That evening, Constance played bridge, though her head was still very bad. At Mamma van Lowe's request, she had brought Addie with her; and he had joined his boy- and girl-cousins in their round games. Constance was playing with Bertha, Gerrit and Uncle Ruyvenaer.
"Constance," said Bertha, "you mustn't think me unkind for only coming once to see you—and when you were out too—but I am so busy. I have sent you your invitation to-day for the wedding-functions. You'll come, of course, won't you?"
Bertha was the eldest daughter, Mrs. van Naghel van Voorde; her husband was secretary for the colonies; in their house, Constance had at once felt something of her father's house, in the old days: a big family; a circle which took a faint colonial tinge from the presence of the great Indian officials home from Java. Van Naghel had made his career through the protection of his father-in-law, the late viceroy; and their set also just grazed the edge of the diplomatic world and, of course, included a number of the chief officials of the home government as well. Although Constance had been only once, as yet, to their house, in the midst of the bustle of rehearsals for the wedding-theatricals, she at once felt something congenial there, something that was familiar to her, something of her former home: an atmosphere of distinction, of importance, which she had not known for many years past, but to which she yet felt herself drawn through the innate, instinctive vanity which she imagined was dead in her.
Constance was happy, though she still had a headache. Uncle Ruyvenaer was fussy but gay, because he was winning, with Gerrit for his partner. Bertha and Constance, their thoughts both far from the cards, went on talking, played badly. Bertha was almost entirely grey, greyer even than Mamma van Lowe. She had a rather ceremonious face and resembled her father: she had his hard, stiff features, his hard, dark eyes, his thin lips. Her eyes were always blinking, as though she had a difficulty in seeing. And in her manner of talking there was something abstracted, as though she were always thinking of something else. She was well-dressed, simply, in good taste.
"I think it so nice that your house is a sort of replica of our old house, when we were children," said Constance.
"Yes," said Bertha. "What are trumps?"
"You went diamonds yourself," said Gerrit, the cavalry-captain, tall, broad-chested and fair. "Attend to your game, Sis."
"And you have a very busy home, I suppose, Bertha?"
"Yes," said Bertha, "very busy."
And she played the wrong card.
"I have known all that bustle myself," said Constance. "It was like that in Rome, terribly busy: four or five things every day which you couldn't possibly avoid...."
Bertha smiled vaguely; and Constance suddenly felt that she mustn't talk about Rome. She winced: she could not mention De Staffelaer's name, must ignore all that period of importance.... It suddenly upset her nerves, for she had not reflected that, even among her brothers and sisters, she would have to be careful, to exercise tact. She had come to them just because she wanted to be able to let herself go, to be frank and natural; but she felt strongly that Bertha disapproved of her for venturing to refer to Rome. She would have liked to talk about Rome, partly from vanity, to remind her sister, the wife of a minister, who was "in the movement," that she too had known greatness and lived in the midst of it. But she felt that she must be humble, that she was nothing more than Mrs. van der Welcke, the sister who had made a false step in life, who had married her "lover" and who, years after, had been taken into favour by the charity of the family. This was clearly expressed in Bertha's hard, ceremonious Van Lowe face, with the blinking eyes, even though Bertha spoke not a word.
Constance was silent, went on playing; Uncle Ruyvenaer was noisy, cracked his jokes:
"The queen falls," he said, in his fat voice. "One more unfortunate!" he shouted, clamorously.
And, playing his ace, with a wide sweep of his hand he gathered in the trick. Constance went pale; and Bertha blinked her eyes till they closed entirely. But Bertha was too much used to Uncle's astounding vulgarities to be much disturbed by them and she answered her partner's call correctly.
Constance kept her presence of mind, played her cards. She could have burst into one of her nervous fits of sobbing, but she restrained herself, knowing that Uncle was tactless, noisy and common, but that he would never hurt her wilfully. And she was grateful to Gerrit when he came to her assistance:
"What a nice lad that boy of yours is, Constance."
"My Addie? Yes."
"A bit dignified for his years, but otherwise a fine little chap."
"He's always very good to me. We both dote on him."
"You must let him come to us often. Our house is one big nursery; and he'll keep young among that troop of mine."
"Very well, Gerrit, gladly. It's very kind of you."
"What is he going to be?"
"Van der Welcke wants him to go to the university first and then into the diplomatic service."
"Is that his line?"
"I don't know.... He's a little too stiff, perhaps.... But he's so young still."
"Send him to lunch with us on Wednesday; and then he can go for a walk with my crowd."
"Very well, I'll tell him."
"Yes," said Bertha, more cordially, as though waking from a dream. "He's a charming boy, only a little stiff."
"He's still rather strange here."
"He is very polite," said Bertha, "but distant. He has very nice manners, but, when he says, 'How d'ye do, Aunt?' it sounds as if he were talking to a stranger."
"Oh, Bertha, he is meeting such a lot of new uncles and aunts all at once!"
"He is a very nice boy. A handsome little fellow. Is he like his father?"
"Yes," said Constance, grudgingly.
She felt again that the past had cropped up once more. She felt that Bertha was thinking that Van der Welcke was a very good-looking man—she had seen his portrait at Mamma's—and that was why Constance had fallen in love with him.
But Gerrit laughed:
"Why do you say that in such a funny way, Sissy?"
"Did I?"
"One would think that you did not approve of your son's taking after his father!"
Constance was grateful: Gerrit was so easy, so natural; and she laughed:
"What nonsense!"
"Do you think I can't hear? 'Is he like his father?' 'Ye-e-es!' ..."
Of a sudden, she became very sincere, with Gerrit:
"Did I speak like that? Yes, it's silly of me, but I am a little jealous of Van der Welcke, where Addie is concerned. Silly of me, isn't it?"
Bertha looked severe, blinked her eyes. Uncle gathered in trick after trick:
"Game and rubber to us. We'll carry on the stakes, shall we?"
The sandwiches and drinks went round.
"Gerrit," said Constance, as she moved her chair beside his, "you're happy, aren't you, in your house, with your little wife and your children?"
Gerrit looked surprised:
"Why do you ask?"
"I had the impression."
"But why do you ask?"
"Well, aren't you?..."
"Yes, of course, of course. Of course I am, of course I am. Adeline!"
He beckoned to his wife, a plump, fair-haired little doll, a dear, sweet little woman of twenty-eight: she had seven children already, because Gerrit, who had married rather late in life, said that he must make up for lost time and get a whole troop together.
"Constance wants to know if we're happy."
"Silly Constance! Why, of course we are!" said Adeline.
"You have a dear little troop of children."
"Your boy is a darling, too."
They smiled, happy in their offspring. Gerrit, restless, moved his big limbs almost violently:
"Children, that's the one thing in life!" he shouted. "We don't mean to leave off till we have a dozen, do we, Line?"
"Gerrit, you're quite mad!"
