Constance and Henri returned to the Hague a week after Mrs. van der Welcke's funeral. Constance went straight to her mother.
"Oh, you mustn't leave me alone again so long!" Mrs. van Lowe complained. "I can't do without you for so long. It's so dark, so gloomy when you're not here, my Connie! . . . Yes, yes, they all came to see me regularly. But they are not like you, dear. It seems they no longer understand me. And, when they're gone, I sit here feeling so lonely, so lonely! . . . They're now all bothering me, wanting me to take a companion, or to have Dorine to live with me . . . but I won't have any one here. It's such a trouble. An extra person in the house means such a lot of trouble. I can't see to everything as I used to. I just sit here at my window. . . . So the old lady, down there, is dead? People are dying every day. I can't understand why I need remain. I am no use to anybody now. I just sit here, giving all of you trouble: you all worry about me . . . you all have to come regularly to see how I am. I can't understand why I need go on living. It would be much better if I just died. . . . There is nothing more to come for me. I've no illusions left. Not one. Even your boy, Connie: what an idea, to want to be a doctor! How do we know if he's suited for it? . . . It's a good thing that you're back. I couldn't do without you. . . . Is the old man over there going to remain all alone, in that big house . . . just as I remained all alone here?"
"No, Mamma, he won't be alone. There's a cousin coming to live with him: you know, old Freule[1] van der Welcke. . . ."
"No, I don't remember. I often muddle people and names."
"Cousin Betsy van der Welcke. . . ."
"No, I don't remember. . . ."
"She's coming to live with the old man. We would have liked him to have had a companion to keep house for him . . . because Cousin Betsy herself is so old."
"A companion, a companion: you want everybody to have a companion. So the old man will be all alone. . . ."
"No, Mamma, the old cousin's coming."
"Which old cousin?"
"Cousin Betsy van der Welcke."
"Who?"
"Cousin Betsy, Mamma."
"Oh, yes, Cousin Betsy . . . and a companion? . . ."
"No, not a companion. . . ."
"Well, then he'll be well looked after . . . with Cousin Betsy and a companion. Better than I. I'm here all by myself."
"But that's not right. You must have some one with you."
"No companions for me, thank you!"
"Or Dorine . . ."
"So you're beginning with Dorine too! No, I won't have Dorine. She's too fidgety and restless for me."
"But she's out so much."
"No, she's fidgety and restless. . . . It's not nice of me to say so, dear, but really Dorine is too fidgety and restless, child. . . . Oh, child, if you yourself could come and live with me!"
"But, Mamma, that would never do."
"Yes, with your husband . . . and your boy. . . ."
"No, Mamma, it really wouldn't do."
"Yes, it would, yes, it would . . . with your husband and your boy. . . . Then I would put up with the extra trouble."
"No, Mamma, really, it wouldn't do. Whereas Dorine . . ."
"No, no, I don't want Dorine. I want you."
"Why?"
"I want you. I want Addie. I want youth around me. It's all so gloomy here. Dorine . . . Dorine's gloomy too. . . . So will you come?"
"Mamma . . . really . . ."
"You don't want to. I see you don't want to. . . . You are all of you selfish. . . . Children always are. . . . Oh, why need I go on living?"
"Dear Mamma, do be reasonable. You say you would find Dorine too much trouble . . . and, after all, there are three of us. . . ."
"Yes, three of you. Well?"
"And the rest of the family?"
"What about them?"
"They wouldn't approve."
"It's none of their business to approve or disapprove."
"And my husband . . ."
"Well?"
"My husband . . . no, really, it wouldn't do."
"Yes, I see you don't want to come. . . . You're all selfish alike. . . ."
No, it was not feasible. Constance foresaw all the difficulties: the old woman still always moving aimlessly about the house in the mornings . . . and coming upon a cigarette of Van der Welcke's . . . a book of Addie's lying about . . . a hundred trifles. . . . Adolphine, Cateau, Dorine disapproving, beyond a doubt, that Constance, of all people, should come to live with her mother: Constance, of all people . . . with Van der Welcke. . . . No, it was not feasible . . . because of all those trifles . . . and also because of a strange feeling of delicacy: she did not want to come and live at Mamma's with her husband, with Van der Welcke, long as it was since it had all happened. . . .
