Chapter VI

Chapter VIAt Addie’s wish, at the little schoolboy’s wish, the Van der Welckes responded to Van Naghel’s advances and Constance sent a note. The visit was paid and the brothers-in-law shook hands. Van der Welcke himself shrugged his shoulders over the whole business; but Addie was pleased, started going for walks again with Frans and spoke to Karel again at the grammar-school, though he did not much care for him. Two days later, Marianne called in the afternoon, when the rain was coming down in torrents. Constance was at home. The girl stood in the door-way of the drawing-room:“May I come in, Auntie?...”“Of course, Marianne, do.”“I don’t like to: I’m rather wet.”“Nonsense, come in!”And the girl suddenly ran in and threw herself on her knees beside Constance, almost with a scream:“I am so glad, I am so glad!” she cried.“Why?”“That Uncle wrote to Papa ... that Papa and Mamma have been here ... that everything is all right again.... It was so dreadful; it kept me from sleeping. I kept on thinking about it. Itwas a sort of nightmare, an obsession. Auntie, dear Auntie, is everything all right now?”“Yes, certainly, child.”“Really all right?... Are you coming to us again ... and may I come and see you ... and will you ask me to dinner again soon? Is everything all right, really all right?”She snuggled up to her aunt like a child, putting her head against Constance’ knees, stroking her hands:“You will ask me again soon, Auntie, won’t you? I love coming to you, I simply love it. I should have missed it so, I can’t tell you how much....”Her voice broke, as she knelt by Constance’ side, and she suddenly burst into tears, sobbing out her words so excitedly that Constance was startled, thinking it almost unnatural, absurd:“I was nearly coming to you before Papa and Mamma had been.... But I didn’t dare.... I was afraid Papa would be angry.... But I can come now, it’s all right now....”“Yes, it’s all right now....”She kissed Marianne. But the door opened and Van der Welcke entered.“How do you do, Uncle?”He always thought it odd when Marianne called him uncle, just like that:“Is it you, Marianne?... Constance, did I leave myFigarodown here?”“TheFigaro? No....”He hunted for his paper and then sat down.“Uncle,” said Marianne, “I’ve just been telling Auntie, I’m so glad, I’m so glad that everything’s settled.”“So am I, Marianne.”Outside, the rain came pelting down, lashed by the howling wind. Inside, all was cosiness, with Constance pouring out the tea and telling them about Nice, while Marianne talked about Emilie and Van Raven and how they were not getting on very well together and how Otto and Frances were also beginning to squabble and how Mamma took it all to heart and allowed it to depress her:“I sha’n’t get married,” she said. “I see nothing but unhappy marriages around me. I sha’n’t get married.”Then she started. She had a knack of behaving awkwardly and tactlessly, of saying things which she ought not to say. Van der Welcke looked at her, smiling. To make up for her indiscretion, she was more demonstrative than ever, profuse in exclamations of delight:“Oh, Auntie, how glad I am to be with you once more!... I must be off presently in the rain.... I wish I could stay....”“But stay and dine,” said Van der Welcke.Constance hesitated: she saw that Marianne would like to stop on and she did not know what todo, did not wish to seem ungracious; and yet....“Will you stay to dinner?” she asked.Marianne beamed with joy:“Oh, I should love to, Auntie! Mamma knows I’m here; she’ll understand....”Constance was sorry that she had asked her; her nerves were feeling the strain of it all; but she was determined to control herself, to behave naturally and ordinarily. She could see it plainly: they were too fond of each other!They were in love! Long before, she had seemed to guess it, when she saw them together, at her little dinners. The veriest trifle—an intonation of voice, a laughing phrase, the passing of a dish of fruit—had made her seem to guess it. Then the vague thought that went through her mind, like a little cloud, would vanish at once, leaving not even a shadow behind it. But the cloud had come drifting again and again, brought by a gesture, a glance, a how-do-you-do or good-bye, an appointment for a bicycle ride. On such occasions, the brothers had always gone too—so had Addie—and there had never been anything that was in the least incorrect; and at the little dinners there was never a joke that went too far, nor an attempt at flirtation, nor the very least resemblance to love-making. And therefore those vague thoughts had always drifted away again, like clouds; and Constance would think:“There is nothing, there is nothing. I am mistaken. I am imagining something that doesn’t exist.”She had not seen them together for two months; and she knew, had understood from a word dropped here and there, that Van der Welcke had not seen Marianne during those two months which had passed since that Sunday evening. And now, suddenly, she was struck by it: the shy, almost glad hesitation while the girl was standing at the door of Constance’ drawing-room; her unconcealed delight at being able to come back to this house; the almost unnatural joy with which she had sobbed at Constance’ knee ... until Van der Welcke came in, after doubtless recognizing the sound of her voice in his little smoking-room, as transparent as a child, with his clumsy excuse of searching for a newspaper. And now at once she was struck by it: the almost insuppressible affection with which they had greeted each other, with a certain smiling radiance that beamed from them, involuntarily, irresistibly, unconsciously.... But still Constance thought:“I am mistaken, there is nothing; and I am imagining something that doesn’t exist.”And the thought passed away, that they were really in love with each other; only this time there remained a faint wonder, a doubt, which had never been there before. And, while she talked aboutNice, it struck her that Van der Welcke was still there ... that he was staying on in her drawing-room, a thing which he never did except when Paul was there, or Gerrit.... He sat on, without saying much; but that happy smile never left his lips.... Yet she still thought:“I am mistaken; it is only imagination; there is nothing, or at most a little mutual attraction; and what harm is there in that?”But, be this as it might, she, who was so jealous where her son was concerned, now felt not the least shade of jealousy amid her wondering doubts. Yes, it was all gone, any love, passion, sentiment that she had ever entertained for Henri. It was quite dead.... And, now that he smiled like that, she noticed, with a sort of surprise, how young he was:“He is thirty-eight,” she thought, “and looks even younger.”As he sat there, calmly, always with the light of a smile on his face, it struck her that he was very young, with a healthy, youthful freshness, and that he had not a wrinkle, not a grey hair in his head.... His blue eyes were almost the eyes of a child. Even Addie’s eyes, though they were like his father’s, were more serious, had an older look.... And, at the sight of that youthfulness, she thought herself old, even though she was now showing Marianne the pretty photograph from Nice.... Yes, she felt old; and she was hardly surprised—if it was so, if she was not mistaken—at that youthfulness in her husband and at his possible love for that young girl.... Marianne’s youth seemed to be nearer to his own youth.... And sometimes it was so evident that she almost ceased doubting and promised herself to be careful, not to encourage Marianne, not to invite her any more....Unconscious: was it unconscious, thought Constance, on their part? Had they ever exchanged a more affectionate word, a pressure of the hand, a glance? Had they already confessed it to each other ... and to themselves? And a delicate intuition told her:“No, they have confessed nothing to each other; no, they have not even confessed anything to themselves.”Perhaps neither of them knew it yet; and, if so, Constance was the only one who knew. She looked at Marianne: the girl was very young, even though she had been out a year or two. She had something of Emilie’s fragility, but she was more natural, franker; and that natural frankness showed in her whole attitude: she seemed not to think, but to allow herself to be dragged along by impulse, by sentiment.... She looked out with her smile at the pelting rain, nestled deeper in her chair, luxuriously, like a kitten, then suddenly jumped up, poured out a cup of tea for Constance and herself; and, when Van der Welcke begged his wife’s leave to smoke acigarette, she sprang up again, struck a match, held the light to him, with a fragile grace of gesture like a little statue. Her pale-brown eyes, with a touch of gold-dust over them, were like chrysolite; and they gazed up enthusiastically and then cast their glance downwards timidly, under the shade of their lids. She was pale, with the anæmic pallor of alabaster, the pallor of our jaded society-girls; and her hands moved feverishly and restlessly, as though the fingers were constantly seeking an object for their butterfly sensitiveness....Was it so? Or was it all Constance’ imagination? And, amidst her wondering doubts, there came suddenly—if it really was so—a spasm of jealousy; but not jealousy of her husband’s love: jealousy of his youth. She suddenly looked back fifteen years and felt herself grown old, felt him remaining young. Life, real life, for which she sometimes had a vague yearning, while she felt herself too old for it, after frittering away her days: that life he would perhaps still be able to live, if he met with it. He at least was not too old for it!It all filled her with a passion of misery and anger; and then again she thought:“No, there is nothing; and I am imagining all manner of things that do not exist.”Addie came home; and, with the rain pelting outside, there was a gentle cosiness indoors, at table. Constance was silent, but the others were cheerful.And, when, after tea had been served, the fury out of doors seemed to have subsided, Marianne stood up, almost too unwilling to go away:“It’s time for me to go, Auntie....”“Shall Addie see you home?”“No, Addie’s working,” said Van der Welcke. “I’ll see Marianne home.”Constance said nothing.“Oh, Auntie,” said Marianne, “I am so glad that everything’s settled!”She kissed Constance passionately.“Uncle, isn’t it a nuisance for you to go all that way with me?”“I wish I had a bicycle for you!...”“Yes, if only we had our tandem here!”“It’s stopped raining; we shall be able to walk.”They went, leaving Constance alone. Her eyes were eager to follow them along the street. She could not help herself, softly opened a window, looked out into the damp winter night. She saw them go towards the Bankastraat. They were walking side by side, quite ordinarily. She watched them for a minute or two, until they turned the corner:“No,” she said, “there is nothing. Oh, it would be too dreadful!”Chapter VIIVan der Welcke and Marianne went side by side.“How deliciously fresh it is now,” she almost carolled. “The wind has gone down and the air is lovely; and look, how beautiful the sky is with those last black clouds.... Oh, I think it so ripping, that everything’s all right again between you and Papa! I did feel it so. You know how fond I am of both of you, Aunt Constance and you, and of Addie; and it was all so sad.... Tell me, does Auntie still feel bitter about it? I expect she does.... Ah, I understand quite well now ... that she would have liked to come to our house ... officially, let me say! But why not first have spoken to Mamma ... or to me, who am so fond of you? Then we could have seen: we might have thought of something. As it was, Mamma was so startled by that unexpected visit.... Poor Aunt Constance, she isn’t happy! How sad that you and she aren’t happier together! Oh, I could cry about it at times: it seems such a shame!... A man and woman married ... and then ... and then what I so often see!... I oughtn’t to have said what I did before dinner, it was stupid of me; but I may speak now, mayn’t I?... Oh, I sha’n’t marry, I won’t marry!... To be married like Otto and Frances,like Emilie and Van Raven: I think it dreadful. Or like you and Auntie: I should think it dreadful. Can’t you be happier together? Not even for Addie’s sake? I wish you could; it would make me so happy. I can’t bear it, when you and Auntie quarrel.... She was sweet and gentle to-night, but so very quiet. She is so nice.... That was a mad fit of hers, to go abroad so suddenly; but then she had had so much to vex her. Oh, those two old aunts: I could have murdered them! I can hear them now!... Poor Auntie! Do try and be a little nice to her.... Has this been going on between you for years? Don’t you love each other any longer?... No, I sha’n’t marry, I sha’n’t marry, I shall never marry.”“Come, Marianne: if some one comes along whom you get to love....”“No, I shall never marry.... I might expect too much of my husband. I should really want to find something beautiful, some great joy, in my love ... and to marry for the sake of marrying, like Frances or Emilie, is a thing I couldn’t, couldn’t do.... Otto is fonder of Louise than of his wife; and lately Emilie and Henri are inseparable.... In our family there has always been that affection between brother and sister. But it is too strong, far too strong. It doesn’t make them happy. I’ve never felt it in that way, fond as I am of my brothers.... No, I should place theman I love above everybody, above everybody.... But I suppose you’re laughing ... at my bread-and-butter notions....”“No, I’m not laughing, Marianne; and, just as you would like to see Aunt Constance and me happy, so I should like to see you happy ... with a man whom you loved.”“That will never be, Uncle; no, that will never be.”“How can you tell?”“Oh, I feel it, I feel it!...”“Come, I’ll have a bet on it,” he said, laughingly.“No, Uncle,” she said, with a pained smile, “I won’t bet on a thing like that....”“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Marianne....”“I know that....”“But you mustn’t be so melancholy, at your age. You’re so young....”“Twenty-one. That’s quite old.”“Old! Old! What about me?”She laughed:“Oh, you’re young! A man....”“Is always young?”“Not always. But you are.”“A young uncle?”“Yes, a young uncle.... A woman gets old quicker....”“So, when you’re old and I am still young, we shall be about the same age.”She laughed:“What a calculation! No, you’re older. But age doesn’t go by years.”“No. I sometimes have very young wishes. Do you know what I have been longing for since yesterday, like a baby, like a boy?”“No.”“A motor-car.”She laughed, with a laugh like little tinkling bells:“A motor-car?”“Wouldn’t it be delightful? To go tearing and tearing over fields and roads, through clouds of dust....”“You’re becoming poetic!”“Yes, it’s making me poetic....”“And the smell of the petrol?... The mask and goggles against the dust?... The hideous dress?...”“Oh, that’s nothing!... To tear and fly along, faster and faster, at a mad pace....”“I have never been in a motor-car....”1“I have, in Brussels, in a friend’s car. There’s nothing to come up to it.”Her laugh tinkled out again:“Yes, now you’re most certainly like a boy!”“I’m so young?”“O young Uncle!”“You oughtn’t to call me uncle, Marianne: I’m too young for it.”The tinkling bells:“What am I to call you then?”“Anything you like. Not uncle.”“Nunkie?”“No, no....”“But I can’t call you Henri ... or Van der Welcke?”“No, that’s too difficult. Better say nothing.”The tinkling bells:“Nothing. Very well.... But am I to sayUorje?”2“Sayje.”“But it seems so funny ... before people!”“People, people! You can’t always bother about people.”“But I have to: I’m a girl!”“Oh, Marianne, people are always a nuisance!”“A desert island would be the thing.”“Yes, a desert island....”“With a motor-car....”“And just you and me.”They both laughed; and her little bells tinkled through his boyish laugh.“What a perfect night!”“Perfect: the air is so crisp....”“Marianne....”“Yes, Uncle....”“No, not uncle.... You must be my little friend.... Not a niece.... I’ve never had a girl-friend.”“Your little friend?... But I am!”“Well, that’s all right.”“Look, how dark it is in the Wood.... People say it’s dangerous. Is it, Uncle? No, I didn’t mean to say uncle....”“Sometimes. Are you frightened? Take my arm.”“No, I’m not frightened.”“Come, take my arm.”“I don’t mind....”“We shall be home in a minute.”“If only Mamma isn’t angry with me, for staying out.... Are you coming in?”“No ... no....”“Not because you’re still angry with us?”“No, I’m not angry.”“That’s all right. Oh, I am glad! I should like to give you a motor for making me so happy!”“Those old tin kettles cost a lot of money....”“Poor Uncle! No, I don’t mean uncle....”“Here we are.”He rang the bell.“Thank you for seeing me home.”“Good-night, Marianne.”The butler opened the door; she went in. He trotted back, whistling like a boy.“Wherever have you been, Marianne?” asked Bertha.“I stayed to dinner at Aunt Constance’.”“I was anxious about you,” said Bertha.But she was glad that Constance had been so gracious.“Who brought you home?”“Uncle.”She ran up to her room. She looked in the glass, as though to read her own eyes. There she read her secret:“God help me!” she thought. “I oughtn’t to have gone. I oughtn’t to have gone. I was too weak, too weak.... Oh, if only they had never made it up, Papa and ... he!... Oh dear! I shall never go there again. It’s the last time, the last time.... O God, help me, help me!...”She sank into a chair and sat with her face hidden in her hands, not weeping, her happiness still shedding its dying rays around her, but with a rising agony; and she remained like that for a long time, with her eyes closed, as though she were dreaming and suffering, both.1The period of the novel is about 1901.2Equivalent tovousortu.Chapter VIII“And who do you think’s in town?” Van Vreeswijck asked Van der Welcke, as they were walking together.“I don’t know.”“Brauws.”“Brauws?”“Max Brauws.”“Max? Never! What, Leiden Max?”“Yes, Leiden Max. I hadn’t seen him for years.”“Nor I, of course. And what is he doing?”“Well, that’s a difficult question to answer. Shall I say, being eccentric?”“Eccentric? In what way?”“Oh, in the things he does. First one thing and then another. He’s giving lectures now. In fact, he’s a Bohemian.”“Have you spoken to him?”“Yes, he asked after you.”“I should like to see him. Does he belong to the Witte?”“No, I don’t think so.”“He’s a mad fellow. Always was mad. An interesting chap, though. And a good sort. Has he money?”“I don’t know.”“Where is he staying?”“In rooms, in the Buitenhof.”“We’re close by. Let’s go and see if he’s in.”Brauws was not in. And Van der Welcke left a card for his old college-chum, with a pencilled word.A fortnight passed; and Van der Welcke began to feel annoyed:“I’ve heard nothing from Brauws,” he said to Van Vreeswijck.“I haven’t seen him either.”“Perhaps he’s offended about something.”