"Oh, but I say, Constance, why leave that lad of yours all by himself? It's not good for a child."
"No, Gerrit, it's best as it is. It would not make us any happier to have a lot of children."
"I say, you were indiscreet enough to ask if we were happy; now it's my turn. I don't believe that you and your husband get on so very well together."
"Oh, well, we understand each other! Perhaps not even that! But Addie keeps us together. We both dote on him. Van der Welcke dotes on his boy. So do I. So do I. He is everything, both to him ... and to me...." Her eyes filled with tears. "We are nothing now ... to each other!" She was sitting between Gerrit and Adeline. "I did sowantall of you!" she continued, taking each of them by the hand. "Be nice to me, will you? I am simply pining for affection. My child is all to me, but he is still so young; and I tell him too much as it is.... Heavens, what a life I have had these last few years! No, you were not kind! Why did you never, never once come to me, in Brussels?"
"But, Constance dear," said Gerrit, "if we had only known that you would have liked us to! Remember, you never sent us a line. You only wrote to Mamma; and she did go to see you once or twice. Own up: we had become strangers."
"Let us be friends again, then! Be nice to me! Your dear little wife ... I don't know her.... But you are my sister, too, Adeline, are you not? Be a little fond of me."
"Yes, of course, Constance. And let us see a lot of each other."
"Tell me, Gerrit; what is Bertha like now?"
"Bertha is very nice. Bertha is an exemplary mother, an excellent wife. Bertha has a busy life. They do a great deal of good, they live for their children, they see heaps of people. They are in the upper ten, or, rather, the upper two or three of the Hague. We are not, you know. And we never go to their big dinners; we are not in their set at all."
"I don't even go to Bertha's at-homes," said Adeline.
"And yet we are very good friends. And Bertha is very nice; and, when Adeline is expecting a baby, which is the usual state of affairs with us, Bertha is just like a mother. But she and her husband live in their own circle, which is very big and busy and important and smart and all the rest of it."
"So Adolphine and Van Saetzema...?"
"Oh, you needn't ask: they don't go to their dinners, at-homes, balls, etcetera, either. And that makes Adolphine furious. But we don't care in the least."
"And Aunt and Uncle Ruyvenaer?"
"They go to the at-home days," laughed Adeline, "but not to the dinners. And they have their own little Indian clique, which is very lively, but of course a thing quite by itself."
"Yes," reflected Constance. "A big family like ours necessarily has all sorts of sections...."
"And that is why Mamma is so devoted to her 'family-group,' in which all the different elements meet."
"Sometimes we don't see one another for weeks and months at a time, except on those Sunday evenings...."
"And tell me: Karel and Cateau...."
"Ka-rel and Ca-teau," said Gerrit, mimicking Cateau, "live ve-ry com-fortably and have ve-ry nice little din-ners all by their lit-tle selves,don'tthey, Adel-ine?"
They laughed.
"I was always fond of Karel," said Constance. "Of Karel and you, Gerrit.... Do you remember, in the river, behind the Palace at Buitenzorg...."
He looked at her long, seeking their childish past in her eyes:
"Yes, you were a pretty child then. You used to act all sorts of fairy-tales with us, among those great, spreading leaves: stories of a princess and fairies and knights and I don't know what. You were a darling of a child: such a dainty, pale little elf, in your white cottonbaadjet[9]; and your brothers were in love with you.... But two years later, when I was a boy of sixteen and you fifteen, you suddenly became a stuck-up girl, in a long ball-dress, and you refused to dance with any one except old staff-officers and the secretary-general...."
"And what am I now?" she asked, smiling, with her soul full of sadness.
"The lost sister ... found again."
"Yes, the lost sister, indeed!"
"Come, Sissy, not so gloomy!"
"My life has been hard to bear."
"But you have your boy, your child. Children are everything."
"My life has been nothing but mistake upon mistake. And I am so afraid that I shan't bring up my boy properly."
"Then leave that to your husband!" said Gerrit, man-like.
"Oh, really?" said Adeline. "Is she to leave that to her husband?"
"Yes, Adeline. Just as we do. I the boys, you the girls."
"Oh, really?"
"But, Gerrit, if I leave Addie to Van der Welcke, I shall have nothing left, nothing."
"Then be bolder and have no fear."
"Oh, life is sometimes so difficult!... So, Adeline, Gerrit, you will care a little for your lost sister who has been found again?"
Adeline kissed Constance.
Mamma van Lowe approached, radiant, as always, at the "family-group" which she had brought together.
"Mamma, I am so glad, so happy, to be among you all!" murmured Constance.
The maids entered with the coats and wraps.
[9]A diminutive of kabaai, a native jacket with sleeves.
[9]A diminutive of kabaai, a native jacket with sleeves.
Two days later, Addie went to meet his father at the station.
"Daddy, Daddy!" he shouted, as Van der Welcke stepped from the train.
They embraced; Van der Welcke was much moved, because it was fifteen years since he had been in Holland. Addie helped Papa with his luggage, like a man; and they drove away in a cab.
"My boy, it's ten days since I saw you!"
"What kept you so long, Daddy?"
"Everything's settled now."
"And are we going to hunt for a house?"
"Yes."
He looked at his child with a laugh of delight, threw his arm over Addie's shoulder, drew him to him, full of a strange, oppressive sadness and content, because he was back, in Holland.
They pulled up at the hotel. Constance was waiting for them in her room.
"How are you, Constance?"
"How are you, Henri?"
"I've done everything."
"That's good. Your room is through here."
"Capital."
He rang, ordered coffee.
Her face at once became stiff and drawn. Addie poured out the coffee:
"Here you are, Dad."
"Thank you, my boy. And how do you like your Dutch country, my lad? How do you like all the little cousins?"
"Oh, I haven't seen much of them yet, but I'm going to Uncle Gerrit and Aunt Adeline's on Thursday."
"How many children have they?"
"Seven."
"By Jove! Is Mamma well, Constance?"
"Yes, very well."
"I've ... I've had a letter from Papa," he stammered. "They want us to come and see them soon at Driebergen...."
He was at last bringing her the long-expected reconciliation. She looked at him without a word.
"Here's the letter!" he said, handing it to her.
She read the letter. It was couched in the groping words of an old and old-fashioned man, who wrote seldom; an attempt at forgiving, at forgetting, at welcoming: laboured, but not insincere. The letter ended by saying that Henri's parents hoped soon to see him and Constance and Addie at Driebergen.
Her heart beat:
"So they are condescending to take me into favour!" she thought, bitterly. "Why only now? Why only now? My boy is thirteen; and they have never asked to see their only grandson. They are hard people! Why only now? I don't like them...."
But all she said was:
"It is very kind of your parents."
She had learnt that in Rome, to say one thing and mean another.
"And when do you want to go to Driebergen?" she asked.