"Very well, dear, don't," said the old woman, bitterly; and she nodded her head repeatedly, in sad comprehension of all the disappointments of lonely, melancholy old age. "Yes, yes . . . that's how it is . . . always. . . . And so the old man, down there, is left all alone? . . ."
Constance's heart shrank within her. She saw the old woman's dim eyes look vaguely into her own eyes and she read in the vague glance the uncertain memory of things that had just been said. And, while the eyes gazed dimly, the plaintive voice went on lamenting, with that inward sighing, a broken sound of broken strings, and with a keener note of bitterness through it, so that, with that voice, with that glance, the old woman suddenly aged into the semblance of her old sisters, Auntie Tine, Auntie Rine. . . .
Constance went home through a dismal, heavy rain, hurrying along under the shelter of her umbrella, from which the drops fell in a steady cataract. She could not shake off the gloomy anxiety that haunted her in these days, through which flashed strange premonitions and presentiments; and, since she had been to Driebergen, in response to the old woman's dying summons, she could no longer free herself from this haunting dread, as though it were all a magic web in which she was caught. Oh, what could be threatening, now that the old woman yonder was dead? What sort of change would come looming up, day after day, gloomy day after gloomy day, in her small life, in the small lives around her? . . . For herself, in the late aftermath of life, she had found a tiny grain of true philosophy—small, oh, so small, but very precious!—and she did not think of herself, because she believed that what might still come, in her own life, she would be able to bear philosophically. Sometimes even, at such times, she would think of the worst that could happen to her: if Addie were suddenly to die. In that case, perhaps, in that case alone, the grain would not be sufficient to enable her to bear it with philosophy. . . . But, for the rest . . . for the rest, she was no longer afraid of life. And yet what were these vague terrors which chilled her soul, which enveloped her nowadays in that magic web of anxious speculation concerning the future? Would she be involved or would others? Was it illness . . . money trouble . . . an accident . . . a catastrophe . . . or was it death? . . . Was it to do with Addie . . . or was it to do with her mother? Oh, she wanted to be prepared for anything . . . but what . . . what would it be? And these haunting terrors which gathered around her so menacingly, like a gloomy twilight, with all those ghostly premonitions and presentiments of what was coming, was it because the days themselves were so gloomy, because it was always raining out of fateful skies? Why should there be deeper gloom around her soul in these days than around others, perhaps hundreds and thousands of people? Was it not the reflection of that gloomy winter in and around her and was not that reflection casting its gloom around all the people who were now, like herself, walking under dripping umbrellas or else, like spectres, looking with pallid faces out of their windows at another dark and dreary day? . . . Oh, how vast, how immense it all was and how small were they all! To think that, if the sun happened to shine, she would perhaps think and feel quite differently! To think that possibly she was divining, with a shudder, something of days and things to come and went flying off to distant cloud-lands, to all . . . and that possibly she was divining nothing! . . . How ready people were to play with their emotions, their sensitiveness! How ready they were to delude themselves that they had seen invisible things, that they had foretold the most profound secrets! . . . No, she could foretell nothing, she saw nothing invisible . . . but still, argue as sensibly as she might, a haunting fear oppressed her, a chill shudder ran through her, as though she had brought something of death back with her from Driebergen, as though its shadow continued to follow her, indoors and out of doors. Was it only because it was raining? . . .