“Nonsense, Brauws isn’t that sort.”Van der Welcke was silent. Since the scene with the family, he was unduly sensitive, thinking that people were unfriendly, that they avoided him.“Well, if he wants to ignore my card, let him!” he said, angrily. “He can go to the devil, for all I care!”But, a couple of days later, when Van der Welcke was smoking in his little room, Truitje brought in a card.“Brauws!” exclaimed Van der Welcke.And he rushed outside:“Come upstairs, old chap!” he shouted, from the landing.In the hall stood a big, quiet man, looking up with a smile round his thick moustache.“May I come up?”“Yes, yes, come up. Upon my word, Max, I am glad....”Brauws came upstairs; the two men gripped each other’s hands.“Welckje!” said Brauws. “Mad Hans!”Van der Welcke laughed:“Yes, those were my nicknames. My dear chap, what an age since we....”He took him to his den, made him sit down, produced cigars.“No, thanks, I don’t smoke. I’m glad to see you. Why, Hans, you haven’t changed a bit. You’re a little stouter; and that’s all. Just look at the fellow! You could pass for your own son. How old are you? You’re thirty-eight ... getting on for thirty-nine. And now just look at me. I’m three years your senior; but I look old enough to be your father.”Van der Welcke laughed, pleased and flattered by the compliment paid to his youth. Their Leiden memories came up; they reminded each other of a score of incidents, speaking and laughing together in unfinished, breathless sentences which they understood at once.“And what have you been doing all this time?”“Oh, a lot! Too much to tell you all at once. And you?”“I? Nothing, nothing. You know I’m married?”“Yes, I know,” said Brauws. “But what do you do? You’re in a government-office, I suppose?”“No, Lord no, old fellow! Nothing, I just do nothing. I cycle.”They both laughed. Brauws looked at his old college-friend, almost paternally, with a quiet smile.“The beggar hasn’t changed an atom,” he said. “Yes, now that I look at you again, I see something here and there. But you’ve remained Welckje, for all that....”“But not Mad Hans,” sighed Van der Welcke.“Vreeswijck has become a great swell,” said Brauws. “And the others?”“Greater swells still.”“Not you?”“No, not I. Do you cycle?”“Sometimes.”“Have you a motor-car?”“No.”“That’s a pity. I should like to have a motor. But I can’t afford one of those sewing-machines.”Brauws roared with laughter:“Why don’t you start saving up for one?”“No, old chap, no....”“I say, do you know what’s a funny thing? While you were living in Brussels, I too was living just outside Brussels.”“Impossible!”“Yes, I was.”“And we never met?”“I so seldom went into town. If I had known....”“But what a pity!”“Yes. And what’s still funnier is that, when you were on the Riviera, I was there too.”“Look here, old fellow, you’re kidding me!”“I never knew till later that you were there also that year. But you were at Monte Carlo and I at Antibes. Just compare the dates.”They compared dates: Brauws was right.“But that was horribly unlucky.”“It couldn’t be helped. However, we’ve found each other now.”“Yes. We must see something of each other now, eh? Let’s go cycling together ... or buy a motor-car between us.”Brauws roared with laughter again:“Happy devil!” he shouted.“I?” cried Van der Welcke, a little huffed. “What’s there happy about me? I sometimes feel very miserable, very miserable indeed.”Brauws understood that he was referring to his marriage.“Here’s my boy,” said Van der Welcke, showing Addie’s photograph.“A good face. What’s he going to be?”“He’s going into the diplomatic service. I say, shall we take a stroll?”“No, I’d rather sit here and talk.”“You’re just as placid as ever....”Brauws laughed:“Outwardly, perhaps,” he said. “Inwardly, I’m anything but placid.”“Have you been abroad much?”“Yes.”“What do you do?”“Much ... and perhaps nothing. I am seeking....”“What?”“I can’t explain it in a few words. Perhaps later, when we’ve seen more of each other.”“You’re the same queer chap that you always were.Whatare you seeking?”“Something.”“There’s our old oracle. ‘Something!’ You were always fond of those short words.”“The universe lies in a word.”“Max, I can’t follow you, if you go on like that. I never could, you know.”“Tell me about yourself now, about Rome, about Brussels.”Van der Welcke, smoking, described his life, more or less briefly, through the blue clouds of his cigarette. Brauws listened:“Yes,” he said. “Women....”He had a habit of not finishing his sentences, or of saying only a single word.“And what have women done to you?” asked Van der Welcke, gaily.Brauws laughed:“Nothing much,” he said, jestingly. “Not worth talking about. There have been many women in my life ... and yet they were not there.”Van der Welcke reflected.“Women,” he said, pensively. “Sometimes, you know....”“Hans, are you in love?”“No, no!” said Van der Welcke, starting. “No, I’ve been fairly good.”“Fairly good?”“Yes, only fairly...”“You’re in love,” said Brauws, decisively.“You’re mad!” said Van der Welcke. “I wasn’t thinking of myself.... And, now, what are you doing in the Hague?”Brauws laughed:“I’m going to give lectures, not only here, but all over Holland.”“Lectures?” cried Van der Welcke, in astonishment. “What made you think of that? Do you do it to make money? Don’t you find it a bore to stand jawing in front of a lot of people for an hour at a time?”“Not a bit,” said Brauws. “I’m lecturing on Peace.”“Peace?” cried Van der Welcke, his blue orbsshining in wide-eyed young amazement through the blue haze of his cigarette-smoke. “What Peace?”“Peace, simply.”“You’re getting at me,” cried Van der Welcke.Brauws roared; and Van der Welcke too. They laughed for quite a minute or two.“Hans,” said Brauws, “how is it possible for any one to change as little as you have done? In all these years! You are just as incapable as in the old days of believing in anything serious.”“If you imagine that there’s been nothing serious in my life,” said Van der Welcke, vexed.And, with great solemnity, he once more told his friend about Constance, about his marriage, his shattered career.Brauws smiled.“You laugh, as if it all didn’t matter!” cried Van der Welcke, angrily.“What does anything matter?” said Brauws.“And your old Peace?”“Very little as yet, at any rate.... Perhaps later.... Luckily, there’s the future.”But Van der Welcke shrugged his shoulders and demolished Peace in a few ready-made sentences: there would always be war; it was one of those Utopian ideas....Brauws only smiled.“You must come and dine one day, to meet Vreeswijck,” said Van der Welcke.Brauws’ smile disappeared suddenly:“No, my dear fellow, honestly....”“Why not?”“I’m not the man for dinners.”“It won’t be a dinner. Only Vreeswijck. My wife will be very pleased.”“Yes, but I shall be putting your wife out....”“Not a bit. I’ll see if she’s at home and introduce you to her.”“No, my dear fellow, no, honestly.... I’m no ladies’ man. I’m nothing of a drawing-room person. I never know what to say.”“You surely haven’t grown shy!”“Yes, almost. With ladies ... I really don’t know what to say. No, old chap, honestly.....”His voice was full of anxious dismay.“I think it’s mean of you, to refuse to come and dine with us, quite quietly.”“Yes ... and then it’ll be a dinner of twenty people. I know.”“I shouldn’t know where to get them from. We see nobody. Nobody.”“No, no.... Well, yes, perhaps later.”He raised his hand deprecatingly, almost impatiently:“Come,” he said, “let’s go for a walk.”And, as though fearing lest Van der Welcke should still find a moment to introduce him to his wife, Brauws hurried him down the stairs. Once outside, he breathed again, recovered his usual placidity.Chapter IX“I went last night with Van Vreeswijck to hear Brauws speak at Diligentia,” said Van der Welcke, one morning. “The fellow’s inspired. He speaks extempore and magnificently; he’s an orator. A splendid fellow, the way he spoke: it was astounding.... I knew him years ago at Leiden. He was a queer chap even then. He did not belong to any particular club, not to ours either: his family is nothing out of the way. His father has a factory, I believe, somewhere in Overijssel. He himself has nothing of the tradesman about him. He used to coach us dull beggars and help us get up our examinations. I should never have passed without him. He knows about everything, he’s not only good at law. He’s read everything; he has a tremendous memory. He’s travelled a lot and done all sorts of things, but I can’t find out exactly what. Now he’s lecturing. This evening, he’s lecturing in Amsterdam. I asked him to dinner, but he refuses to come, says he’s shy with ladies. Silly fellow!”The newspapers printed lengthy reports of Brauws’ speeches on Peace. He spoke in all the large Dutch towns and in many of the smaller ones. When he was to speak at the Hague for the second time, Van der Welcke said, excitedly:“Constance, you must absolutely go and hear Brauws this evening. He’s grand. You know, I can never listen to any one for more than a quarter of an hour....”“Nor I for more than three minutes,” said Paul, who was there. “But I love to talk for an hour on end myself.”“But Brauws: the fellow electrifies you. Though I think that Peace idea of his all rot. But that makes no difference: the chap speaks magnificently.... I’m dining with Van Vreeswijck and we’re going on together.”Paul asked Constance to go with him. That evening, the little hall of Diligentia—the proceeds were to go to the fund for the Boer wounded—was full: Constance and Paul had difficulty in finding seats.“All sorts of people,” Paul observed. “A curious audience. An olla podrida of every set in the Hague. Here and there, the very select people have turned up, no doubt brought by Van Vreeswijck: look, there are the Van der Heuvel Steijns; and there’s the French minister; and there, as I live, is Van Naghel, with his colleague from the Treasury.... And look, there’s Isidore the hairdresser.... A bit of everything, a bit of everything.... How brotherly and sisterly the Hague has become this evening: it makes me feel quite sentimental!”Brauws made his entrance, to faint applause.“The fellow’s not in evening-dress; he’s wearing a frock-coat. I suppose he’s playing the demagogue or the preacher.”But he had to stop, for Brauws at once began to speak from the rostrum. He had nothing with him, not a note; and his voice was firm but very gentle. He began with a masterly exposition of the present political situation, sketching it in broad outlines, like an enormous picture, for all those people in front of him. His voice became clearer; his eyes looked through the hall, steady and bright, like two shining stars. Constance, who seldom read any political news, listened, was at once interested, wondered vaguely for a moment that she lived like that, from day to day, without knowing the times in which she lived. The present took shape before her in those few sentences of Brauws’. Then he spoke of Peace, which would be essential sooner or later, which was already making its joyous way into the mind of the nations, even though they were actually still waging war upon one another. It was as though wide and radiant vistas opened under his words; and his voice, at first so gentle, now rang through the hall, triumphantly confirming the glad tidings. He spoke without pausing, for two hours on end; and, when he stopped, the hall was breathless for a moment, the audience forgot to cheer. Then indeed applauseburst forth, jubilant; but by that time Brauws was gone. They called him back, but he did not return; and the audience streamed out.Constance and Paul were in the crush, when they saw Van Vreeswijck and Van der Welcke behind them.“Mevrouw,” said Van Vreeswijck, bowing. “What do you think of our friend?”“Wonderful,” said Constance, excitedly.“The fellow speaks well,” said Paul, “but he is too earnest. He means all he says. People don’t like that in the long run.”Van der Welcke protested vehemently, as he pushed through the close-packed crowd, and declared that he was converted, that he believed in Peace.They reached the street: the hum of the crowd floated through the wintry air.“How excited our stolid Haguers are!” said Paul.“There’s our man,” said Van Vreeswijck.“Yes, there he is!” exclaimed Van der Welcke.And he darted forwards, stopped Brauws, who was walking fast and saw nobody, and seized his hand. The others drew near. Van Vreeswijck, out of politeness, stayed by Constance, waved his hand to Brauws. Van der Welcke was in a great state of excitement:“Where are you going?” they heard him ask Brauws. “To the Witte?”“No, my dear fellow, home.”“Home?Canyou go home now? Won’t you come to the Witte? I say, do let me introduce you to my wife, to my brother-in-law....”Brauws started:“No, Hans, honestly.... No, no.... What’s the good?...”Constance heard and could not help smiling. She walked on with Van Vreeswijck and Paul.“Yes, yes,” Van der Welcke insisted.Brauws no doubt realized that Constance had heard, for he said, in a voice of despair:“Very well then, Hans....”“Constance! Paul!” cried Van der Welcke, proud of his friend, and caught them up.He would have liked to introduce Brauws to the whole world, to the whole audience streaming out of Diligentia.“Let me introduce you: my friend, Max Brauws; my wife; my brother-in-law, Van Lowe.”They shook hands. Brauws remained standing in front of Constance, shyly and awkwardly. She tried to pay him a compliment that would not sound too obvious; and, like the tactful woman that she was, she succeeded. Paul also said something; they walked on, Van Vreeswijck silently amused at Van der Welcke’s excitement and Brauws’ awkwardness.“And are you really going home? Won’t youcome to the Witte?” Van der Welcke urged, in imploring tones.“My dear Hans, what would you have me do at the Witte?”“So you’re going home.”“Yes, I’m going home, but I’ll walk a bit of the way with you.”And, wishing to appear polite, he bowed vaguely to Constance, but said nothing more.It was a delightful winter evening, with a sharp frost and a sky full of twinkling stars.“I love walking,” said Constance. “When I’ve heard anything fine—music, a play, or a speech like to-night’s—I would much rather walk than rattle home in a cab.”“My dear fellow!” cried Van der Welcke, still bubbling over with enthusiasm. “You’ve converted me! I believe in it, I believe in that Peace of yours!”Brauws gave a sudden bellow.“There, now the chap’s laughing at me again!” said Van der Welcke, in an injured tone.“Well,” said Brauws, “shall I come and fetch you in a motor to-morrow, to reward you?”They all laughed this time.“Have you got one?” cried Van der Welcke, delightedly.“No, but I can hire one,” said Brauws. “And then you can drive.”“Can you hire one? Can you hire one?” cried Van der Welcke, in delighted amazement. “And may I really drive?”And forgetting all about Peace, he was soon eagerly discussing motor-cars and motor-cycles....When they reached the Kerkhoflaan, Constance asked:“Won’t you all come in?”Van Vreeswijck and Paul said that they would be glad to come and have a glass of wine; but Brauws said:“Mevrouw, it’s so late....”“Not for us.”“Come along, Max,” said Van der Welcke.But Brauws laughed his queer, soft laugh and said:“What’s the good of my coming in?...”And he went off, with a shy bow. They all laughed.“Really, Brauws is impossible,” said Van Vreeswijck, indignantly.“And he’s forgotten to tell me at what time he’s coming for me with his old sewing-machine....”But next day, very early, in the misty winter morning, the “machine” came puffing and snorting and exploding down the Kerkhoflaan and stopped at Van der Welcke’s door with a succession of deep-drawn sighs and spasmodic gasps, as if to take breath after its exertions; and this monster as it were of livingand breathing iron, odorous of petrol—the acrid smell of its sweat—was soon surrounded by a little group of butchers’-boys and orange-hawkers. Brauws stepped out; and, as Constance happened to be coming downstairs, she received him.“I’m not fit to be seen, mevrouw. In these ‘sewing-machines,’ as Hans calls them, one becomes unpresentable at once.”He was shy, looked out at the gasping motor-car and smiled at the crowd that had gathered round:“I’m causing quite a tumult outside your door.”“They ought to be used to ‘sewing-machines’ at the Hague by now.”“That’s a very graphic word of Hans’.”They both laughed. She thought his laugh attractive and his voice soft and restful to listen to.“Mevrouw,” he said, suddenly, overcoming his bashfulness, “I hope you were not angry that I was so ungracious yesterday?...”“But you weren’t at all ungracious.”“Yes, I was, very. But what excuse can I make? I have lost the habit ... of just talking....”She smiled:“To ladies,” she said, jokingly.“Yes, about nothing ... you know ... small talk....”“You really needn’t apologize, Mr. Brauws. You had already said so many delightful things last night that I can quite understand....”“Yes, but I have said nothing this morning and....”“You wouldn’t know what to say ... about nothing. But please don’t trouble ... and make yourself at home. Henri will be down in a minute; he is very worried at not being ready.”In fact, they heard Van der Welcke upstairs, dressing excitedly; he was rushing madly round his room and shouting:“Addie! Addie! Pick me out a tie! Do be quick, boy!”And Constance rose to go. Brauws stopped her:“Mevrouw,” he said, hurriedly, “Hans asked me to dinner.”“And you refused....”“Well, you see, I’m such a bear. Don’t be angry and don’t let Hans be angry either and let me come and dine with you one day.”“So you’re inviting yourself?”“Yes.”“Very well; we shall be delighted to see you. When will you come?”“Whenever you like.”“To-morrow?”“With great pleasure.”“Would you rather come alone, or shall I ask Van Vreeswijck to meet you?”“Yes, certainly, Van Vreeswijck....”“And nobody else.”“No, nobody. But Imustn’tdictate to you.”“Why shouldn’t you, in this case?”Van der Welcke came rushing down the stairs, followed by Addie:“This is jolly of you, Max! Let’s have a look at the old machine. She’s a first-rater! And here’s my boy.... Addie, eat a bit of bread and butter, quick; then we’ll drop you at your school.”Addie laughed, quietly ate his bread and butter without sitting down:“I’ve lots of time,” he said.“So much the better ... we’ll drive you round a bit first. Quick, quick! Take your bread and butter with you in your hand!”He rushed like a madman through the dining-room and hall, hunted for his hat, couldn’t find it, shouted up the stairs, made Truitje look all over the place for his gloves, created a breezy draught all through the house. At last, he was ready:“If only I can manage the old sewing-machine! ... Tock-tock-tock-tock, tock-tock-tock-tock!... Good-bye, Constance....”He shoved Addie in front of him, made him get into the car, settled himself:“We’re off, Brauws!”“Good-bye, mevrouw. Till to-morrow then!”He ran out. Constance looked out of the window: they drove off, with Addie between them, wavinghis hand to her, while Brauws was showing Van der Welcke—much too quick, too wild, too impatient—how to work the “sewing-machine” and obviously asking him to be careful....