"To-morrow."
"We were to have gone to tea, after dinner, at the Van Saetzemas': Adolphine and her husband."
"I am longing to see my father and mother."
"Very well; offend my family for the sake of yours and write and refuse the Van Saetzemas."
"There is no question of offending anybody. I am longing to see my parents; and we must show them that we appreciate their letter."
"Appreciate?" she asked, bitterly. "What am I to appreciate? That it took them thirteen years to say they would like to see their grandchild?"
"Your family weren't pining to see you either, all those years."
"That's not true. Mamma came to see us at Brussels."
He laughed, scornfully:
"In thirteen years, twice, for two days each time!"
She stamped her foot:
"Mamma is an old woman; she never travels."
"My parents also are old; and they have had a hard struggle with their principles and convictions."
"So I am to be grateful to them?"
He looked at her fixedly:
"Grateful?" he echoed. "You've never been that. Not to them nor to me...."
She clenched her fists:
"Again!" she screamed. "Always again and again! Nothing but reproaches for ruining your career, for ... for...."
She sobbed aloud.
"Mamma!" said Addie.
The boy was between them. He was everything to both of them. He never understood the cause of those quarrels, the ground of those reproaches: and, until now, he had never reflected how strange it was that his father's relations and his mother's were always so far away, so inaccessible. But he did not ask, even if he did not understand; and yet, though he did not understand this particular thing, he was no longer a child. He was a little man by now; and his heart was all the heavier because he did not know and did not understand. But he shouldered his burden like a hero.
She kissed the boy:
"Ah!" she wept. "You like him better than me, Addie: go to him, go to him!"
"Mamma," he said, "I love you both the same. Don't cry, Mamma; don't be so quick, so impatient...."
Van der Welcke drank his coffee.
She clasped the child to her, kissed him fiercely:
"I'm going out, Addie. You're very good, but I'm going out: I want air."
"Shall I go with you?"
"No, stay with Papa...."
She could not bear to see them together at this first moment of his return; after the past ten days, she must harden herself again to seeing him caress the child; and now, now she was running away, so that she might not see it. She put on her hat; kissed Addie once more, to show that she was not angry with him, was never angry with him; and went out.
"Papa," said Addie.
Van der Welcke looked gloomy, apprehensive.
"Why do you say those things to her, Papa?"
"My boy!" He drew a deep breath, embraced his son. "Addie," he said, "you've grown bigger than ever. How broad you're getting! You're quite a big chap, Addie; almost too big for your father to kiss and take on his knee."
"No, Daddy; I'm your own boy."
He sat down on Van der Welcke's knees, flung his arms about his father's neck, laid his soft, childish face against his father's close-shaven cheek.
"My little chap!"
Van der Welcke pressed the boy to him, felt calmer now, with that soft cheek against his.
"What do you start quarrelling at once for?"
"It's Mamma."
"And you answer her. Mamma's nerves are all on edge. Then don't answer her."
"What are Mamma's people like?"
"I think they're rather nice. Granny is very kind; and so are Aunt Bertha and Uncle Gerrit and Aunt Adeline. Mamma is very glad to see them all again. Are you glad to be in Holland and to be seeing Grandpapa and Grandmamma soon?"
"Yes, my boy."
"Then let us arrange when we shall go to Driebergen. Not to-morrow, for then you and Mamma are going to Uncle and Aunt van Saetzema's. Thursday, I promised to go to Uncle Gerrit's; but I can see the children any day. So let us go down on Thursday. And then to-morrow you can begin to look for a house."
"Very well, my boy, that will do."
"Shall I tell Mamma it's settled?"
"Yes." He clasped the child to him. "My Addie, my boy, my darling, my darling!"
"Silly old Father!"
He remained on Van der Welcke's knee, cheek to cheek. Outside, in the Voorhout, the rain pelted on the bare March trees; and grey mists loomed out of the distance, pale and shapeless, while the damp evening fell....
That evening, after dinner, Van der Welcke, Constance and Addie went to Mrs. van Lowe's, where they found Dorine, who wanted to meet her brother-in-law.
"I was thinking of you to-day," she said. "I had a lot of errands to do, for Bertha; and so, as I was going through the town, I thought to myself, 'I'll go on to Duinoord and see if there are many houses to let.' I'm simply worn out!"
"But Dorine, how sweet of you!" said Constance.
Van der Welcke too was surprised:
"That's really extremely kind of you, my new sister!"
"Here is a list I made, with the rent, in most cases."
"Only, Dorine, Duinoord is so far from Mamma."
"Yes; but, Connie," said Mamma, "you can't get anything in this neighbourhood for eight hundred guilders."
"What's the use of living at the Hague," said Constance, impatiently, "and being an hour away from you? I want to live near you."
"Well, we shall see," Van der Welcke ventured to put in.
"See, see, see!" said Constance, angrily. "I want to have my own house quickly. The hotel is expensive; and I dislike it. By the time the furniture has come from Brussels, by the time we are settled...."
"Oh, well, Mummy," said Addie, decisively, "Rome wasn't built in a day, you know."
She smiled at once. Every word spoken by her child was a balm, an anodyne. The old grandmother smiled. Dorine smiled.
"Addie," said Mamma van Lowe, "you must do your best to help Papa and Mamma with the house."
"Yes, Granny. It won't be plain sailing...."
The child was more at his ease than on the Sunday evening. Granny was very kind; so was Aunt Dorine, to trot about like that, after those houses.
"Aunt Dorine, do you always run errands?"
Everybody laughed: it was a mania of Dorine's to traverse the Hague daily from end to end; she was a very willing creature and she was particularly busy just now for Bertha and Adolphine, because of the two weddings.
Ernst and Paul entered.
"We heard that Van der Welcke was at Mamma's," said Paul, "and we've come to be introduced."
"These at least are not visitsin optima forma," thought Constance to herself.
Ernst resembled Bertha and blinked his eyes; but, in addition, he was odd, shy, always timid, even in the family-circle. There was something bashful about him, as though he wanted to run away as soon as he could. But he made an effort and suddenly asked Constance:
"Are you fond of china?"
"Delft, do you mean?"
"Yes. Are you fond of vases? I love vases. I have all sorts of vases. Have you ever thought of a vase: the shape, the symbol of a vase? No, you don't know what I mean. Will you come and see me one day, in my rooms? Will you come and lunch: you and your husband? Then I'll show you my vases."
Constance smiled:
"I should love to, Ernst. Have you so many rare vases?"
"Yes," he said in a proud whisper. "I have some very rare ones. I am always afraid they will be stolen. They are my children."
And he laughed; and she laughed too, while shrinking a little from him and from coming to those rooms filled with vases that were children. She did not know what more to say to Ernst; and she now told Mamma, softly, that old Mr. and Mrs. van der Welcke, her father- and mother-in-law, had asked them to Driebergen.
