. He heard her speak of her life—his father's and hers—as a chain, a yoke, a lie. He felt dimly that she perhaps was right; and the light of those glowing dreams of hers made something shine vaguely before his childish eyes. But he found in it only sadness; and his heart was still heavy with grief. He was their child; and it seemed as though something in his soul would be rent asunder if they separated, even though their life together was a lie, a chain, a yoke. He tried to weigh those words, to sound their depths, to feel them. But it was only his sadness that he measured, only the depth of his own sorrow. If they were to separate, his parents whom he loved so well, both of them, each of them, whom he had learnt to love so well just perhaps because they did not love each other, then his love, so it suddenly appeared to him, was something which they could both do without, something of no value, to either of them. That was how he felt it, though he could not have put it into words; and he felt it even more profoundly than any words could have expressed . . . But she noticed nothing in him. It was not the first time that he had felt the cruelty of life, even towards a child, a boy; and it was not his nature to show weakness. That other time, after his childish soul had suffered so grievously, when he had doubted whether he was his father's son, he had resolved to triumph over life's cruelties and not to show anything and to be strong. Now the moment seemed to have come. He remembered his first great trouble, he remembered his resolve: the resolve to be always strong after that first childish weakness; and he was able to repeat, calmly:
"If you think . . . that it will be better for both of you, Mamma . . . then it is not for me to object . . ."
She thought him almost cold; but he kissed her, said that he, whatever happened, would remain the child and the son of both of them, that he would love them both, equally . . .
But, because of that coldness, the shadow of a doubt suddenly crossed her mind; and it seemed as though her dreams grew dark and cloudy . . .
"Addie," she asked again, "tell me frankly, tell me honestly that I am right, that it will be a good thing . . . for Papa . . ."
"And for you? . . ."
"And for me," she echoed; and he saw her blush. "Or . . . or, Addie, my boy, my darling, is . . . is it all too late? Is it too late . . . for Papa's happiness?"
"And for yours too, you mean . . . Too late? Why should it be too late?"
She looked at him, thought him hard, but guessed that he was suffering more than he was willing to admit . . .
"I thought first . . . of Papa's happiness, Addie," she said, softly. "Because Papa has never been happy with me . . . with me who took everything from him and gave him nothing in return, I thought first of all . . . of Papa's happiness and afterwards . . . afterwards . . ."
"Afterwards . . . ?"
"Yes, Addie, then I thought . . . of my own! But perhaps it is not all as I picture it, Addie . . . and perhaps it is all too late . . ."
Then he took her in his arms; and she felt his young, sturdy, boyish body against hers, felt it all at once, as a pillar of strength.
"Too late? Why should it be, Mamma? Let us first hear what Papa thinks. Too late? No, Mamma. If you see it in this light for the first time now, why . . . why should it be too late?"
She threw her arms round his neck and laid her head on his shoulder:
"I don't know, dear. I thought . . . I thought that it would be a good thing . . . for everybody . . . for all of us . . . Perhaps I am wrong. I can't tell . . . I am tired, dear. Leave me here by myself. Have your dinner with Papa: I don't want any dinner, I am tired, I sha'n't come down . . . Hark, there's Papa coming in. Go and tell him that I am tired. Go now, go at once. . . . I can't say: perhaps it is not as I thought, Addie, and perhaps . . . perhaps it is all . . . too late!"
She saw his eyes grow softer, full of pity; he pressed her to him.
"Addie!" she suddenly implored. "Whatever I may lose, never, never let me lose you! For all the rest is perhaps illusion . . . and all too late, too late . . . But you . . . you are real, you exist!"
She held him, clung to his strong shoulders; and he saw her very pale, anxious-eyed:
"Mamma . . ."
"No, leave me now, my boy . . . leave me alone . . . and go to Papa . . ."
He kissed her once more and went away.
She stayed behind, looked at herself in the glass. She saw herself, after all this emotion, saw her pale face, her grey hair:
"I don't know," she murmured. "Oh, to live really, I must not . . . I must not think of myself! . . . For me . . . it is all too late! If it has to be so, if we separate, it must be only . . . only for him, for Henri . . . and for . . . and for Marianne!"
She sank into her chair, covered her face, kept her eyes tightly closed; but their blindness no longer saw the rainbow-colours flashing before them . . .