Chapter VIAt Addie’s wish, at the little schoolboy’s wish, the Van der Welckes responded to Van Naghel’s advances and Constance sent a note. The visit was paid and the brothers-in-law shook hands. Van der Welcke himself shrugged his shoulders over the whole business; but Addie was pleased, started going for walks again with Frans and spoke to Karel again at the grammar-school, though he did not much care for him. Two days later, Marianne called in the afternoon, when the rain was coming down in torrents. Constance was at home. The girl stood in the door-way of the drawing-room:“May I come in, Auntie?...”“Of course, Marianne, do.”“I don’t like to: I’m rather wet.”“Nonsense, come in!”And the girl suddenly ran in and threw herself on her knees beside Constance, almost with a scream:“I am so glad, I am so glad!” she cried.“Why?”“That Uncle wrote to Papa ... that Papa and Mamma have been here ... that everything is all right again.... It was so dreadful; it kept me from sleeping. I kept on thinking about it. Itwas a sort of nightmare, an obsession. Auntie, dear Auntie, is everything all right now?”“Yes, certainly, child.”“Really all right?... Are you coming to us again ... and may I come and see you ... and will you ask me to dinner again soon? Is everything all right, really all right?”She snuggled up to her aunt like a child, putting her head against Constance’ knees, stroking her hands:“You will ask me again soon, Auntie, won’t you? I love coming to you, I simply love it. I should have missed it so, I can’t tell you how much....”Her voice broke, as she knelt by Constance’ side, and she suddenly burst into tears, sobbing out her words so excitedly that Constance was startled, thinking it almost unnatural, absurd:“I was nearly coming to you before Papa and Mamma had been.... But I didn’t dare.... I was afraid Papa would be angry.... But I can come now, it’s all right now....”“Yes, it’s all right now....”She kissed Marianne. But the door opened and Van der Welcke entered.“How do you do, Uncle?”He always thought it odd when Marianne called him uncle, just like that:“Is it you, Marianne?... Constance, did I leave myFigarodown here?”“TheFigaro? No....”He hunted for his paper and then sat down.“Uncle,” said Marianne, “I’ve just been telling Auntie, I’m so glad, I’m so glad that everything’s settled.”“So am I, Marianne.”Outside, the rain came pelting down, lashed by the howling wind. Inside, all was cosiness, with Constance pouring out the tea and telling them about Nice, while Marianne talked about Emilie and Van Raven and how they were not getting on very well together and how Otto and Frances were also beginning to squabble and how Mamma took it all to heart and allowed it to depress her:“I sha’n’t get married,” she said. “I see nothing but unhappy marriages around me. I sha’n’t get married.”Then she started. She had a knack of behaving awkwardly and tactlessly, of saying things which she ought not to say. Van der Welcke looked at her, smiling. To make up for her indiscretion, she was more demonstrative than ever, profuse in exclamations of delight:“Oh, Auntie, how glad I am to be with you once more!... I must be off presently in the rain.... I wish I could stay....”“But stay and dine,” said Van der Welcke.Constance hesitated: she saw that Marianne would like to stop on and she did not know what todo, did not wish to seem ungracious; and yet....“Will you stay to dinner?” she asked.Marianne beamed with joy:“Oh, I should love to, Auntie! Mamma knows I’m here; she’ll understand....”Constance was sorry that she had asked her; her nerves were feeling the strain of it all; but she was determined to control herself, to behave naturally and ordinarily. She could see it plainly: they were too fond of each other!They were in love! Long before, she had seemed to guess it, when she saw them together, at her little dinners. The veriest trifle—an intonation of voice, a laughing phrase, the passing of a dish of fruit—had made her seem to guess it. Then the vague thought that went through her mind, like a little cloud, would vanish at once, leaving not even a shadow behind it. But the cloud had come drifting again and again, brought by a gesture, a glance, a how-do-you-do or good-bye, an appointment for a bicycle ride. On such occasions, the brothers had always gone too—so had Addie—and there had never been anything that was in the least incorrect; and at the little dinners there was never a joke that went too far, nor an attempt at flirtation, nor the very least resemblance to love-making. And therefore those vague thoughts had always drifted away again, like clouds; and Constance would think:“There is nothing, there is nothing. I am mistaken. I am imagining something that doesn’t exist.”She had not seen them together for two months; and she knew, had understood from a word dropped here and there, that Van der Welcke had not seen Marianne during those two months which had passed since that Sunday evening. And now, suddenly, she was struck by it: the shy, almost glad hesitation while the girl was standing at the door of Constance’ drawing-room; her unconcealed delight at being able to come back to this house; the almost unnatural joy with which she had sobbed at Constance’ knee ... until Van der Welcke came in, after doubtless recognizing the sound of her voice in his little smoking-room, as transparent as a child, with his clumsy excuse of searching for a newspaper. And now at once she was struck by it: the almost insuppressible affection with which they had greeted each other, with a certain smiling radiance that beamed from them, involuntarily, irresistibly, unconsciously.... But still Constance thought:“I am mistaken, there is nothing; and I am imagining something that doesn’t exist.”And the thought passed away, that they were really in love with each other; only this time there remained a faint wonder, a doubt, which had never been there before. And, while she talked aboutNice, it struck her that Van der Welcke was still there ... that he was staying on in her drawing-room, a thing which he never did except when Paul was there, or Gerrit.... He sat on, without saying much; but that happy smile never left his lips.... Yet she still thought:“I am mistaken; it is only imagination; there is nothing, or at most a little mutual attraction; and what harm is there in that?”But, be this as it might, she, who was so jealous where her son was concerned, now felt not the least shade of jealousy amid her wondering doubts. Yes, it was all gone, any love, passion, sentiment that she had ever entertained for Henri. It was quite dead.... And, now that he smiled like that, she noticed, with a sort of surprise, how young he was:“He is thirty-eight,” she thought, “and looks even younger.”As he sat there, calmly, always with the light of a smile on his face, it struck her that he was very young, with a healthy, youthful freshness, and that he had not a wrinkle, not a grey hair in his head.... His blue eyes were almost the eyes of a child. Even Addie’s eyes, though they were like his father’s, were more serious, had an older look.... And, at the sight of that youthfulness, she thought herself old, even though she was now showing Marianne the pretty photograph from Nice.... Yes, she felt old; and she was hardly surprised—if it was so, if she was not mistaken—at that youthfulness in her husband and at his possible love for that young girl.... Marianne’s youth seemed to be nearer to his own youth.... And sometimes it was so evident that she almost ceased doubting and promised herself to be careful, not to encourage Marianne, not to invite her any more....Unconscious: was it unconscious, thought Constance, on their part? Had they ever exchanged a more affectionate word, a pressure of the hand, a glance? Had they already confessed it to each other ... and to themselves? And a delicate intuition told her:“No, they have confessed nothing to each other; no, they have not even confessed anything to themselves.”Perhaps neither of them knew it yet; and, if so, Constance was the only one who knew. She looked at Marianne: the girl was very young, even though she had been out a year or two. She had something of Emilie’s fragility, but she was more natural, franker; and that natural frankness showed in her whole attitude: she seemed not to think, but to allow herself to be dragged along by impulse, by sentiment.... She looked out with her smile at the pelting rain, nestled deeper in her chair, luxuriously, like a kitten, then suddenly jumped up, poured out a cup of tea for Constance and herself; and, when Van der Welcke begged his wife’s leave to smoke acigarette, she sprang up again, struck a match, held the light to him, with a fragile grace of gesture like a little statue. Her pale-brown eyes, with a touch of gold-dust over them, were like chrysolite; and they gazed up enthusiastically and then cast their glance downwards timidly, under the shade of their lids. She was pale, with the anæmic pallor of alabaster, the pallor of our jaded society-girls; and her hands moved feverishly and restlessly, as though the fingers were constantly seeking an object for their butterfly sensitiveness....Was it so? Or was it all Constance’ imagination? And, amidst her wondering doubts, there came suddenly—if it really was so—a spasm of jealousy; but not jealousy of her husband’s love: jealousy of his youth. She suddenly looked back fifteen years and felt herself grown old, felt him remaining young. Life, real life, for which she sometimes had a vague yearning, while she felt herself too old for it, after frittering away her days: that life he would perhaps still be able to live, if he met with it. He at least was not too old for it!It all filled her with a passion of misery and anger; and then again she thought:“No, there is nothing; and I am imagining all manner of things that do not exist.”Addie came home; and, with the rain pelting outside, there was a gentle cosiness indoors, at table. Constance was silent, but the others were cheerful.And, when, after tea had been served, the fury out of doors seemed to have subsided, Marianne stood up, almost too unwilling to go away:“It’s time for me to go, Auntie....”“Shall Addie see you home?”“No, Addie’s working,” said Van der Welcke. “I’ll see Marianne home.”Constance said nothing.“Oh, Auntie,” said Marianne, “I am so glad that everything’s settled!”She kissed Constance passionately.“Uncle, isn’t it a nuisance for you to go all that way with me?”“I wish I had a bicycle for you!...”“Yes, if only we had our tandem here!”“It’s stopped raining; we shall be able to walk.”They went, leaving Constance alone. Her eyes were eager to follow them along the street. She could not help herself, softly opened a window, looked out into the damp winter night. She saw them go towards the Bankastraat. They were walking side by side, quite ordinarily. She watched them for a minute or two, until they turned the corner:“No,” she said, “there is nothing. Oh, it would be too dreadful!”