Well, she was glad to be at home, to change her wet things, to slip into a tea-gown and warm herself by the fire. Hark to the wind howling round the house and down the lane, the wind that came tearing on from afar that was far, wide and mysterious, wide and mysterious as the heavens, above houses small as boxes, above people as insects small! . . . How mighty was the wind! . . . How often had she not thus listened to the wind, her mighty Dutch wind, as though it would carry all sorts of things to her . . . or, not heeding her smallness, swoop right down upon her! . . . What calamity was there that could happen? Addie brought home unexpectedly: an accident on his bicycle; run over by a motor-car; murdered? Henri telling her that they were ruined; that he would have to work for his bread: he who had never been able to work after his shattered career? The house on fire, at home . . . or at Mamma's? Mamma dying? . . . Oh, what thoughts of shuddering horror they all were and of sombre misfortune and of death, always death! . . . Something happening to one of the brothers or sisters or to their children. For, in spite of everything, she was fond of all of them, they were still her brothers and sisters. Despite all the misunderstanding, the lack of harmony, the ill-feeling, she was fond of all of them, felt herself to be of one blood with them. . . . Oh, how lonely she was! . . . And perhaps, very soon, she would have to be all alone like that, all her life long: without Mamma, dead; without Henri, dead; without Addie, dead! . . .
She stared into the fire and shivered in its ruddy glow, while the shuddering horror gripped her in its sharp clutches. But a bell jangled loudly . . . and she felt a shock of apprehension passing through her; her breath was almost a scream: were they bringing Addie home dead? . . .
Truitje opened the hall-door: thank goodness, she heard his voice. She sank back in her chair; the door of the room opened; and he stood on the threshold, laughing:
"I daren't come in, Mummy, I'm dripping wet. I'll go and change first. Did you ever see such weather?"
She smiled; he shut the door; and—she couldn't help it—she began to sob. When he came down a quarter of an hour later, healthy, vigorous, smiling, he found her in tears:
"What is it, Mummy?"
"I don't know, dear. . . ."
"But why are you crying? Surely there must be something! . . ."
"No, it's nothing. . . . It's nothing . . . I think. . . ."
She leant against him. She told him how the dread horror was clutching at her. She was very much unstrung and she felt as if something was going to happen: a great sorrow, a disaster, an accident, she didn't know what. . . . She poured out her anxious soul to him, nestling in his arms:
"It's too silly, Addie. I must try to be calmer."
She became calmer under his steady gaze. Oh, what delightful eyes he had! As she looked into them, she became calmer:
"Addie . . . your eyes . . ."
"What about them, Mummy?"
"They are growing lighter in colour: they are serious, as always, but they're becoming lighter. . . ."
"What's the matter with my eyes now?"
"They've become grey."
"Oh, nonsense!"
"Yes, they're turning grey, blue-grey. . . ."
He laughed at her a little. She remained with her head on his shoulder, looked into his eyes. She became quite calm, now, gave a last, deep sigh:
"Dear, listen . . . listen to it blowing. . . ."
"Yes, Mamma."
"I'm afraid of the wind sometimes . . ."
"And sometimes you love it."
"Yes."
"You're a very sensitive little Mummy."
"I wonder, Addie, if I'm so strange . . . because of a presentiment. . . ."
"A presentiment?"
"Don't you believe in them?"
"I don't know . . . I never have 'em . . ."
"Are you awfully matter-of-fact, Addie? . . . Or . . ."
"I don't know, Mamma. . . ."
"No, you're not matter-of-fact. . . . It's very strange, but you have a magnetism about you which matter-of-fact people never have. You calm one. When I lean against you, I grow calmer. . . . Listen, listen to it blowing!"
"Yes, it's very stormy. Let's listen to it together, Mamma. Perhaps we shall hear something . . . in the storm."
She looked into his eyes. His eyes were smiling. She did not know if he was serious or joking.
"Yes," she said, nestling closer in his arms, feeling that she still had him, that she had not yet lost him. "Let us listen to the storm . . . and see if we can hear anything . . . in the wind. . . ."
And they remained still, without speaking. The lamps were not lit; only the fire in the open hearth cast its dancing gleams and shadows on the walls. The wind tore on from very far away, out of mysterious cloud-laden skies. It shrieked round the house, rushed past the windows, howled in the chimney, spread its wide wings and flapped on through the clattering rain, leaving its howl like a trail in the air. . . .
By the flickering firelight, playing upon their small souls, they listened attentively. . . . He smiled. . . . Her eyes were wide and staring. . . .
- ↑ The title borne by the unmarried daughters of the Dutch noblemen.