It was snowing heavily. For days the great snowflakes had been falling over the small town out of an infinite sky-land, out of infinite sky-plains of infinite snow. And, after all the gloom of the dark days that had been, the days under the grey skies of storm and rain, it was now snowing whiter and whiter out of a denser greyness of sky-plains and sky-land, flakes falling upon flakes in a soft white shroud of oblivion that enveloped houses and people. And, in that ever-falling snow from the great, grey infinity above the small town and the small people, the town seemed still smaller, with the outline of its houses now scarcely defined against the all-effacing oblivion, which fell and fell without ceasing, and the people also seemed still smaller, as they moved about the town or looked through the windows of their small houses at the white flakes descending from the grey infinity overhead.
For old Mrs. van Lowe the white days dragged on monotonously from Sunday to Sunday: only the Sunday gave her a glimpse of light; but the other days had become so white and blank, so white and blank in their twilight emptiness. Even though the children called to see her regularly, she no longer knew that they had been. It was only on Sundays that she missed them: when she did not see all of those whom she still carried in her mind gathered in her large rooms, rooms which not the largest fires now seemed able to warm, a mournful reproach swelled up in her heart; and her head nodded in sad understanding and protest against the sorrows of old age. . . .
"But here is Ernst, Mamma, coming again as he used to," said Constance, leading Ernst by the hand to her mother.
He now came up once a week from Nunspeet, for the day, in order to reaccustom himself to all the familiar things at the Hague, to the houses and the people; and, though still a little shy, as usual, he had lost all his nervous restlessness and become quite calm.
"Ernst?" asked Mamma.
"Yes, Mamma, he is coming again as he used to."
"Has he been long away?"
"Yes, Mamma."
Light seemed to break upon the old woman and she smiled, becoming younger in her smile, now that she remembered. She took her son's hands and looked at Constance with unclouded eyes:
"Is he better now?"
"Yes, Mamma," said Constance.
"Are you better now, Ernst?"
"Yes, Mamma, I am much better."
She looked very glad, as though a flood of light were shining around her:
"Don't you hear . . . any of those . . . of those strange things?"
"No, Mamma," he answered, smiling gently.
"And don't you see . . . don't you see any . . . of those strange things?"
"No, Mamma."
"That's good."
She said it with grateful, shining eyes, the flood of light making everything very clear.
"I have been very strange, I believe," Ernst admitted, softly and shyly.
"That's all cured now, Ernst," said Constance.
"But Aunt Lot?" asked Mamma. "What's become of her . . . and the girls?"
"They've gone to Java, Mamma."
"To Java? . . ."
"Yes, don't you remember? They came and said good-bye last week. They'll be back in twelve months. . . . Don't you remember? They thought they could live more cheaply in India. . . ."
"Yes, yes, I remember," said the old woman. "India . . . I wish I could go there myself. . . ."
She felt as if she must go there to have warmth in and around her. And yet . . . Ernst was back; and at the card-tables were Karel and Cateau; Adolphine and her little tribe; Otto and Frances were there; Van der Welcke, Dorine and Paul, Addie. . . ."
"There are a good many, after all," she said to Constance. "There are a great many. . . . But I miss . . . I miss . . ."
"Whom, Mamma?"
"I miss my big lad . . . I miss Gerrit. Where is Gerrit?"
"He hasn't been very well lately, Mamma. I don't think he'll come."
"He's ill again. . . ."
"Not ill, but . . ."
"Yes, he is, he's ill. . . . He's very seriously ill. . . . Constance . . ."
"What is it, Mamma?"
"You're the only one to whom I dare say it. . . . Constance, Gerrit is very . . . very ill. . . . Hush . . . he's . . . he's dead! . . ."
"No, Mamma, he's not dead."
"He is dead."
"No, Mamma."
"Yes, child. . . . Look, don't you see, in the other room? . . ."
"What, Mamma?"
"That he's dead."
"No."
"What do you see in the other room then?"
"Nothing, Mamma. I see the two card-tables and Karel and Adolphine and Adolphine's two girls playing cards."
"And that light . . . ."
"What light?"
"All that light: don't you see it?"
"No, Mamma."
"He's lying there . . . on the floor."
"No, no, Mamma."
"Be quiet, child . . . I can see it plainly! . . . There, now it's gone! . . ."
"Mamma darling!"
"Constance . . ."
"Yes, Mamma? . . ."
"Go . . . go to Gerrit's house. . . ."
"Do you want me to go to him?"
"No, no, stay here. . . . Constance . . ."
"Yes, Mamma? . . ."
"Send your husband . . . or your son."
"Are you feeling anxious?"
"Anxious? . . . No. But send your husband. . . . or your son. . . . Send Addie. . . . If you send Addie . . . that'll be best."
"Would you like him just to go . . . and find out for you how Gerrit is?"
"Yes, yes."
"What's the matter with Mamma?" asked Van der Welcke.
"Isn't Mamma well?" asked Adolphine, at the card-table.
"Mamma is very restless and excited," said Van Saetzema. "Hadn't we better send for the doctor? . . ."
"The doctor?" they repeated, irresolutely.
"Addie," asked Dorine, "are you going to the doctor's?"
"No, I'm going to Uncle Gerrit's. Granny is uneasy. She wants to know how he is."
"Constance," whispered the old woman, with strangely luminous eyes, "it's better that you should go too."
"Addie's gone now, Mamma."
"You go too . . . with your husband. You and your husband go too. . . . Tell the others that I am tired. Let them go away . . . now . . . soon. Tell the others that I am tired, dear. And tell them . . . tell them . . ."
"Tell them what, Mamma?"
"That I am too tired to . . ."
"Yes?"
"On Sundays . . ."
"To have us here on Sundays, Mamma?"
"No, dear, no, don't say it. . . . Don't say that! . . . But tell them that this evening . . ."
"This evening?"
"Is the last time . . ."
"The last evening?"
"No, dear, no, not the last. . . . Just tell them to go away, dear . . . and you go with your husband. . . . Has Addie gone? But you go now . . . you go also . . . to Gerrit's house. . . . And then come back here again. . . . I want to see you . . . all three of you . . . here again. . . . Do you understand? . . . All three of you . . . do you understand?"
"Yes, Mamma."
"Go now . . . go. . . ."
They went; and the children took their leave.
Outside, it was snowing great flakes. The snowflakes had been falling all through the night over the small town out of an infinite land of death, out of infinite sky-plains of infinite death. And, after all the gloom of the dark nights that had been, the nights under the grey skies of storm and rain, it had snowed whiter and whiter out of the dense greyness of sky-plains and skyland, flakes falling upon flakes in a soft white shroud of oblivion that enveloped houses and people. . . .