Chapter VI

At Addie’s wish, at the little schoolboy’s wish, the Van der Welckes responded to Van Naghel’s advances and Constance sent a note. The visit was paid and the brothers-in-law shook hands. Van der Welcke himself shrugged his shoulders over the whole business; but Addie was pleased, started going for walks again with Frans and spoke to Karel again at the grammar-school, though he did not much care for him. Two days later, Marianne called in the afternoon, when the rain was coming down in torrents. Constance was at home. The girl stood in the door-way of the drawing-room:“May I come in, Auntie?...”“Of course, Marianne, do.”“I don’t like to: I’m rather wet.”“Nonsense, come in!”And the girl suddenly ran in and threw herself on her knees beside Constance, almost with a scream:“I am so glad, I am so glad!” she cried.“Why?”“That Uncle wrote to Papa ... that Papa and Mamma have been here ... that everything is all right again.... It was so dreadful; it kept me from sleeping. I kept on thinking about it. Itwas a sort of nightmare, an obsession. Auntie, dear Auntie, is everything all right now?”“Yes, certainly, child.”“Really all right?... Are you coming to us again ... and may I come and see you ... and will you ask me to dinner again soon? Is everything all right, really all right?”She snuggled up to her aunt like a child, putting her head against Constance’ knees, stroking her hands:“You will ask me again soon, Auntie, won’t you? I love coming to you, I simply love it. I should have missed it so, I can’t tell you how much....”Her voice broke, as she knelt by Constance’ side, and she suddenly burst into tears, sobbing out her words so excitedly that Constance was startled, thinking it almost unnatural, absurd:“I was nearly coming to you before Papa and Mamma had been.... But I didn’t dare.... I was afraid Papa would be angry.... But I can come now, it’s all right now....”“Yes, it’s all right now....”She kissed Marianne. But the door opened and Van der Welcke entered.“How do you do, Uncle?”He always thought it odd when Marianne called him uncle, just like that:“Is it you, Marianne?... Constance, did I leave myFigarodown here?”“TheFigaro? No....”He hunted for his paper and then sat down.“Uncle,” said Marianne, “I’ve just been telling Auntie, I’m so glad, I’m so glad that everything’s settled.”“So am I, Marianne.”Outside, the rain came pelting down, lashed by the howling wind. Inside, all was cosiness, with Constance pouring out the tea and telling them about Nice, while Marianne talked about Emilie and Van Raven and how they were not getting on very well together and how Otto and Frances were also beginning to squabble and how Mamma took it all to heart and allowed it to depress her:“I sha’n’t get married,” she said. “I see nothing but unhappy marriages around me. I sha’n’t get married.”Then she started. She had a knack of behaving awkwardly and tactlessly, of saying things which she ought not to say. Van der Welcke looked at her, smiling. To make up for her indiscretion, she was more demonstrative than ever, profuse in exclamations of delight:“Oh, Auntie, how glad I am to be with you once more!... I must be off presently in the rain.... I wish I could stay....”“But stay and dine,” said Van der Welcke.Constance hesitated: she saw that Marianne would like to stop on and she did not know what todo, did not wish to seem ungracious; and yet....“Will you stay to dinner?” she asked.Marianne beamed with joy:“Oh, I should love to, Auntie! Mamma knows I’m here; she’ll understand....”Constance was sorry that she had asked her; her nerves were feeling the strain of it all; but she was determined to control herself, to behave naturally and ordinarily. She could see it plainly: they were too fond of each other!They were in love! Long before, she had seemed to guess it, when she saw them together, at her little dinners. The veriest trifle—an intonation of voice, a laughing phrase, the passing of a dish of fruit—had made her seem to guess it. Then the vague thought that went through her mind, like a little cloud, would vanish at once, leaving not even a shadow behind it. But the cloud had come drifting again and again, brought by a gesture, a glance, a how-do-you-do or good-bye, an appointment for a bicycle ride. On such occasions, the brothers had always gone too—so had Addie—and there had never been anything that was in the least incorrect; and at the little dinners there was never a joke that went too far, nor an attempt at flirtation, nor the very least resemblance to love-making. And therefore those vague thoughts had always drifted away again, like clouds; and Constance would think:“There is nothing, there is nothing. I am mistaken. I am imagining something that doesn’t exist.”She had not seen them together for two months; and she knew, had understood from a word dropped here and there, that Van der Welcke had not seen Marianne during those two months which had passed since that Sunday evening. And now, suddenly, she was struck by it: the shy, almost glad hesitation while the girl was standing at the door of Constance’ drawing-room; her unconcealed delight at being able to come back to this house; the almost unnatural joy with which she had sobbed at Constance’ knee ... until Van der Welcke came in, after doubtless recognizing the sound of her voice in his little smoking-room, as transparent as a child, with his clumsy excuse of searching for a newspaper. And now at once she was struck by it: the almost insuppressible affection with which they had greeted each other, with a certain smiling radiance that beamed from them, involuntarily, irresistibly, unconsciously.... But still Constance thought:“I am mistaken, there is nothing; and I am imagining something that doesn’t exist.”And the thought passed away, that they were really in love with each other; only this time there remained a faint wonder, a doubt, which had never been there before. And, while she talked aboutNice, it struck her that Van der Welcke was still there ... that he was staying on in her drawing-room, a thing which he never did except when Paul was there, or Gerrit.... He sat on, without saying much; but that happy smile never left his lips.... Yet she still thought:“I am mistaken; it is only imagination; there is nothing, or at most a little mutual attraction; and what harm is there in that?”But, be this as it might, she, who was so jealous where her son was concerned, now felt not the least shade of jealousy amid her wondering doubts. Yes, it was all gone, any love, passion, sentiment that she had ever entertained for Henri. It was quite dead.... And, now that he smiled like that, she noticed, with a sort of surprise, how young he was:“He is thirty-eight,” she thought, “and looks even younger.”As he sat there, calmly, always with the light of a smile on his face, it struck her that he was very young, with a healthy, youthful freshness, and that he had not a wrinkle, not a grey hair in his head.... His blue eyes were almost the eyes of a child. Even Addie’s eyes, though they were like his father’s, were more serious, had an older look.... And, at the sight of that youthfulness, she thought herself old, even though she was now showing Marianne the pretty photograph from Nice.... Yes, she felt old; and she was hardly surprised—if it was so, if she was not mistaken—at that youthfulness in her husband and at his possible love for that young girl.... Marianne’s youth seemed to be nearer to his own youth.... And sometimes it was so evident that she almost ceased doubting and promised herself to be careful, not to encourage Marianne, not to invite her any more....Unconscious: was it unconscious, thought Constance, on their part? Had they ever exchanged a more affectionate word, a pressure of the hand, a glance? Had they already confessed it to each other ... and to themselves? And a delicate intuition told her:“No, they have confessed nothing to each other; no, they have not even confessed anything to themselves.”Perhaps neither of them knew it yet; and, if so, Constance was the only one who knew. She looked at Marianne: the girl was very young, even though she had been out a year or two. She had something of Emilie’s fragility, but she was more natural, franker; and that natural frankness showed in her whole attitude: she seemed not to think, but to allow herself to be dragged along by impulse, by sentiment.... She looked out with her smile at the pelting rain, nestled deeper in her chair, luxuriously, like a kitten, then suddenly jumped up, poured out a cup of tea for Constance and herself; and, when Van der Welcke begged his wife’s leave to smoke acigarette, she sprang up again, struck a match, held the light to him, with a fragile grace of gesture like a little statue. Her pale-brown eyes, with a touch of gold-dust over them, were like chrysolite; and they gazed up enthusiastically and then cast their glance downwards timidly, under the shade of their lids. She was pale, with the anæmic pallor of alabaster, the pallor of our jaded society-girls; and her hands moved feverishly and restlessly, as though the fingers were constantly seeking an object for their butterfly sensitiveness....Was it so? Or was it all Constance’ imagination? And, amidst her wondering doubts, there came suddenly—if it really was so—a spasm of jealousy; but not jealousy of her husband’s love: jealousy of his youth. She suddenly looked back fifteen years and felt herself grown old, felt him remaining young. Life, real life, for which she sometimes had a vague yearning, while she felt herself too old for it, after frittering away her days: that life he would perhaps still be able to live, if he met with it. He at least was not too old for it!It all filled her with a passion of misery and anger; and then again she thought:“No, there is nothing; and I am imagining all manner of things that do not exist.”Addie came home; and, with the rain pelting outside, there was a gentle cosiness indoors, at table. Constance was silent, but the others were cheerful.And, when, after tea had been served, the fury out of doors seemed to have subsided, Marianne stood up, almost too unwilling to go away:“It’s time for me to go, Auntie....”“Shall Addie see you home?”“No, Addie’s working,” said Van der Welcke. “I’ll see Marianne home.”Constance said nothing.“Oh, Auntie,” said Marianne, “I am so glad that everything’s settled!”She kissed Constance passionately.“Uncle, isn’t it a nuisance for you to go all that way with me?”“I wish I had a bicycle for you!...”“Yes, if only we had our tandem here!”“It’s stopped raining; we shall be able to walk.”They went, leaving Constance alone. Her eyes were eager to follow them along the street. She could not help herself, softly opened a window, looked out into the damp winter night. She saw them go towards the Bankastraat. They were walking side by side, quite ordinarily. She watched them for a minute or two, until they turned the corner:“No,” she said, “there is nothing. Oh, it would be too dreadful!”

At Addie’s wish, at the little schoolboy’s wish, the Van der Welckes responded to Van Naghel’s advances and Constance sent a note. The visit was paid and the brothers-in-law shook hands. Van der Welcke himself shrugged his shoulders over the whole business; but Addie was pleased, started going for walks again with Frans and spoke to Karel again at the grammar-school, though he did not much care for him. Two days later, Marianne called in the afternoon, when the rain was coming down in torrents. Constance was at home. The girl stood in the door-way of the drawing-room:

“May I come in, Auntie?...”

“Of course, Marianne, do.”

“I don’t like to: I’m rather wet.”

“Nonsense, come in!”

And the girl suddenly ran in and threw herself on her knees beside Constance, almost with a scream:

“I am so glad, I am so glad!” she cried.

“Why?”

“That Uncle wrote to Papa ... that Papa and Mamma have been here ... that everything is all right again.... It was so dreadful; it kept me from sleeping. I kept on thinking about it. Itwas a sort of nightmare, an obsession. Auntie, dear Auntie, is everything all right now?”

“Yes, certainly, child.”

“Really all right?... Are you coming to us again ... and may I come and see you ... and will you ask me to dinner again soon? Is everything all right, really all right?”

She snuggled up to her aunt like a child, putting her head against Constance’ knees, stroking her hands:

“You will ask me again soon, Auntie, won’t you? I love coming to you, I simply love it. I should have missed it so, I can’t tell you how much....”

Her voice broke, as she knelt by Constance’ side, and she suddenly burst into tears, sobbing out her words so excitedly that Constance was startled, thinking it almost unnatural, absurd:

“I was nearly coming to you before Papa and Mamma had been.... But I didn’t dare.... I was afraid Papa would be angry.... But I can come now, it’s all right now....”

“Yes, it’s all right now....”

She kissed Marianne. But the door opened and Van der Welcke entered.

“How do you do, Uncle?”

He always thought it odd when Marianne called him uncle, just like that:

“Is it you, Marianne?... Constance, did I leave myFigarodown here?”

“TheFigaro? No....”

He hunted for his paper and then sat down.

“Uncle,” said Marianne, “I’ve just been telling Auntie, I’m so glad, I’m so glad that everything’s settled.”

“So am I, Marianne.”

Outside, the rain came pelting down, lashed by the howling wind. Inside, all was cosiness, with Constance pouring out the tea and telling them about Nice, while Marianne talked about Emilie and Van Raven and how they were not getting on very well together and how Otto and Frances were also beginning to squabble and how Mamma took it all to heart and allowed it to depress her:

“I sha’n’t get married,” she said. “I see nothing but unhappy marriages around me. I sha’n’t get married.”

Then she started. She had a knack of behaving awkwardly and tactlessly, of saying things which she ought not to say. Van der Welcke looked at her, smiling. To make up for her indiscretion, she was more demonstrative than ever, profuse in exclamations of delight:

“Oh, Auntie, how glad I am to be with you once more!... I must be off presently in the rain.... I wish I could stay....”

“But stay and dine,” said Van der Welcke.

Constance hesitated: she saw that Marianne would like to stop on and she did not know what todo, did not wish to seem ungracious; and yet....

“Will you stay to dinner?” she asked.

Marianne beamed with joy:

“Oh, I should love to, Auntie! Mamma knows I’m here; she’ll understand....”

Constance was sorry that she had asked her; her nerves were feeling the strain of it all; but she was determined to control herself, to behave naturally and ordinarily. She could see it plainly: they were too fond of each other!

They were in love! Long before, she had seemed to guess it, when she saw them together, at her little dinners. The veriest trifle—an intonation of voice, a laughing phrase, the passing of a dish of fruit—had made her seem to guess it. Then the vague thought that went through her mind, like a little cloud, would vanish at once, leaving not even a shadow behind it. But the cloud had come drifting again and again, brought by a gesture, a glance, a how-do-you-do or good-bye, an appointment for a bicycle ride. On such occasions, the brothers had always gone too—so had Addie—and there had never been anything that was in the least incorrect; and at the little dinners there was never a joke that went too far, nor an attempt at flirtation, nor the very least resemblance to love-making. And therefore those vague thoughts had always drifted away again, like clouds; and Constance would think:

“There is nothing, there is nothing. I am mistaken. I am imagining something that doesn’t exist.”