Mrs. van Lowe beamed and whispered:
"Child, I am so glad! I am so glad they have done that. It's been running in my head all this time, what attitude they would take up to you. After all, Adriaan is their grandson as well as mine."
"For thirteen years ..." Constance began, bitterly.
"Child, child, don't bear malice, don't bear malice. Make no more reproaches. All will come right, my child. I am so glad. They are different from us, dear, not so broad-minded, very orthodox and strict in their principles. And, when, at the time, they insisted that Van der Welcke should marry you, that was a great sacrifice on their part, child: it shattered their son's career."
"Why?" exclaimed Constance, in a whisper, but vehemently. "It shattered his career? Why? Why need he have left the service?"
"Dear, it was so difficult for him to remain, after the scandal."
Constance gave a scornful laugh:
"In that circle, where there is nothing but scandal which they hush up!"
"Hush, child: don't be so violent, don't be so irritable. I am so glad, Connie! I could kiss those old people. I will call on them too, when you have been ... to embrace them...."
Mamma was in tears. Constance pressed her hands to her breast: she was suffocating.
"Very well, Mamma," she said, softly and calmly. "I will be grateful, all my life long, to Papa and Mamma van der Welcke, to Henri, to you, to all of you!..."
"Child, don't be bitter. Try to be a little happy now, among us all. We will all try to be nice to you and to make you forget the past...."
"Mamma!..."
She embraced the old woman:
"Mamma, don't cry! I am happy, I really am, to be back, back among all of you!"
Two days later, Van der Welcke, Constance and Addie were in the train on their way to Driebergen. The boy, to whom Holland was a new country, was interested in the vague, dim, low-lying expanses bounded, on the mist-blurred horizons, by straggling rows of trees, with here and there a village-steeple; the wind-mills flung out their sails like despairing arms to the great jaundiced clouds, whose gloomy masses, driven by a rainy wind, scurried across the lowering skies. The boy asked question after question, sitting with his hand in his father's; and, to avoid the sight of that caress, Constance gazed out of the opposite window, in silence.
They had been to the Van Saetzemas the evening before; and, though Constance felt irritated at first, she ended with a passion of pity. Good heavens, how was it possible that Adolphine had become so common! Whom on earth did she get it from! Mamma, so refined and distinguished! Papa, her poor father, such an aristocrat, a gentleman of the old school!... And yet, perhaps, from the Ruyvenaers. You would never have taken Uncle for a brother of Mamma's. Was it from the Ruyvenaers, perhaps? Great heavens, how common Adolphine was!... Her husband was a boor; her house pretentious and slovenly; her girls, the two elder, pretentious, priggish, envious; Marie, the youngest girl, a sort of Cinderella, but a sweet, shy, down-trodden, quiet child.... But then there were the three boys, so repulsive, so slovenly, so rude.... What a crew, what a crew!... They had gone to take tea there quietly; but it turned out to be a sort of little evening-party: a regular rabble, as Van der Welcke, who was furious, had said. Two men in dress-coats and white ties; the others running through the entire scale of masculine attire: frock-coats, dinner-jackets, tweeds. Adolphine seemed always to send out ambiguous invitations; and people never knew what they should wear nor whom they would meet.... Floortje in a dirty, white, low-necked dress, if you please; Caroline and Marietje in walking-dress; Van Saetzema himself looking like a fat farmer, carrying on in his noisy way with Uncle Ruyvenaer: it was all so vulgar!... Aunt Ruyvenaer was always good-natured; and the girls, though very Indian-looking, were pleasant and natural and simple; but, for the rest, the evening, with all sorts of strangers, was a snare, especially for Van der Welcke, whom, as a brother-in-law, they might surely have welcomed in a more intimate and heartier fashion the first time they saw him, after refusing, for years, to recognize him as a member of the family! And, once back in the hotel, she had had a violent scene with her husband: he abusing that rabble of a family of hers, she, defending her family, against her own conviction, until Addie woke, got out of bed and begged them to be quiet, or he wouldn't be able to sleep.... The darling, how prettily he had said it, in that dear little decided way of his, like a regular little man: oh, where would they be without him! She sometimes thought, if he died, if they ever had to lose him, she would do away with herself! He was not their child: he was their treasure, their life. And she gave a glance at him; but, when she saw him sitting hand in hand with his father, while Van der Welcke tried to make out the distant village-steeples after all those years, she turned round again, quickly, with a jealous pang at her heart.... Oh, she felt sorry for Adolphine! She saw in Adolphine a struggle to be "in the swim," a desperate struggle, because Van Saetzema had nothing but a fine-sounding name: in everything else, he was an insignificant person, who had great difficulty in obtaining his promotion, after long years of waiting; married to Adolphine, no one knowing why she had taken him or he her; first trying to set up as an advocate and attorney at the Hague; later, receiving a billet in the Ministry of Justice, but never liked by Papa and never helped on by him, as Van Naghel had been; never thought much of by his superiors; now pushed into all sorts of little jobs and committees by Adolphine; trying to botch up some kind of political creed, in order to stand as a candidate for the Municipal Council, because Adolphine, always jealous and envious of Bertha's importance, wanted to see her own husband coming more and more to the front and had so little chance of realizing that ideal.... Yes, Adolphine must be inwardly furious when she thought of Bertha's household: her husband colonial secretary, after making money at the bar at Semarang; their house a replica of the dignified, stately paternal home of the old days: the same big dinners, the same good society, just verging on the diplomatic set. And so Adolphine gave those impossible "little evenings:" all sorts of persons dragged in anyhow; diversified elements that knew nothing of one another, never saw one another, were astonished to meet one another in those cramped drawing-rooms, full of faded specimens of amateur needle-work and dusty Makart bouquets; a rubber, a jingling duet by the girls, next the tables pushed aside and suddenly, by way of a dance, a mad romp, which sent a cloud of dust flying from the carpet: everything, everything in the same execrable taste, uninviting and, especially, common, with the thick sandwiches and the sluttish maid-servant, who shrugged her shoulders impertinently if the girls asked her to do a thing! Oh, Constance felt sorry for Adolphine, who was, after all, her sister; and she became aware, after years, as though it had been slumbering, of a warm family-affection for all her brothers and sisters and their children. Did she inherit it from her mother? A warm family-affection. She would have loved to have a friendly talk with Adolphine, to advise her to separate the different elements a little at those evenings of hers, to make her invitations less heterogeneous and to tell Floortje not to wear a soiled ball-dress on an occasion like that! And then those three boys, with their dirty hands, rushing about the crammed drawing-rooms without any idea of manners, so badly brought up compared with her Addie, who perhaps had not been brought up at all, but who was such a nice little fellow of himself, so polite, stiff though he might be, and who talked properly and not with a splutter of low Hague slang! Oh, it was dreadful! And she was so afraid that Addie might catch some of it.... Poor Adolphine, what a struggle, especially with all Bertha's unattainable perfection before her eyes! For they all suffered from jealousy in their family: she had it herself; and Adolphine had always had it very strongly-developed from a child: jealous of her elder sisters and brothers.... Would she ever be able to give Adolphine a word of advice? Now that Floortje's wedding was near at hand, couldn't she be of use to Adolphine? She thought it such a pity that her sister—a Van Lowe, after all—was becoming so common; and, after last night, she was so afraid of that wedding; and it would be all the worse because Bertha's Emilie was to be married about the same time, in May, a couple of months hence. In any case, she would talk to Mamma about it, not for the sake of interfering, but because Adolphine was her sister, because she cared for her as a sister and because she had a feeling of pity for her, genuine, heart-rending pity....