She had not seen them together for two months; and she knew, had understood from a word dropped here and there, that Van der Welcke had not seen Marianne during those two months which had passed since that Sunday evening. And now, suddenly, she was struck by it: the shy, almost glad hesitation while the girl was standing at the door of Constance’ drawing-room; her unconcealed delight at being able to come back to this house; the almost unnatural joy with which she had sobbed at Constance’ knee ... until Van der Welcke came in, after doubtless recognizing the sound of her voice in his little smoking-room, as transparent as a child, with his clumsy excuse of searching for a newspaper. And now at once she was struck by it: the almost insuppressible affection with which they had greeted each other, with a certain smiling radiance that beamed from them, involuntarily, irresistibly, unconsciously.... But still Constance thought:

“I am mistaken, there is nothing; and I am imagining something that doesn’t exist.”

And the thought passed away, that they were really in love with each other; only this time there remained a faint wonder, a doubt, which had never been there before. And, while she talked aboutNice, it struck her that Van der Welcke was still there ... that he was staying on in her drawing-room, a thing which he never did except when Paul was there, or Gerrit.... He sat on, without saying much; but that happy smile never left his lips.... Yet she still thought:

“I am mistaken; it is only imagination; there is nothing, or at most a little mutual attraction; and what harm is there in that?”

But, be this as it might, she, who was so jealous where her son was concerned, now felt not the least shade of jealousy amid her wondering doubts. Yes, it was all gone, any love, passion, sentiment that she had ever entertained for Henri. It was quite dead.... And, now that he smiled like that, she noticed, with a sort of surprise, how young he was:

“He is thirty-eight,” she thought, “and looks even younger.”

As he sat there, calmly, always with the light of a smile on his face, it struck her that he was very young, with a healthy, youthful freshness, and that he had not a wrinkle, not a grey hair in his head.... His blue eyes were almost the eyes of a child. Even Addie’s eyes, though they were like his father’s, were more serious, had an older look.... And, at the sight of that youthfulness, she thought herself old, even though she was now showing Marianne the pretty photograph from Nice.... Yes, she felt old; and she was hardly surprised—if it was so, if she was not mistaken—at that youthfulness in her husband and at his possible love for that young girl.... Marianne’s youth seemed to be nearer to his own youth.... And sometimes it was so evident that she almost ceased doubting and promised herself to be careful, not to encourage Marianne, not to invite her any more....

Unconscious: was it unconscious, thought Constance, on their part? Had they ever exchanged a more affectionate word, a pressure of the hand, a glance? Had they already confessed it to each other ... and to themselves? And a delicate intuition told her:

“No, they have confessed nothing to each other; no, they have not even confessed anything to themselves.”

Perhaps neither of them knew it yet; and, if so, Constance was the only one who knew. She looked at Marianne: the girl was very young, even though she had been out a year or two. She had something of Emilie’s fragility, but she was more natural, franker; and that natural frankness showed in her whole attitude: she seemed not to think, but to allow herself to be dragged along by impulse, by sentiment.... She looked out with her smile at the pelting rain, nestled deeper in her chair, luxuriously, like a kitten, then suddenly jumped up, poured out a cup of tea for Constance and herself; and, when Van der Welcke begged his wife’s leave to smoke acigarette, she sprang up again, struck a match, held the light to him, with a fragile grace of gesture like a little statue. Her pale-brown eyes, with a touch of gold-dust over them, were like chrysolite; and they gazed up enthusiastically and then cast their glance downwards timidly, under the shade of their lids. She was pale, with the anæmic pallor of alabaster, the pallor of our jaded society-girls; and her hands moved feverishly and restlessly, as though the fingers were constantly seeking an object for their butterfly sensitiveness....

Was it so? Or was it all Constance’ imagination? And, amidst her wondering doubts, there came suddenly—if it really was so—a spasm of jealousy; but not jealousy of her husband’s love: jealousy of his youth. She suddenly looked back fifteen years and felt herself grown old, felt him remaining young. Life, real life, for which she sometimes had a vague yearning, while she felt herself too old for it, after frittering away her days: that life he would perhaps still be able to live, if he met with it. He at least was not too old for it!

It all filled her with a passion of misery and anger; and then again she thought:

“No, there is nothing; and I am imagining all manner of things that do not exist.”

Addie came home; and, with the rain pelting outside, there was a gentle cosiness indoors, at table. Constance was silent, but the others were cheerful.And, when, after tea had been served, the fury out of doors seemed to have subsided, Marianne stood up, almost too unwilling to go away:

“It’s time for me to go, Auntie....”

“Shall Addie see you home?”

“No, Addie’s working,” said Van der Welcke. “I’ll see Marianne home.”

Constance said nothing.

“Oh, Auntie,” said Marianne, “I am so glad that everything’s settled!”

She kissed Constance passionately.

“Uncle, isn’t it a nuisance for you to go all that way with me?”

“I wish I had a bicycle for you!...”

“Yes, if only we had our tandem here!”

“It’s stopped raining; we shall be able to walk.”

They went, leaving Constance alone. Her eyes were eager to follow them along the street. She could not help herself, softly opened a window, looked out into the damp winter night. She saw them go towards the Bankastraat. They were walking side by side, quite ordinarily. She watched them for a minute or two, until they turned the corner:

“No,” she said, “there is nothing. Oh, it would be too dreadful!”

Chapter VIIVan der Welcke and Marianne went side by side.“How deliciously fresh it is now,” she almost carolled. “The wind has gone down and the air is lovely; and look, how beautiful the sky is with those last black clouds.... Oh, I think it so ripping, that everything’s all right again between you and Papa! I did feel it so. You know how fond I am of both of you, Aunt Constance and you, and of Addie; and it was all so sad.... Tell me, does Auntie still feel bitter about it? I expect she does.... Ah, I understand quite well now ... that she would have liked to come to our house ... officially, let me say! But why not first have spoken to Mamma ... or to me, who am so fond of you? Then we could have seen: we might have thought of something. As it was, Mamma was so startled by that unexpected visit.... Poor Aunt Constance, she isn’t happy! How sad that you and she aren’t happier together! Oh, I could cry about it at times: it seems such a shame!... A man and woman married ... and then ... and then what I so often see!... I oughtn’t to have said what I did before dinner, it was stupid of me; but I may speak now, mayn’t I?... Oh, I sha’n’t marry, I won’t marry!... To be married like Otto and Frances,like Emilie and Van Raven: I think it dreadful. Or like you and Auntie: I should think it dreadful. Can’t you be happier together? Not even for Addie’s sake? I wish you could; it would make me so happy. I can’t bear it, when you and Auntie quarrel.... She was sweet and gentle to-night, but so very quiet. She is so nice.... That was a mad fit of hers, to go abroad so suddenly; but then she had had so much to vex her. Oh, those two old aunts: I could have murdered them! I can hear them now!... Poor Auntie! Do try and be a little nice to her.... Has this been going on between you for years? Don’t you love each other any longer?... No, I sha’n’t marry, I sha’n’t marry, I shall never marry.”“Come, Marianne: if some one comes along whom you get to love....”“No, I shall never marry.... I might expect too much of my husband. I should really want to find something beautiful, some great joy, in my love ... and to marry for the sake of marrying, like Frances or Emilie, is a thing I couldn’t, couldn’t do.... Otto is fonder of Louise than of his wife; and lately Emilie and Henri are inseparable.... In our family there has always been that affection between brother and sister. But it is too strong, far too strong. It doesn’t make them happy. I’ve never felt it in that way, fond as I am of my brothers.... No, I should place theman I love above everybody, above everybody.... But I suppose you’re laughing ... at my bread-and-butter notions....”“No, I’m not laughing, Marianne; and, just as you would like to see Aunt Constance and me happy, so I should like to see you happy ... with a man whom you loved.”“That will never be, Uncle; no, that will never be.”“How can you tell?”“Oh, I feel it, I feel it!...”“Come, I’ll have a bet on it,” he said, laughingly.“No, Uncle,” she said, with a pained smile, “I won’t bet on a thing like that....”“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Marianne....”“I know that....”“But you mustn’t be so melancholy, at your age. You’re so young....”“Twenty-one. That’s quite old.”“Old! Old! What about me?”She laughed:“Oh, you’re young! A man....”“Is always young?”“Not always. But you are.”“A young uncle?”“Yes, a young uncle.... A woman gets old quicker....”“So, when you’re old and I am still young, we shall be about the same age.”She laughed:“What a calculation! No, you’re older. But age doesn’t go by years.”“No. I sometimes have very young wishes. Do you know what I have been longing for since yesterday, like a baby, like a boy?”“No.”“A motor-car.”She laughed, with a laugh like little tinkling bells:“A motor-car?”“Wouldn’t it be delightful? To go tearing and tearing over fields and roads, through clouds of dust....”“You’re becoming poetic!”“Yes, it’s making me poetic....”“And the smell of the petrol?... The mask and goggles against the dust?... The hideous dress?...”“Oh, that’s nothing!... To tear and fly along, faster and faster, at a mad pace....”“I have never been in a motor-car....”1“I have, in Brussels, in a friend’s car. There’s nothing to come up to it.”Her laugh tinkled out again:“Yes, now you’re most certainly like a boy!”“I’m so young?”“O young Uncle!”“You oughtn’t to call me uncle, Marianne: I’m too young for it.”The tinkling bells:“What am I to call you then?”“Anything you like. Not uncle.”“Nunkie?”“No, no....”“But I can’t call you Henri ... or Van der Welcke?”“No, that’s too difficult. Better say nothing.”The tinkling bells:“Nothing. Very well.... But am I to sayUorje?”2“Sayje.”“But it seems so funny ... before people!”“People, people! You can’t always bother about people.”“But I have to: I’m a girl!”“Oh, Marianne, people are always a nuisance!”“A desert island would be the thing.”“Yes, a desert island....”“With a motor-car....”“And just you and me.”They both laughed; and her little bells tinkled through his boyish laugh.“What a perfect night!”“Perfect: the air is so crisp....”“Marianne....”“Yes, Uncle....”“No, not uncle.... You must be my little friend.... Not a niece.... I’ve never had a girl-friend.”“Your little friend?... But I am!”“Well, that’s all right.”“Look, how dark it is in the Wood.... People say it’s dangerous. Is it, Uncle? No, I didn’t mean to say uncle....”“Sometimes. Are you frightened? Take my arm.”“No, I’m not frightened.”“Come, take my arm.”“I don’t mind....”“We shall be home in a minute.”“If only Mamma isn’t angry with me, for staying out.... Are you coming in?”“No ... no....”“Not because you’re still angry with us?”“No, I’m not angry.”“That’s all right. Oh, I am glad! I should like to give you a motor for making me so happy!”“Those old tin kettles cost a lot of money....”“Poor Uncle! No, I don’t mean uncle....”“Here we are.”He rang the bell.“Thank you for seeing me home.”“Good-night, Marianne.”The butler opened the door; she went in. He trotted back, whistling like a boy.“Wherever have you been, Marianne?” asked Bertha.“I stayed to dinner at Aunt Constance’.”“I was anxious about you,” said Bertha.But she was glad that Constance had been so gracious.“Who brought you home?”“Uncle.”She ran up to her room. She looked in the glass, as though to read her own eyes. There she read her secret:“God help me!” she thought. “I oughtn’t to have gone. I oughtn’t to have gone. I was too weak, too weak.... Oh, if only they had never made it up, Papa and ... he!... Oh dear! I shall never go there again. It’s the last time, the last time.... O God, help me, help me!...”She sank into a chair and sat with her face hidden in her hands, not weeping, her happiness still shedding its dying rays around her, but with a rising agony; and she remained like that for a long time, with her eyes closed, as though she were dreaming and suffering, both.1The period of the novel is about 1901.2Equivalent tovousortu.

Chapter VII

Van der Welcke and Marianne went side by side.“How deliciously fresh it is now,” she almost carolled. “The wind has gone down and the air is lovely; and look, how beautiful the sky is with those last black clouds.... Oh, I think it so ripping, that everything’s all right again between you and Papa! I did feel it so. You know how fond I am of both of you, Aunt Constance and you, and of Addie; and it was all so sad.... Tell me, does Auntie still feel bitter about it? I expect she does.... Ah, I understand quite well now ... that she would have liked to come to our house ... officially, let me say! But why not first have spoken to Mamma ... or to me, who am so fond of you? Then we could have seen: we might have thought of something. As it was, Mamma was so startled by that unexpected visit.... Poor Aunt Constance, she isn’t happy! How sad that you and she aren’t happier together! Oh, I could cry about it at times: it seems such a shame!... A man and woman married ... and then ... and then what I so often see!... I oughtn’t to have said what I did before dinner, it was stupid of me; but I may speak now, mayn’t I?... Oh, I sha’n’t marry, I won’t marry!... To be married like Otto and Frances,like Emilie and Van Raven: I think it dreadful. Or like you and Auntie: I should think it dreadful. Can’t you be happier together? Not even for Addie’s sake? I wish you could; it would make me so happy. I can’t bear it, when you and Auntie quarrel.... She was sweet and gentle to-night, but so very quiet. She is so nice.... That was a mad fit of hers, to go abroad so suddenly; but then she had had so much to vex her. Oh, those two old aunts: I could have murdered them! I can hear them now!... Poor Auntie! Do try and be a little nice to her.... Has this been going on between you for years? Don’t you love each other any longer?... No, I sha’n’t marry, I sha’n’t marry, I shall never marry.”“Come, Marianne: if some one comes along whom you get to love....”“No, I shall never marry.... I might expect too much of my husband. I should really want to find something beautiful, some great joy, in my love ... and to marry for the sake of marrying, like Frances or Emilie, is a thing I couldn’t, couldn’t do.... Otto is fonder of Louise than of his wife; and lately Emilie and Henri are inseparable.... In our family there has always been that affection between brother and sister. But it is too strong, far too strong. It doesn’t make them happy. I’ve never felt it in that way, fond as I am of my brothers.... No, I should place theman I love above everybody, above everybody.... But I suppose you’re laughing ... at my bread-and-butter notions....”“No, I’m not laughing, Marianne; and, just as you would like to see Aunt Constance and me happy, so I should like to see you happy ... with a man whom you loved.”“That will never be, Uncle; no, that will never be.”“How can you tell?”“Oh, I feel it, I feel it!...”“Come, I’ll have a bet on it,” he said, laughingly.“No, Uncle,” she said, with a pained smile, “I won’t bet on a thing like that....”“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Marianne....”“I know that....”“But you mustn’t be so melancholy, at your age. You’re so young....”“Twenty-one. That’s quite old.”“Old! Old! What about me?”She laughed:“Oh, you’re young! A man....”“Is always young?”“Not always. But you are.”“A young uncle?”“Yes, a young uncle.... A woman gets old quicker....”“So, when you’re old and I am still young, we shall be about the same age.”She laughed:“What a calculation! No, you’re older. But age doesn’t go by years.”“No. I sometimes have very young wishes. Do you know what I have been longing for since yesterday, like a baby, like a boy?”“No.”“A motor-car.”She laughed, with a laugh like little tinkling bells:“A motor-car?”“Wouldn’t it be delightful? To go tearing and tearing over fields and roads, through clouds of dust....”“You’re becoming poetic!”“Yes, it’s making me poetic....”“And the smell of the petrol?... The mask and goggles against the dust?... The hideous dress?...”“Oh, that’s nothing!... To tear and fly along, faster and faster, at a mad pace....”“I have never been in a motor-car....”1“I have, in Brussels, in a friend’s car. There’s nothing to come up to it.”Her laugh tinkled out again:“Yes, now you’re most certainly like a boy!”“I’m so young?”“O young Uncle!”“You oughtn’t to call me uncle, Marianne: I’m too young for it.”The tinkling bells:“What am I to call you then?”“Anything you like. Not uncle.”“Nunkie?”“No, no....”“But I can’t call you Henri ... or Van der Welcke?”“No, that’s too difficult. Better say nothing.”The tinkling bells:“Nothing. Very well.... But am I to sayUorje?”2“Sayje.”“But it seems so funny ... before people!”“People, people! You can’t always bother about people.”“But I have to: I’m a girl!”“Oh, Marianne, people are always a nuisance!”“A desert island would be the thing.”“Yes, a desert island....”“With a motor-car....”“And just you and me.”They both laughed; and her little bells tinkled through his boyish laugh.“What a perfect night!”“Perfect: the air is so crisp....”“Marianne....”“Yes, Uncle....”“No, not uncle.... You must be my little friend.... Not a niece.... I’ve never had a girl-friend.”“Your little friend?... But I am!”“Well, that’s all right.”“Look, how dark it is in the Wood.... People say it’s dangerous. Is it, Uncle? No, I didn’t mean to say uncle....”“Sometimes. Are you frightened? Take my arm.”“No, I’m not frightened.”“Come, take my arm.”“I don’t mind....”“We shall be home in a minute.”“If only Mamma isn’t angry with me, for staying out.... Are you coming in?”“No ... no....”“Not because you’re still angry with us?”“No, I’m not angry.”“That’s all right. Oh, I am glad! I should like to give you a motor for making me so happy!”“Those old tin kettles cost a lot of money....”“Poor Uncle! No, I don’t mean uncle....”“Here we are.”He rang the bell.“Thank you for seeing me home.”“Good-night, Marianne.”The butler opened the door; she went in. He trotted back, whistling like a boy.“Wherever have you been, Marianne?” asked Bertha.“I stayed to dinner at Aunt Constance’.”“I was anxious about you,” said Bertha.But she was glad that Constance had been so gracious.“Who brought you home?”“Uncle.”She ran up to her room. She looked in the glass, as though to read her own eyes. There she read her secret:“God help me!” she thought. “I oughtn’t to have gone. I oughtn’t to have gone. I was too weak, too weak.... Oh, if only they had never made it up, Papa and ... he!... Oh dear! I shall never go there again. It’s the last time, the last time.... O God, help me, help me!...”She sank into a chair and sat with her face hidden in her hands, not weeping, her happiness still shedding its dying rays around her, but with a rising agony; and she remained like that for a long time, with her eyes closed, as though she were dreaming and suffering, both.

Van der Welcke and Marianne went side by side.

“How deliciously fresh it is now,” she almost carolled. “The wind has gone down and the air is lovely; and look, how beautiful the sky is with those last black clouds.... Oh, I think it so ripping, that everything’s all right again between you and Papa! I did feel it so. You know how fond I am of both of you, Aunt Constance and you, and of Addie; and it was all so sad.... Tell me, does Auntie still feel bitter about it? I expect she does.... Ah, I understand quite well now ... that she would have liked to come to our house ... officially, let me say! But why not first have spoken to Mamma ... or to me, who am so fond of you? Then we could have seen: we might have thought of something. As it was, Mamma was so startled by that unexpected visit.... Poor Aunt Constance, she isn’t happy! How sad that you and she aren’t happier together! Oh, I could cry about it at times: it seems such a shame!... A man and woman married ... and then ... and then what I so often see!... I oughtn’t to have said what I did before dinner, it was stupid of me; but I may speak now, mayn’t I?... Oh, I sha’n’t marry, I won’t marry!... To be married like Otto and Frances,like Emilie and Van Raven: I think it dreadful. Or like you and Auntie: I should think it dreadful. Can’t you be happier together? Not even for Addie’s sake? I wish you could; it would make me so happy. I can’t bear it, when you and Auntie quarrel.... She was sweet and gentle to-night, but so very quiet. She is so nice.... That was a mad fit of hers, to go abroad so suddenly; but then she had had so much to vex her. Oh, those two old aunts: I could have murdered them! I can hear them now!... Poor Auntie! Do try and be a little nice to her.... Has this been going on between you for years? Don’t you love each other any longer?... No, I sha’n’t marry, I sha’n’t marry, I shall never marry.”

“Come, Marianne: if some one comes along whom you get to love....”

“No, I shall never marry.... I might expect too much of my husband. I should really want to find something beautiful, some great joy, in my love ... and to marry for the sake of marrying, like Frances or Emilie, is a thing I couldn’t, couldn’t do.... Otto is fonder of Louise than of his wife; and lately Emilie and Henri are inseparable.... In our family there has always been that affection between brother and sister. But it is too strong, far too strong. It doesn’t make them happy. I’ve never felt it in that way, fond as I am of my brothers.... No, I should place theman I love above everybody, above everybody.... But I suppose you’re laughing ... at my bread-and-butter notions....”

“No, I’m not laughing, Marianne; and, just as you would like to see Aunt Constance and me happy, so I should like to see you happy ... with a man whom you loved.”

“That will never be, Uncle; no, that will never be.”

“How can you tell?”

“Oh, I feel it, I feel it!...”

“Come, I’ll have a bet on it,” he said, laughingly.

“No, Uncle,” she said, with a pained smile, “I won’t bet on a thing like that....”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Marianne....”

“I know that....”

“But you mustn’t be so melancholy, at your age. You’re so young....”

“Twenty-one. That’s quite old.”

“Old! Old! What about me?”

She laughed:

“Oh, you’re young! A man....”

“Is always young?”

“Not always. But you are.”

“A young uncle?”

“Yes, a young uncle.... A woman gets old quicker....”

“So, when you’re old and I am still young, we shall be about the same age.”

She laughed:

“What a calculation! No, you’re older. But age doesn’t go by years.”

“No. I sometimes have very young wishes. Do you know what I have been longing for since yesterday, like a baby, like a boy?”

“No.”

“A motor-car.”

She laughed, with a laugh like little tinkling bells:

“A motor-car?”

“Wouldn’t it be delightful? To go tearing and tearing over fields and roads, through clouds of dust....”

“You’re becoming poetic!”

“Yes, it’s making me poetic....”

“And the smell of the petrol?... The mask and goggles against the dust?... The hideous dress?...”

“Oh, that’s nothing!... To tear and fly along, faster and faster, at a mad pace....”

“I have never been in a motor-car....”1

“I have, in Brussels, in a friend’s car. There’s nothing to come up to it.”

Her laugh tinkled out again:

“Yes, now you’re most certainly like a boy!”

“I’m so young?”

“O young Uncle!”

“You oughtn’t to call me uncle, Marianne: I’m too young for it.”

The tinkling bells:

“What am I to call you then?”

“Anything you like. Not uncle.”

“Nunkie?”

“No, no....”

“But I can’t call you Henri ... or Van der Welcke?”

“No, that’s too difficult. Better say nothing.”

The tinkling bells:

“Nothing. Very well.... But am I to sayUorje?”2

“Sayje.”

“But it seems so funny ... before people!”

“People, people! You can’t always bother about people.”

“But I have to: I’m a girl!”

“Oh, Marianne, people are always a nuisance!”

“A desert island would be the thing.”

“Yes, a desert island....”

“With a motor-car....”

“And just you and me.”

They both laughed; and her little bells tinkled through his boyish laugh.

“What a perfect night!”

“Perfect: the air is so crisp....”

“Marianne....”

“Yes, Uncle....”

“No, not uncle.... You must be my little friend.... Not a niece.... I’ve never had a girl-friend.”

“Your little friend?... But I am!”

“Well, that’s all right.”

“Look, how dark it is in the Wood.... People say it’s dangerous. Is it, Uncle? No, I didn’t mean to say uncle....”

“Sometimes. Are you frightened? Take my arm.”

“No, I’m not frightened.”

“Come, take my arm.”

“I don’t mind....”

“We shall be home in a minute.”

“If only Mamma isn’t angry with me, for staying out.... Are you coming in?”

“No ... no....”

“Not because you’re still angry with us?”

“No, I’m not angry.”

“That’s all right. Oh, I am glad! I should like to give you a motor for making me so happy!”

“Those old tin kettles cost a lot of money....”

“Poor Uncle! No, I don’t mean uncle....”

“Here we are.”

He rang the bell.

“Thank you for seeing me home.”

“Good-night, Marianne.”

The butler opened the door; she went in. He trotted back, whistling like a boy.

“Wherever have you been, Marianne?” asked Bertha.

“I stayed to dinner at Aunt Constance’.”

“I was anxious about you,” said Bertha.

But she was glad that Constance had been so gracious.

“Who brought you home?”

“Uncle.”

She ran up to her room. She looked in the glass, as though to read her own eyes. There she read her secret:

“God help me!” she thought. “I oughtn’t to have gone. I oughtn’t to have gone. I was too weak, too weak.... Oh, if only they had never made it up, Papa and ... he!... Oh dear! I shall never go there again. It’s the last time, the last time.... O God, help me, help me!...”

She sank into a chair and sat with her face hidden in her hands, not weeping, her happiness still shedding its dying rays around her, but with a rising agony; and she remained like that for a long time, with her eyes closed, as though she were dreaming and suffering, both.

1The period of the novel is about 1901.2Equivalent tovousortu.

1The period of the novel is about 1901.

2Equivalent tovousortu.