"Mamma, what are you looking at?"
It was Addie's voice; and she saw that the boy had come to sit by her, because it was her turn now. He always divided his favours like that between his father and mother. For Van der Welcke at once took up theNieuwe Rotterdammerand buried himself in its wide pages, in his corner.
"Oh, so you've come to sit by me at last!" she whispered.
"Mummy, don't be so jealous: do you want me to chop myself in two?"
He talked to her, amused her. She always admired the way in which he talked, prettily, sensibly and divertingly, with a sort of talent for small-talk. Very likely he had acquired it because, without him, his father and mother would have been silent, when they were not quarrelling. He talked of a couple of houses which they had seen yesterday; he talked of the landscape, said it made him feel a Dutch boy at once—wasn't it funny?—and kept his mother amused like a gallant little cavalier. And yet he had nothing of a dandy about him: a broad, short, firmly-built little man, in a coloured shirt, a blue great-coat and knickerbockers. He wore a soft felt hat, shaped like a Boer hat. She didn't like that hat, but he insisted on having one. But, even with that hat, how handsome he was! Oh, what a good-looking boy he was! His frank, blue eyes, a little hard and grave; his fresh-coloured, firm cheeks, with those refined, clear-cut features, Henri's features; his small mouth, which she loved; his square shoulders; his pretty, knickerbockered legs, with the square knees and the slender, rounded calves. Her child, her child: he was her all in all! He was the happiness, the grace of her life; because of him her life was worth the living!
He talked, but she saw a grave look in his eyes, a look graver than usual. Yes, she felt it: it was because of what was awaiting them, in an hour's time; the reception by the grandparents down there, at Driebergen.... Van der Welcke also was nervous, did not speak a word, folded his newspaper, this side and that.... Constance' heart beat in her throat, which was dry and parched with nervousness. And Addie's look became more fixed, more serious than ever. Yes, she felt it. There was a tenderness in the child's voice, as though he wanted to say:
"Mind you bear up, Mummy, presently...."
And, the nearer they approached, the quieter they became: Henri in his newspaper; she staring through the window; while Addie himself found nothing more to say and sat quite still, with his hands in the pockets of his little great-coat. No, she could never forget that those two old people had taken thirteen years, not to accept her as their daughter, but to look upon her child as their grandchild. During all that time, not a letter, not an attempt at reconciliation: a complete silence, an absolute death towards their only son, towards their only grandson. She was not thinking of herself; she asked for no affection from them, only for cold civility. She felt so much resentment, so much resentment that, when she thought of it, she almost choked. And, over and above, came the crushing consciousness that she had to be grateful because those parents had sacrificed their son to her, as they had once said; because they had insisted that Henri should marry her, even though it shattered his career. And that, that was what she could never forgive, because it had always wounded, because it still wounded her vanity.
She would have been grateful, for her son's sake, if they had decided that Henri, after a retirement of some years, relying on his influential connections, should resume his career, with her by his side. De Staffelaer had left the diplomatic service, was living at his country-place near Haarlem; and they could never have met him abroad except by some extraordinary coincidence.... No, that she never would and never could forgive them, because of her wounded vanity; it was that which caused the bitterness that almost choked her: the "sacrifice," Henri's career shattered through her. Had she not for five years been the wife of the Netherlands minister at Rome? Had she not filled her position with tact, with grace, even with consummate knowledge of the world, until the Dutch colony praised hersalonsabove those of the other Netherlands legations abroad? Had she not taken pride in that reputation, taken pleasure in the fact that the Dutch colony and Dutch travellers found something in her dinners and receptions that reminded them of Holland and home? How often had she not been told, "Mevrouw, with you, in Rome, everything is most charming, especially when compared with this place and that;" her countrymen used often to complain to her of the dulness and stiffness and exclusiveness of so many of their legations. Would she not have been in her right place by Van der Welcke's side, even though people might talk and cavil at first, because, she, the divorced wife of a minister plenipotentiary, had afterwards married the youngest secretary in the service! But she would have shown tact, it would have been forgotten, it would have subsided into the past. She refused to believe but that all this would have been possible, not for any one else, perhaps, but certainly for her. And this was her grievance, that those two old people—and Henri with them—had never been able to see this as she did; that they had given her their son, with an allowance that meant poverty—two alms for which she was expected to be grateful!—but had left her and him and their child in Brussels, in a corner, like some unnamable disgrace! No, that was a thing which she could never forgive, never, never, never!
She was so deep in her thoughts that she did not notice that the train had stopped and that they had arrived at Zeist-Driebergen.
"Mamma!" said Addie, softly.
She started, turned pale. But she was resolved to control herself, to be dignified, to show those old people that she was not a worthless woman, even though she had committed a mistake, a false step in her life: very well, a sin, if they pleased, because she had loved. Addie helped her to alight; and her gloved fingers trembled in his firm little hand. But she was resolved not to give way: she must keep quite calm; yes, she would be calm and dignified above all....
"There's the carriage," said Henri, in a stifled voice.
He recognized the very old carriage of years ago. He even recognized the old coachman, who looked at him and touched his hat. The footman who opened the carriage-door was a youth, whom he did not know. And the coachman, as an old servant, bent over to him and, in a quavering voice, using the old title, said:
"Morning, jonker. Good-morning, mevrouw."
"How are you, Dirk?" said Henri, in a dull voice.