Chapter VIII“And who do you think’s in town?” Van Vreeswijck asked Van der Welcke, as they were walking together.“I don’t know.”“Brauws.”“Brauws?”“Max Brauws.”“Max? Never! What, Leiden Max?”“Yes, Leiden Max. I hadn’t seen him for years.”“Nor I, of course. And what is he doing?”“Well, that’s a difficult question to answer. Shall I say, being eccentric?”“Eccentric? In what way?”“Oh, in the things he does. First one thing and then another. He’s giving lectures now. In fact, he’s a Bohemian.”“Have you spoken to him?”“Yes, he asked after you.”“I should like to see him. Does he belong to the Witte?”“No, I don’t think so.”“He’s a mad fellow. Always was mad. An interesting chap, though. And a good sort. Has he money?”“I don’t know.”“Where is he staying?”“In rooms, in the Buitenhof.”“We’re close by. Let’s go and see if he’s in.”Brauws was not in. And Van der Welcke left a card for his old college-chum, with a pencilled word.A fortnight passed; and Van der Welcke began to feel annoyed:“I’ve heard nothing from Brauws,” he said to Van Vreeswijck.“I haven’t seen him either.”“Perhaps he’s offended about something.”“Nonsense, Brauws isn’t that sort.”Van der Welcke was silent. Since the scene with the family, he was unduly sensitive, thinking that people were unfriendly, that they avoided him.“Well, if he wants to ignore my card, let him!” he said, angrily. “He can go to the devil, for all I care!”But, a couple of days later, when Van der Welcke was smoking in his little room, Truitje brought in a card.“Brauws!” exclaimed Van der Welcke.And he rushed outside:“Come upstairs, old chap!” he shouted, from the landing.In the hall stood a big, quiet man, looking up with a smile round his thick moustache.“May I come up?”“Yes, yes, come up. Upon my word, Max, I am glad....”Brauws came upstairs; the two men gripped each other’s hands.“Welckje!” said Brauws. “Mad Hans!”Van der Welcke laughed:“Yes, those were my nicknames. My dear chap, what an age since we....”He took him to his den, made him sit down, produced cigars.“No, thanks, I don’t smoke. I’m glad to see you. Why, Hans, you haven’t changed a bit. You’re a little stouter; and that’s all. Just look at the fellow! You could pass for your own son. How old are you? You’re thirty-eight ... getting on for thirty-nine. And now just look at me. I’m three years your senior; but I look old enough to be your father.”Van der Welcke laughed, pleased and flattered by the compliment paid to his youth. Their Leiden memories came up; they reminded each other of a score of incidents, speaking and laughing together in unfinished, breathless sentences which they understood at once.“And what have you been doing all this time?”“Oh, a lot! Too much to tell you all at once. And you?”“I? Nothing, nothing. You know I’m married?”“Yes, I know,” said Brauws. “But what do you do? You’re in a government-office, I suppose?”“No, Lord no, old fellow! Nothing, I just do nothing. I cycle.”They both laughed. Brauws looked at his old college-friend, almost paternally, with a quiet smile.“The beggar hasn’t changed an atom,” he said. “Yes, now that I look at you again, I see something here and there. But you’ve remained Welckje, for all that....”“But not Mad Hans,” sighed Van der Welcke.“Vreeswijck has become a great swell,” said Brauws. “And the others?”“Greater swells still.”“Not you?”“No, not I. Do you cycle?”“Sometimes.”“Have you a motor-car?”“No.”“That’s a pity. I should like to have a motor. But I can’t afford one of those sewing-machines.”Brauws roared with laughter:“Why don’t you start saving up for one?”“No, old chap, no....”“I say, do you know what’s a funny thing? While you were living in Brussels, I too was living just outside Brussels.”“Impossible!”“Yes, I was.”“And we never met?”“I so seldom went into town. If I had known....”“But what a pity!”“Yes. And what’s still funnier is that, when you were on the Riviera, I was there too.”“Look here, old fellow, you’re kidding me!”“I never knew till later that you were there also that year. But you were at Monte Carlo and I at Antibes. Just compare the dates.”They compared dates: Brauws was right.“But that was horribly unlucky.”“It couldn’t be helped. However, we’ve found each other now.”“Yes. We must see something of each other now, eh? Let’s go cycling together ... or buy a motor-car between us.”Brauws roared with laughter again:“Happy devil!” he shouted.“I?” cried Van der Welcke, a little huffed. “What’s there happy about me? I sometimes feel very miserable, very miserable indeed.”Brauws understood that he was referring to his marriage.“Here’s my boy,” said Van der Welcke, showing Addie’s photograph.“A good face. What’s he going to be?”“He’s going into the diplomatic service. I say, shall we take a stroll?”“No, I’d rather sit here and talk.”“You’re just as placid as ever....”Brauws laughed:“Outwardly, perhaps,” he said. “Inwardly, I’m anything but placid.”“Have you been abroad much?”“Yes.”“What do you do?”“Much ... and perhaps nothing. I am seeking....”“What?”“I can’t explain it in a few words. Perhaps later, when we’ve seen more of each other.”“You’re the same queer chap that you always were.Whatare you seeking?”“Something.”“There’s our old oracle. ‘Something!’ You were always fond of those short words.”“The universe lies in a word.”“Max, I can’t follow you, if you go on like that. I never could, you know.”“Tell me about yourself now, about Rome, about Brussels.”Van der Welcke, smoking, described his life, more or less briefly, through the blue clouds of his cigarette. Brauws listened:“Yes,” he said. “Women....”He had a habit of not finishing his sentences, or of saying only a single word.“And what have women done to you?” asked Van der Welcke, gaily.Brauws laughed:“Nothing much,” he said, jestingly. “Not worth talking about. There have been many women in my life ... and yet they were not there.”Van der Welcke reflected.“Women,” he said, pensively. “Sometimes, you know....”“Hans, are you in love?”“No, no!” said Van der Welcke, starting. “No, I’ve been fairly good.”“Fairly good?”“Yes, only fairly...”“You’re in love,” said Brauws, decisively.“You’re mad!” said Van der Welcke. “I wasn’t thinking of myself.... And, now, what are you doing in the Hague?”Brauws laughed:“I’m going to give lectures, not only here, but all over Holland.”“Lectures?” cried Van der Welcke, in astonishment. “What made you think of that? Do you do it to make money? Don’t you find it a bore to stand jawing in front of a lot of people for an hour at a time?”“Not a bit,” said Brauws. “I’m lecturing on Peace.”“Peace?” cried Van der Welcke, his blue orbsshining in wide-eyed young amazement through the blue haze of his cigarette-smoke. “What Peace?”“Peace, simply.”“You’re getting at me,” cried Van der Welcke.Brauws roared; and Van der Welcke too. They laughed for quite a minute or two.“Hans,” said Brauws, “how is it possible for any one to change as little as you have done? In all these years! You are just as incapable as in the old days of believing in anything serious.”“If you imagine that there’s been nothing serious in my life,” said Van der Welcke, vexed.And, with great solemnity, he once more told his friend about Constance, about his marriage, his shattered career.Brauws smiled.“You laugh, as if it all didn’t matter!” cried Van der Welcke, angrily.“What does anything matter?” said Brauws.“And your old Peace?”“Very little as yet, at any rate.... Perhaps later.... Luckily, there’s the future.”But Van der Welcke shrugged his shoulders and demolished Peace in a few ready-made sentences: there would always be war; it was one of those Utopian ideas....Brauws only smiled.“You must come and dine one day, to meet Vreeswijck,” said Van der Welcke.Brauws’ smile disappeared suddenly:“No, my dear fellow, honestly....”“Why not?”“I’m not the man for dinners.”“It won’t be a dinner. Only Vreeswijck. My wife will be very pleased.”“Yes, but I shall be putting your wife out....”“Not a bit. I’ll see if she’s at home and introduce you to her.”“No, my dear fellow, no, honestly.... I’m no ladies’ man. I’m nothing of a drawing-room person. I never know what to say.”“You surely haven’t grown shy!”“Yes, almost. With ladies ... I really don’t know what to say. No, old chap, honestly.....”His voice was full of anxious dismay.“I think it’s mean of you, to refuse to come and dine with us, quite quietly.”“Yes ... and then it’ll be a dinner of twenty people. I know.”“I shouldn’t know where to get them from. We see nobody. Nobody.”“No, no.... Well, yes, perhaps later.”He raised his hand deprecatingly, almost impatiently:“Come,” he said, “let’s go for a walk.”And, as though fearing lest Van der Welcke should still find a moment to introduce him to his wife, Brauws hurried him down the stairs. Once outside, he breathed again, recovered his usual placidity.

Chapter VIII

“And who do you think’s in town?” Van Vreeswijck asked Van der Welcke, as they were walking together.“I don’t know.”“Brauws.”“Brauws?”“Max Brauws.”“Max? Never! What, Leiden Max?”“Yes, Leiden Max. I hadn’t seen him for years.”“Nor I, of course. And what is he doing?”“Well, that’s a difficult question to answer. Shall I say, being eccentric?”“Eccentric? In what way?”“Oh, in the things he does. First one thing and then another. He’s giving lectures now. In fact, he’s a Bohemian.”“Have you spoken to him?”“Yes, he asked after you.”“I should like to see him. Does he belong to the Witte?”“No, I don’t think so.”“He’s a mad fellow. Always was mad. An interesting chap, though. And a good sort. Has he money?”“I don’t know.”“Where is he staying?”“In rooms, in the Buitenhof.”“We’re close by. Let’s go and see if he’s in.”Brauws was not in. And Van der Welcke left a card for his old college-chum, with a pencilled word.A fortnight passed; and Van der Welcke began to feel annoyed:“I’ve heard nothing from Brauws,” he said to Van Vreeswijck.“I haven’t seen him either.”“Perhaps he’s offended about something.”“Nonsense, Brauws isn’t that sort.”Van der Welcke was silent. Since the scene with the family, he was unduly sensitive, thinking that people were unfriendly, that they avoided him.“Well, if he wants to ignore my card, let him!” he said, angrily. “He can go to the devil, for all I care!”But, a couple of days later, when Van der Welcke was smoking in his little room, Truitje brought in a card.“Brauws!” exclaimed Van der Welcke.And he rushed outside:“Come upstairs, old chap!” he shouted, from the landing.In the hall stood a big, quiet man, looking up with a smile round his thick moustache.“May I come up?”“Yes, yes, come up. Upon my word, Max, I am glad....”Brauws came upstairs; the two men gripped each other’s hands.“Welckje!” said Brauws. “Mad Hans!”Van der Welcke laughed:“Yes, those were my nicknames. My dear chap, what an age since we....”He took him to his den, made him sit down, produced cigars.“No, thanks, I don’t smoke. I’m glad to see you. Why, Hans, you haven’t changed a bit. You’re a little stouter; and that’s all. Just look at the fellow! You could pass for your own son. How old are you? You’re thirty-eight ... getting on for thirty-nine. And now just look at me. I’m three years your senior; but I look old enough to be your father.”Van der Welcke laughed, pleased and flattered by the compliment paid to his youth. Their Leiden memories came up; they reminded each other of a score of incidents, speaking and laughing together in unfinished, breathless sentences which they understood at once.“And what have you been doing all this time?”“Oh, a lot! Too much to tell you all at once. And you?”“I? Nothing, nothing. You know I’m married?”“Yes, I know,” said Brauws. “But what do you do? You’re in a government-office, I suppose?”“No, Lord no, old fellow! Nothing, I just do nothing. I cycle.”They both laughed. Brauws looked at his old college-friend, almost paternally, with a quiet smile.“The beggar hasn’t changed an atom,” he said. “Yes, now that I look at you again, I see something here and there. But you’ve remained Welckje, for all that....”“But not Mad Hans,” sighed Van der Welcke.“Vreeswijck has become a great swell,” said Brauws. “And the others?”“Greater swells still.”“Not you?”“No, not I. Do you cycle?”“Sometimes.”“Have you a motor-car?”“No.”“That’s a pity. I should like to have a motor. But I can’t afford one of those sewing-machines.”Brauws roared with laughter:“Why don’t you start saving up for one?”“No, old chap, no....”“I say, do you know what’s a funny thing? While you were living in Brussels, I too was living just outside Brussels.”“Impossible!”“Yes, I was.”“And we never met?”“I so seldom went into town. If I had known....”“But what a pity!”“Yes. And what’s still funnier is that, when you were on the Riviera, I was there too.”“Look here, old fellow, you’re kidding me!”“I never knew till later that you were there also that year. But you were at Monte Carlo and I at Antibes. Just compare the dates.”They compared dates: Brauws was right.“But that was horribly unlucky.”“It couldn’t be helped. However, we’ve found each other now.”“Yes. We must see something of each other now, eh? Let’s go cycling together ... or buy a motor-car between us.”Brauws roared with laughter again:“Happy devil!” he shouted.“I?” cried Van der Welcke, a little huffed. “What’s there happy about me? I sometimes feel very miserable, very miserable indeed.”Brauws understood that he was referring to his marriage.“Here’s my boy,” said Van der Welcke, showing Addie’s photograph.“A good face. What’s he going to be?”“He’s going into the diplomatic service. I say, shall we take a stroll?”“No, I’d rather sit here and talk.”“You’re just as placid as ever....”Brauws laughed:“Outwardly, perhaps,” he said. “Inwardly, I’m anything but placid.”“Have you been abroad much?”“Yes.”“What do you do?”“Much ... and perhaps nothing. I am seeking....”“What?”“I can’t explain it in a few words. Perhaps later, when we’ve seen more of each other.”“You’re the same queer chap that you always were.Whatare you seeking?”“Something.”“There’s our old oracle. ‘Something!’ You were always fond of those short words.”“The universe lies in a word.”“Max, I can’t follow you, if you go on like that. I never could, you know.”“Tell me about yourself now, about Rome, about Brussels.”Van der Welcke, smoking, described his life, more or less briefly, through the blue clouds of his cigarette. Brauws listened:“Yes,” he said. “Women....”He had a habit of not finishing his sentences, or of saying only a single word.“And what have women done to you?” asked Van der Welcke, gaily.Brauws laughed:“Nothing much,” he said, jestingly. “Not worth talking about. There have been many women in my life ... and yet they were not there.”Van der Welcke reflected.“Women,” he said, pensively. “Sometimes, you know....”“Hans, are you in love?”“No, no!” said Van der Welcke, starting. “No, I’ve been fairly good.”“Fairly good?”“Yes, only fairly...”“You’re in love,” said Brauws, decisively.“You’re mad!” said Van der Welcke. “I wasn’t thinking of myself.... And, now, what are you doing in the Hague?”Brauws laughed:“I’m going to give lectures, not only here, but all over Holland.”“Lectures?” cried Van der Welcke, in astonishment. “What made you think of that? Do you do it to make money? Don’t you find it a bore to stand jawing in front of a lot of people for an hour at a time?”“Not a bit,” said Brauws. “I’m lecturing on Peace.”“Peace?” cried Van der Welcke, his blue orbsshining in wide-eyed young amazement through the blue haze of his cigarette-smoke. “What Peace?”“Peace, simply.”“You’re getting at me,” cried Van der Welcke.Brauws roared; and Van der Welcke too. They laughed for quite a minute or two.“Hans,” said Brauws, “how is it possible for any one to change as little as you have done? In all these years! You are just as incapable as in the old days of believing in anything serious.”“If you imagine that there’s been nothing serious in my life,” said Van der Welcke, vexed.And, with great solemnity, he once more told his friend about Constance, about his marriage, his shattered career.Brauws smiled.“You laugh, as if it all didn’t matter!” cried Van der Welcke, angrily.“What does anything matter?” said Brauws.“And your old Peace?”“Very little as yet, at any rate.... Perhaps later.... Luckily, there’s the future.”But Van der Welcke shrugged his shoulders and demolished Peace in a few ready-made sentences: there would always be war; it was one of those Utopian ideas....Brauws only smiled.“You must come and dine one day, to meet Vreeswijck,” said Van der Welcke.Brauws’ smile disappeared suddenly:“No, my dear fellow, honestly....”“Why not?”“I’m not the man for dinners.”“It won’t be a dinner. Only Vreeswijck. My wife will be very pleased.”“Yes, but I shall be putting your wife out....”“Not a bit. I’ll see if she’s at home and introduce you to her.”“No, my dear fellow, no, honestly.... I’m no ladies’ man. I’m nothing of a drawing-room person. I never know what to say.”“You surely haven’t grown shy!”“Yes, almost. With ladies ... I really don’t know what to say. No, old chap, honestly.....”His voice was full of anxious dismay.“I think it’s mean of you, to refuse to come and dine with us, quite quietly.”“Yes ... and then it’ll be a dinner of twenty people. I know.”“I shouldn’t know where to get them from. We see nobody. Nobody.”“No, no.... Well, yes, perhaps later.”He raised his hand deprecatingly, almost impatiently:“Come,” he said, “let’s go for a walk.”And, as though fearing lest Van der Welcke should still find a moment to introduce him to his wife, Brauws hurried him down the stairs. Once outside, he breathed again, recovered his usual placidity.

“And who do you think’s in town?” Van Vreeswijck asked Van der Welcke, as they were walking together.

“I don’t know.”

“Brauws.”

“Brauws?”

“Max Brauws.”

“Max? Never! What, Leiden Max?”

“Yes, Leiden Max. I hadn’t seen him for years.”

“Nor I, of course. And what is he doing?”

“Well, that’s a difficult question to answer. Shall I say, being eccentric?”

“Eccentric? In what way?”

“Oh, in the things he does. First one thing and then another. He’s giving lectures now. In fact, he’s a Bohemian.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Yes, he asked after you.”

“I should like to see him. Does he belong to the Witte?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“He’s a mad fellow. Always was mad. An interesting chap, though. And a good sort. Has he money?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is he staying?”

“In rooms, in the Buitenhof.”

“We’re close by. Let’s go and see if he’s in.”

Brauws was not in. And Van der Welcke left a card for his old college-chum, with a pencilled word.