They settled themselves in the carriage. And Constance saw that Henri was setting his lips, gritting his teeth and clenching his jaws, as though with a violent effort to stop himself from crying like a child. Now and then he shivered, nervously, and stared out of the window. He recognized the villas on either side of the road, looking so melancholy in the middle of the bleak March gardens that stretched hazily in the damp mist; he noticed how much had been pulled down to make way for new houses. How changed it was! What a lot had been built lately! But yet there was something under those great cloudy skies, heavy with eternal rain, in that road, in the gardens of those villas: something of the old days, something of his childhood, something of the time when he was young. He felt like an old man coming home again: he, scarcely eight-and-thirty! It was as though he were ashamed in the presence of the familiar! And, very secretly, too weak to accuse himself, he accused her, the woman sitting beside him, the woman four years older than himself. He too was thinking of Rome now, of the rooms of the Netherlands Legation, of her, then Mrs. de Staffelaer, the wife of his chief, of their love-affair, first in jest, then in earnest, until that terrible moment in the room where they used to meet; De Staffelaer in the doorway; Constance fleeing through another door; and his interview with the injured old man, who had been good to him, in a fatherly fashion! And he blamed her for it: it was her fault! He was a young man then, with hardly any knowledge of the world; she, a woman of twenty-eight, married for over five years, had enticed him, had been the temptress! It was she, it was she: he blamed her for it! He had not loved her at first, during the first stages of the flirtation. There had been a chat, a waltz, a jest. Yes, then it had turned to passion; but what was passion? The flame of a moment, flaring up and then extinguished. And he knew it: from that day, when he stood as a culprit in the presence of that dignified old man, from that day the flame was extinguished. And from that day he began to see the life that lay before him: the scandal, which filled all Rome; the despair of his pious parents, far away at home, in Holland; Constance in Florence: their first interview there, himself yielding to his parents' wishes and asking her to be his wife, to marry him in England as soon as the divorce was granted. Since then, he had always seen his fate hanging before him; and it had crushed him, so weak, so small.... Amid the wretchedness, amid the ruin of his young life, beside that woman in whom he, who did not take blame to himself, never lost sight of the worldly-wise temptress four years older than he, beside that woman, the eternal obstacle, and amid that wretchedness, the only grace had been the child. That which might have increased the misery had been the mercy, from the first moment that he set eyes on it, little, red morsel that it was: the darling child; the child that was his, though the fruit of their misery; the child that, as it grew older, became his comfort; the child that felt with its little hands over his face and in his hair; the child that said "Daddy;" the child that he smothered in his arms! The child, her child, it was true, but his child also: his child, his son, growing up and soon becoming the little moderator between them and the reason, also, why they remained together; the child, growing up to boyhood and, without understanding or knowing, still feeling the eternal struggle, the eternal misery, until its eyes became more grave and it felt that it was the moderator and the comforter. The child, there it sat, opposite him: his handsome, sturdy boy, who looked like him, with the fixed, earnest, gentle eyes; and he was now going to show him to his parents: her child, it was true, the fruit of their misery, but his child and their grandson.
The boy glanced from his father to his mother. They both sat opposite him and both silently looked out of the window, half-turning their backs upon each other. The boy would so gladly have taken their hands, the hands of both of them, and said something: a word to unite them at this moment, which he felt to be very serious; but he did not know the word, cleverly though he knew how to talk as a rule. He glanced from his father to his mother, from his mother to his father; and they, they did not look, dared not look at him, feeling his glance and filled to overflowing with their own thoughts. Then the boy felt life sinking very heavily, like a weight, upon his small breast. He drew a very deep breath, under the heavy weight, and his breath was a deep sigh.
They both now looked up, looked at their child. Henri would have liked to throw out his arms, to feel his child at his heart; but the carriage now turned through a gate and drove along a front garden of rounded lawns, in which the rose-bushes, swathed in straw, stood waiting for the spring.
They stepped from the carriage; the hall-door opened. The curtains of the front room shook slightly, as though with the trembling touch of an old hand; but there was no one in the hall to receive them except the butler who had opened the door.
Then Constance said:
"Henri, you go in first. I'll come presently, with Addie, when you call me...."
He looked at her, hesitating to say that he himself wished to go in with Addie. But she had laid her hand on the boy's shoulder and looked at Van der Welcke so steadily that he understood that she would not consent. And he went in, staggering like a drunken man, went into the room where the window-curtains had trembled.
The butler retired, not knowing what to do. And Constance sat down on the oak settle and drew Addie beside her. So she was meekly waiting in the hall, waiting the pleasure of her father- and mother-in-law; but it was of her own will that she waited now, after waiting nearly fourteen years for a word that would have called her to them. With a woman's delicacy, she had let Henri go in first to his parents; but she had set her mind upon taking her boy to his grand-parents herself. It was for her to do that; she insisted on her privilege, her right.... Henri's hesitation had not escaped her; but she had laid her hand upon her son's shoulder, as though taking possession of him.
She did not know how long she waited, but it seemed very long; and she had time to see every detail of the hall: the oak wainscoting; the three or four family-portraits; a couple of old engravings of city-views; the Delft jugs on an antique cabinet; the staircase leading to the floor above; the oak doors of the rooms, which remained silent and closed. She saw the pattern of the tiles in the passage and the colours of the wide strip of Deventer carpet.... Then, at last, the door of the front room opened and an old man appeared. Constance rose. The old man had Henri's features, but more deeply furrowed, and his clean-shaven upper lip fell in; his straight nose was more prominent and his ivory forehead arched high above a scanty fringe of iron-grey hair. His eyes looked out blue and hard, as Henri's eyes looked out. He was tall, Henri was short; his shoulders were broad and bent in the long, dark coat, Henri was square and straight. His hands were long, wrinkled and bony and they trembled; and Henri's hands were short and broad.... She made her comparison in two or three seconds, standing with her hand on her son's shoulder. Then the old man said:
"Come in, Constance...."
She went, gently pushing Addie before her, and they entered the room. She saw an old woman, with a large face that in no way reminded her of Henri. The grey hair, parted in the middle, was set severely in a silver-stiff frame; her complexion was yellow and waxen; her dark-grey eyes were full of tears, and peered painfully through that misty haze. Her figure was bent in the dark stuff dress; her legs seemed to move with difficulty; and her stooping body was almost deformed. She was holding Henri's hand....
"Constance," the old woman began; and her trembling hands were raised as though for an embrace.
"Here is your grandson," said Constance, stiffly.
She pushed Addie a little nearer. The boy looked out of his steady eyes, which were the eyes of Henri and of the old man, and said:
"How do you do, Grandpapa and Grandmamma?"
In the large, sombre room, his voice sounded dull and yet firm. The old woman and the old man looked at the boy; and there was an oppressive silence. They looked at the boy, and they were so struck with amazement that they could not find a word to say. The old woman had taken Henri's hand again; and the tears flowed from her eyes. Henri's jaws grated and he shuddered, nervously:
"That's my boy," he said.
"So that is Adriaan," said the old woman, trembling, and her embrace, which had not reached Constance, now closed upon the child. He kissed her in his turn; and then the old man also embraced him and the child kissed him back.
"Hendrik," said the old woman. "Hendrik, how like ... how like Henri, when he was that age!"
The old man nodded gently. The past was coming back to the old people; and it was as if they saw their own son when he was thirteen. They were so much surprised at this that they could only stare at the boy, as though they did not believe their eyes, as though it were some strange dream.
Constance stood stiffly and said nothing. But the old woman now said:
"It is a great pleasure to us to see you here, Constance."
Constance tried to smile:
"You are very kind," she said, pleasantly.
"But do sit down," said the old woman, trembling, and she pointed to the chairs.
They all sat down; and Henri made an effort to talk naturally, about Driebergen. The past that lay between them was so high-heaped that it seemed as though they were never to approach one another across this obstacle. So many words that should have been spoken had remained unspoken, for the sake of an harmonious silence, that silence itself became a torture; and so many years were piled between the parents and the children that it seemed impossible for them now to reach one another with words. The words fell strangely in the sombre room, which looked out upon the March garden and upon the road paling away in the vague mists; the words fell like things, strangely, like hard, round things, material things, and struck against one another like marbles clashing together....
It was the painful talking on indifferent topics that was almost impossible. For the words constantly struck against things of the past, things painful to the touch; and there were no indifferent topics. When Henri said that Driebergen was very much changed, he was referring to his many years of absence. When Constance made a remark about Brussels, she was referring to her long residence there, during which her husband's parents had refused to see her and looked upon her as a disgrace. When they spoke of Addie's life as a small child, it was as though they two, the father and the mother, were reproaching the grandparents. There were no indifferent topics; and a despairing gloom hung between the old people and the child, because they could not reach the child across their son and their daughter-in-law.... Outside, the wind rose, howling; the heavy grey clouds descended upon them like a damp mist; and the rain clattered down. Henri had thought of asking his father to take him into the garden, to see if he still recognized it, but the pelting rain prevented him; and he saw nothing but his mother's tears. In his heart, he laid these to his wife's charge. The past was piled up as a wall between each soul and its neighbour.
The boy felt it. He felt his breathing oppressed with all that gloom; and again and again he wanted to sigh, but he kept back his sighs. He did not know what to say; and he gave his grandparents the impression of a quiet, subdued child, who was not happy. They spoke to him too as old people do to a child, with condescending kindness, pointing out the little things in the room. The boy, who was accustomed to be a man standing between his two parents, answered nothing except in shy monosyllables.
Henri and Constance avoided looking at each other; and each of them, even in the same conversation, talked as it were separately to the old people. They were to stay to lunch—the old-fashioned Dutch "coffee-drinking"—and return at five o'clock to the Hague. The butler came to say that luncheon was served and pushed back the sliding doors. The dining-room lay on this side of the great, closed conservatory, a gloomy shadow in the pale daylight that streaked in through the rain; and the mahogany furniture gleamed with reflected lights, the table shone white and glassy. They sat down: difficult words fell now and again and sounded hard in the somewhat chilly room. The old woman with much ceremony offered a soft-boiled egg, or a tongue-sandwich which lay neatly arranged with its fellows on a tray. She herself filled the small china coffee-cups. It all lasted very long, was all very solemn and proper, with much formality about the egg and the sandwich. Addie felt as if he could easily swallow both the egg and sandwich in one gulp; and he had to restrain himself in order to eat the egg slowly and neatly in little spoonfuls and to chew the sandwich with little bites, so as not to finish too soon nor deprive the table of its excuse for being so elaborately laid. He was not sure whether he was still hungry or not when Grandmamma offered him a second sandwich; but he took it, because otherwise he would not have known what to do with his hands. He sat like a small, stiff little boy, shyly; and, when he looked up at his father, it seemed to him that he too was sitting as if he had eaten his sandwich too fast. Grandmamma herself buttered his bread for him and offered it to him, ready cut into strips. He ate the narrow fingers with a great effort at self-control.
It lasted endlessly long; and the table remained white, bare and neat, now that the sandwiches were finished; the empty coffee-cups gave the only touch of untidiness: the broken, yellowy egg-shells Grandmamma had put away on the sideboard. When they rose, Grandpapa asked Henri to come and smoke a cigar in his study; Grandmamma stayed in the sitting-room with Constance and Addie. On the road outside, the rain splashed in the puddles.
Constance felt a stranger in this house. Nevertheless, her mood became softer, because the old woman's eyes, in the stiff, silver-framed face, were still sad and constantly filled with tears. She was very sensitive to any emotion in another; and, though she fought against it, she herself felt moved. She wanted to talk to this grandmother about her grandson; and so she said how clever he was, how good to his parents. Mrs. van der Welcke nodded good-naturedly, but continued to look upon Addie as a child, while Constance was talking of him as man. The old woman did not fully grasp the meaning of Constance' words, but the sound of them increased her emotion. She called Addie to her side, said that he must come and stay with them in the summer: it was delightful in the country then, for games. The boy had it on his lips to say that his parents could not do without him; but he felt that his words would sound strange and elderly and priggish. And he only said, very prettily:
"I should like to, Grandmamma."
He played at being a little child, because Grandmamma happened to look upon him as one. Really he was thinking of something very different, thinking of the houses which he had seen yesterday with Papa and Mamma and which his parents could not agree upon, in any particular: the neighbourhood, the division of the rooms. Because he knew that the hotel was expensive and that both Papa and Mamma would become less fidgety once they had a house, he thought of cutting the Gordian knot and going by himself to the owner of a nice house near the Woods, not so very far from Granny van Lowe's. If he didn't interfere, it would be weeks and weeks before Papa and Mamma made up their minds. He knew that to take a house was a very serious matter, but he also knew that Papa and Mamma would never agree. He must needs, therefore, risk something and he would hope for the best, hope that all would turn out well.
"A couple of houses farther on, there are two very nice little boys: you shall see them when you come in the summer, Adriaan."
"Yes, Grandmamma."
His voice sounded very refined and soft; and Constance had to smile. But, while he sat there stiffly, with his shoulders squared and his legs close together, he was dividing the rooms of the house near the Woods. Mamma, meanwhile, was exchanging toilsome words with Grandmamma. He portioned out the rooms. Downstairs, the drawing-room and the dining-room, more or less as at Uncle Gerrit's: those two rooms always communicated in Holland, with folding-doors between them. And the little conservatory. And the little garden was quite nice. Upstairs, the large room for Mamma and the smaller one for Papa; and it was jolly that he himself could have that sort of turret-room, with a bow-window, in between their two bedrooms. So he would be between Papa and Mamma. Above that, there was still a sort of attic floor, but that did not concern him: Mamma must manage that. It was rather risky perhaps, to go to that fat man to-morrow—a contractor, Papa called him—and tell him that Papa had sent him to say that he would take the house.... Perhaps that house in the something van Nassaustraat was better, bigger. But it was dearer also.... Perhaps Papa would be angry, if he acted just like that, off his own bat; but, of course, there would be nothing settled in black and white. Only, if Papa and Mamma once knew that he had been to the fat man, well, they might be a little angry at first, might squabble a bit more; and then both of them would look at him and laugh and they would take the house and everything would be all right.... If they did not decide a bit quicker, if they went on squabbling, their Brussels furniture would suddenly be there, in front of their noses, and they without a house to put it in.... It was true, Granny van Lowe had said, "Be careful about taking a house:" that was all very well when people agreed; but that's what Papa and Mamma never did. They had come to Holland, because he had said:
"Why, I'm a Dutch boy, aren't I? Then let's go!"
Well, they would take the house after he had been to the fat man. There was nothing else to be done, though it was risky.
Papa came downstairs with Grandpapa, looking more cheerful: perhaps he had been talking to his father. They sat on a little longer and Papa took out his watch once or twice....
Then the carriage drove up; the old coachman, who had known Papa as a small boy, drove them to the station, where they arrived twenty minutes too soon.
Quietly, without speaking, they walked up and down, waiting for the train....
Next morning, Addie went to play with Uncle Gerrit and Aunt Adeline's children and thought it very jolly to romp about like that with six or seven little boy- and girl-cousins, the oldest a girl of eight years and the youngest a baby ten months old. He amused himself in a fatherly fashion with all these youngsters, inventing new games and causing a certain sensation as a big, new, strong cousin of thirteen. The whole morning, however, he was thinking of the fat man, to whom he had been very early to say that Papa would probably take the house and would like him to call at the Hôtel des Indes at seven o'clock that evening. He had gone on to Uncle Gerrit's from there, and in his heart thought it rather a bore, for, after all, he must prepare Papa and Mamma for the visit of the fat man, who was to bring a draft of the lease with him. So, after eating a sandwich at Aunt Adeline's, he played a little longer with the children, who were not going out, because it was raining, and, soon after, hurried to the Alexanderstraat, to Granny van Lowe's, where he knew that he would find Mamma. Constance was sitting with her mother and telling her about Papa and Mamma van der Welcke and how they had received her. Uncle Paul was there. Addie, a little nervous, asked where Papa was, where Papa had gone that afternoon.
"Papa went to look at a couple of houses in the Nassau-Dillenburgstraat.... Did you enjoy yourself at Uncle Gerrit's?"
"Oh, yes, they are nice little things. What are you doing this afternoon, Mamma?"
"I shall stay on a little with Granny and then we are both going to Uncle and Aunt Ruyvenaer's. Will you come too, Addie?"
"Well, I really want to talk to Papa."
She was jealous at once:
"You can never be a moment without your father. What does it mean? I haven't seen you the whole morning; and the first thing you do is to ask for Papa! I don't know where Papa is. Papa has an appointment, I believe, at the Witte Club, where he was to meet some old friends; but you can't go to the Witte!"
"Isn't Papa coming back to dinner at the hotel?"
"I believe Papa intended to stay and dine at the Witte. But I really don't know. I'm not in the habit of controlling Papa's movements."
He looked at her thoughtfully:
"I must absolutely see Papa before seven o'clock, Mamma."
"But why before seven o'clock? Is there anything you want? Won't I do? Don't I count at all?"
"Yes," he said, "when you're not so cross. The owner of the house in the Kerkhoflaan, near the Woods, is coming to call before seven."
"How do you know?"
"I went to him this morning, on my way to Uncle Gerrit's."
"Well?"
"And I told him Papa would probably take the house and asked him to come to the hotel, at seven o'clock, and bring a draft of the lease with him."
He suddenly became very uncomfortable, because his grandmother and his uncle sat staring at him.
"But, Addie," said Granny van Lowe, not quite understanding, "how did you come to do that? Did Papa tell you to go?"
"No, Granny, Papa said nothing about it, but it's a very nice house indeed; and, if Papa and Mamma could only agree, I wouldn't interfere; but, as it is, I really must. Otherwise the furniture will be here from Brussels and Papa and Mamma still looking for a house, each in a different part of the town."
He talked fluently, but he was very uncomfortable and his face was as red as fire, for it was plain that Granny did not yet understand; and Uncle Paul sat shaking with laughter and trying to pull him between his knees; and this was no moment for romping.
"Oh, don't, Uncle Paul, please!..."
But Paul laughed and shook him by the shoulders; and Grandmamma frowned; and yet it was really very simple; and Mamma thought so too, for she said, calmly:
"Oh, you went to that house, did you?... The one near the Woods.... How many rooms did we say there were?"
"There are the two rooms opening into each other on the ground-floor," said Addie, standing, with a serious face, between Paul's knees. "Upstairs, you can have the big bedroom and Papa the smaller one, with a little room next to it as a smoking-room; and then I should like that turret-room, with the bow-window, you know...."
"Yes; but, Addie, the house in the Emmastraat has bigger rooms."
"It is farther from Granny and two hundred guilders dearer; so put the house in the Emmastraat out of your mind...."
Granny van Lowe sat looking before her in dumb amazement; Paul listened attentively; and Constance and Addie continued to discuss the merits and demerits of the two houses:
"There's a big cellar in the house near the Woods ... and a nice little garden, do you remember?... And I think it jolly to be close to the Woods."
"Yes; but, Addie, it seems to me that, in the Emmastraat ..."
"Do put that house out of your mind, Mamma: it's damp...."
"And the contractor is coming, you say?"
"Yes, at seven o'clock."
Mamma van Lowe could only sit and stare at her daughter and her grandson by turns. Paul burst into a fresh roar of laughter at the sight of his mother's face.
"Yes, Mother, these are the times we live in! I never dared take a house for you; now did I?"
Constance for the first time appeared to realize that Addie must seem a little queer to her mother:
"Oh, he's always like that!" she said. "He helps us. He's a man. Aren't you, my man?..."
He now went up to her and kissed her, to please her:
"So you see, I must find Papa before seven o'clock, or he'll be angry," he said, keeping to the point.
"Well, shall we go round to the Witte together?" asked Paul.
"Oh, Uncle, that would be awfully good of you!"
"But I can't take you in, old chap!"
"No, Uncle, I'll wait outside, if you'll just look for Papa and tell him I want to speak to him."
"About a house you've taken for him!"
"No, don't be silly, Uncle."
"Good-bye, Constance; good-bye, Mamma: I'm going with my Nephew Addie ... to the Witte!"
And Paul stood up, choking with laughter, while Addie, afraid of missing his father, urged him to hurry.
"But, my dear," asked Mrs. van Lowe, "does your boy always take the law into his own hands like that?"
"Oh, Mamma, he is such a help to us!"
"But what a way to bring him up! That's not a boy of thirteen!"
"He is a very uncommon child. Where should we be if he didn't help us."
"So you think Van der Welcke will take the house near the Woods?"
"I'm sure of it!... And I'm quite sure too that, if Addie hadn't interfered, in another six months we should still be at the hotel!"
Next day, Van der Welcke, Constance and Addie went to have one more look at the house near the Woods.
And the house was taken, on a five years' lease.