A fortnight passed; and Van der Welcke began to feel annoyed:

“I’ve heard nothing from Brauws,” he said to Van Vreeswijck.

“I haven’t seen him either.”

“Perhaps he’s offended about something.”

“Nonsense, Brauws isn’t that sort.”

Van der Welcke was silent. Since the scene with the family, he was unduly sensitive, thinking that people were unfriendly, that they avoided him.

“Well, if he wants to ignore my card, let him!” he said, angrily. “He can go to the devil, for all I care!”

But, a couple of days later, when Van der Welcke was smoking in his little room, Truitje brought in a card.

“Brauws!” exclaimed Van der Welcke.

And he rushed outside:

“Come upstairs, old chap!” he shouted, from the landing.

In the hall stood a big, quiet man, looking up with a smile round his thick moustache.

“May I come up?”

“Yes, yes, come up. Upon my word, Max, I am glad....”

Brauws came upstairs; the two men gripped each other’s hands.

“Welckje!” said Brauws. “Mad Hans!”

Van der Welcke laughed:

“Yes, those were my nicknames. My dear chap, what an age since we....”

He took him to his den, made him sit down, produced cigars.

“No, thanks, I don’t smoke. I’m glad to see you. Why, Hans, you haven’t changed a bit. You’re a little stouter; and that’s all. Just look at the fellow! You could pass for your own son. How old are you? You’re thirty-eight ... getting on for thirty-nine. And now just look at me. I’m three years your senior; but I look old enough to be your father.”

Van der Welcke laughed, pleased and flattered by the compliment paid to his youth. Their Leiden memories came up; they reminded each other of a score of incidents, speaking and laughing together in unfinished, breathless sentences which they understood at once.

“And what have you been doing all this time?”

“Oh, a lot! Too much to tell you all at once. And you?”

“I? Nothing, nothing. You know I’m married?”

“Yes, I know,” said Brauws. “But what do you do? You’re in a government-office, I suppose?”

“No, Lord no, old fellow! Nothing, I just do nothing. I cycle.”

They both laughed. Brauws looked at his old college-friend, almost paternally, with a quiet smile.

“The beggar hasn’t changed an atom,” he said. “Yes, now that I look at you again, I see something here and there. But you’ve remained Welckje, for all that....”

“But not Mad Hans,” sighed Van der Welcke.

“Vreeswijck has become a great swell,” said Brauws. “And the others?”

“Greater swells still.”

“Not you?”

“No, not I. Do you cycle?”

“Sometimes.”

“Have you a motor-car?”

“No.”

“That’s a pity. I should like to have a motor. But I can’t afford one of those sewing-machines.”

Brauws roared with laughter:

“Why don’t you start saving up for one?”

“No, old chap, no....”

“I say, do you know what’s a funny thing? While you were living in Brussels, I too was living just outside Brussels.”

“Impossible!”

“Yes, I was.”

“And we never met?”

“I so seldom went into town. If I had known....”

“But what a pity!”

“Yes. And what’s still funnier is that, when you were on the Riviera, I was there too.”

“Look here, old fellow, you’re kidding me!”

“I never knew till later that you were there also that year. But you were at Monte Carlo and I at Antibes. Just compare the dates.”

They compared dates: Brauws was right.

“But that was horribly unlucky.”

“It couldn’t be helped. However, we’ve found each other now.”

“Yes. We must see something of each other now, eh? Let’s go cycling together ... or buy a motor-car between us.”

Brauws roared with laughter again:

“Happy devil!” he shouted.

“I?” cried Van der Welcke, a little huffed. “What’s there happy about me? I sometimes feel very miserable, very miserable indeed.”

Brauws understood that he was referring to his marriage.

“Here’s my boy,” said Van der Welcke, showing Addie’s photograph.

“A good face. What’s he going to be?”

“He’s going into the diplomatic service. I say, shall we take a stroll?”

“No, I’d rather sit here and talk.”

“You’re just as placid as ever....”

Brauws laughed:

“Outwardly, perhaps,” he said. “Inwardly, I’m anything but placid.”

“Have you been abroad much?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do?”

“Much ... and perhaps nothing. I am seeking....”

“What?”

“I can’t explain it in a few words. Perhaps later, when we’ve seen more of each other.”

“You’re the same queer chap that you always were.Whatare you seeking?”

“Something.”

“There’s our old oracle. ‘Something!’ You were always fond of those short words.”

“The universe lies in a word.”

“Max, I can’t follow you, if you go on like that. I never could, you know.”

“Tell me about yourself now, about Rome, about Brussels.”

Van der Welcke, smoking, described his life, more or less briefly, through the blue clouds of his cigarette. Brauws listened:

“Yes,” he said. “Women....”

He had a habit of not finishing his sentences, or of saying only a single word.

“And what have women done to you?” asked Van der Welcke, gaily.

Brauws laughed:

“Nothing much,” he said, jestingly. “Not worth talking about. There have been many women in my life ... and yet they were not there.”

Van der Welcke reflected.

“Women,” he said, pensively. “Sometimes, you know....”

“Hans, are you in love?”

“No, no!” said Van der Welcke, starting. “No, I’ve been fairly good.”

“Fairly good?”

“Yes, only fairly...”

“You’re in love,” said Brauws, decisively.

“You’re mad!” said Van der Welcke. “I wasn’t thinking of myself.... And, now, what are you doing in the Hague?”

Brauws laughed:

“I’m going to give lectures, not only here, but all over Holland.”

“Lectures?” cried Van der Welcke, in astonishment. “What made you think of that? Do you do it to make money? Don’t you find it a bore to stand jawing in front of a lot of people for an hour at a time?”

“Not a bit,” said Brauws. “I’m lecturing on Peace.”

“Peace?” cried Van der Welcke, his blue orbsshining in wide-eyed young amazement through the blue haze of his cigarette-smoke. “What Peace?”

“Peace, simply.”

“You’re getting at me,” cried Van der Welcke.

Brauws roared; and Van der Welcke too. They laughed for quite a minute or two.

“Hans,” said Brauws, “how is it possible for any one to change as little as you have done? In all these years! You are just as incapable as in the old days of believing in anything serious.”

“If you imagine that there’s been nothing serious in my life,” said Van der Welcke, vexed.

And, with great solemnity, he once more told his friend about Constance, about his marriage, his shattered career.

Brauws smiled.

“You laugh, as if it all didn’t matter!” cried Van der Welcke, angrily.

“What does anything matter?” said Brauws.

“And your old Peace?”

“Very little as yet, at any rate.... Perhaps later.... Luckily, there’s the future.”

But Van der Welcke shrugged his shoulders and demolished Peace in a few ready-made sentences: there would always be war; it was one of those Utopian ideas....

Brauws only smiled.

“You must come and dine one day, to meet Vreeswijck,” said Van der Welcke.

Brauws’ smile disappeared suddenly:

“No, my dear fellow, honestly....”

“Why not?”

“I’m not the man for dinners.”

“It won’t be a dinner. Only Vreeswijck. My wife will be very pleased.”

“Yes, but I shall be putting your wife out....”

“Not a bit. I’ll see if she’s at home and introduce you to her.”

“No, my dear fellow, no, honestly.... I’m no ladies’ man. I’m nothing of a drawing-room person. I never know what to say.”

“You surely haven’t grown shy!”

“Yes, almost. With ladies ... I really don’t know what to say. No, old chap, honestly.....”

His voice was full of anxious dismay.

“I think it’s mean of you, to refuse to come and dine with us, quite quietly.”

“Yes ... and then it’ll be a dinner of twenty people. I know.”

“I shouldn’t know where to get them from. We see nobody. Nobody.”

“No, no.... Well, yes, perhaps later.”

He raised his hand deprecatingly, almost impatiently:

“Come,” he said, “let’s go for a walk.”

And, as though fearing lest Van der Welcke should still find a moment to introduce him to his wife, Brauws hurried him down the stairs. Once outside, he breathed again, recovered his usual placidity.

Chapter IX“I went last night with Van Vreeswijck to hear Brauws speak at Diligentia,” said Van der Welcke, one morning. “The fellow’s inspired. He speaks extempore and magnificently; he’s an orator. A splendid fellow, the way he spoke: it was astounding.... I knew him years ago at Leiden. He was a queer chap even then. He did not belong to any particular club, not to ours either: his family is nothing out of the way. His father has a factory, I believe, somewhere in Overijssel. He himself has nothing of the tradesman about him. He used to coach us dull beggars and help us get up our examinations. I should never have passed without him. He knows about everything, he’s not only good at law. He’s read everything; he has a tremendous memory. He’s travelled a lot and done all sorts of things, but I can’t find out exactly what. Now he’s lecturing. This evening, he’s lecturing in Amsterdam. I asked him to dinner, but he refuses to come, says he’s shy with ladies. Silly fellow!”The newspapers printed lengthy reports of Brauws’ speeches on Peace. He spoke in all the large Dutch towns and in many of the smaller ones. When he was to speak at the Hague for the second time, Van der Welcke said, excitedly:“Constance, you must absolutely go and hear Brauws this evening. He’s grand. You know, I can never listen to any one for more than a quarter of an hour....”“Nor I for more than three minutes,” said Paul, who was there. “But I love to talk for an hour on end myself.”“But Brauws: the fellow electrifies you. Though I think that Peace idea of his all rot. But that makes no difference: the chap speaks magnificently.... I’m dining with Van Vreeswijck and we’re going on together.”Paul asked Constance to go with him. That evening, the little hall of Diligentia—the proceeds were to go to the fund for the Boer wounded—was full: Constance and Paul had difficulty in finding seats.“All sorts of people,” Paul observed. “A curious audience. An olla podrida of every set in the Hague. Here and there, the very select people have turned up, no doubt brought by Van Vreeswijck: look, there are the Van der Heuvel Steijns; and there’s the French minister; and there, as I live, is Van Naghel, with his colleague from the Treasury.... And look, there’s Isidore the hairdresser.... A bit of everything, a bit of everything.... How brotherly and sisterly the Hague has become this evening: it makes me feel quite sentimental!”Brauws made his entrance, to faint applause.“The fellow’s not in evening-dress; he’s wearing a frock-coat. I suppose he’s playing the demagogue or the preacher.”But he had to stop, for Brauws at once began to speak from the rostrum. He had nothing with him, not a note; and his voice was firm but very gentle. He began with a masterly exposition of the present political situation, sketching it in broad outlines, like an enormous picture, for all those people in front of him. His voice became clearer; his eyes looked through the hall, steady and bright, like two shining stars. Constance, who seldom read any political news, listened, was at once interested, wondered vaguely for a moment that she lived like that, from day to day, without knowing the times in which she lived. The present took shape before her in those few sentences of Brauws’. Then he spoke of Peace, which would be essential sooner or later, which was already making its joyous way into the mind of the nations, even though they were actually still waging war upon one another. It was as though wide and radiant vistas opened under his words; and his voice, at first so gentle, now rang through the hall, triumphantly confirming the glad tidings. He spoke without pausing, for two hours on end; and, when he stopped, the hall was breathless for a moment, the audience forgot to cheer. Then indeed applauseburst forth, jubilant; but by that time Brauws was gone. They called him back, but he did not return; and the audience streamed out.Constance and Paul were in the crush, when they saw Van Vreeswijck and Van der Welcke behind them.“Mevrouw,” said Van Vreeswijck, bowing. “What do you think of our friend?”“Wonderful,” said Constance, excitedly.“The fellow speaks well,” said Paul, “but he is too earnest. He means all he says. People don’t like that in the long run.”Van der Welcke protested vehemently, as he pushed through the close-packed crowd, and declared that he was converted, that he believed in Peace.They reached the street: the hum of the crowd floated through the wintry air.“How excited our stolid Haguers are!” said Paul.“There’s our man,” said Van Vreeswijck.“Yes, there he is!” exclaimed Van der Welcke.And he darted forwards, stopped Brauws, who was walking fast and saw nobody, and seized his hand. The others drew near. Van Vreeswijck, out of politeness, stayed by Constance, waved his hand to Brauws. Van der Welcke was in a great state of excitement:“Where are you going?” they heard him ask Brauws. “To the Witte?”“No, my dear fellow, home.”“Home?Canyou go home now? Won’t you come to the Witte? I say, do let me introduce you to my wife, to my brother-in-law....”Brauws started:“No, Hans, honestly.... No, no.... What’s the good?...”Constance heard and could not help smiling. She walked on with Van Vreeswijck and Paul.“Yes, yes,” Van der Welcke insisted.Brauws no doubt realized that Constance had heard, for he said, in a voice of despair:“Very well then, Hans....”“Constance! Paul!” cried Van der Welcke, proud of his friend, and caught them up.He would have liked to introduce Brauws to the whole world, to the whole audience streaming out of Diligentia.“Let me introduce you: my friend, Max Brauws; my wife; my brother-in-law, Van Lowe.”They shook hands. Brauws remained standing in front of Constance, shyly and awkwardly. She tried to pay him a compliment that would not sound too obvious; and, like the tactful woman that she was, she succeeded. Paul also said something; they walked on, Van Vreeswijck silently amused at Van der Welcke’s excitement and Brauws’ awkwardness.“And are you really going home? Won’t youcome to the Witte?” Van der Welcke urged, in imploring tones.“My dear Hans, what would you have me do at the Witte?”“So you’re going home.”“Yes, I’m going home, but I’ll walk a bit of the way with you.”And, wishing to appear polite, he bowed vaguely to Constance, but said nothing more.It was a delightful winter evening, with a sharp frost and a sky full of twinkling stars.“I love walking,” said Constance. “When I’ve heard anything fine—music, a play, or a speech like to-night’s—I would much rather walk than rattle home in a cab.”“My dear fellow!” cried Van der Welcke, still bubbling over with enthusiasm. “You’ve converted me! I believe in it, I believe in that Peace of yours!”Brauws gave a sudden bellow.“There, now the chap’s laughing at me again!” said Van der Welcke, in an injured tone.“Well,” said Brauws, “shall I come and fetch you in a motor to-morrow, to reward you?”They all laughed this time.“Have you got one?” cried Van der Welcke, delightedly.“No, but I can hire one,” said Brauws. “And then you can drive.”“Can you hire one? Can you hire one?” cried Van der Welcke, in delighted amazement. “And may I really drive?”And forgetting all about Peace, he was soon eagerly discussing motor-cars and motor-cycles....When they reached the Kerkhoflaan, Constance asked:“Won’t you all come in?”Van Vreeswijck and Paul said that they would be glad to come and have a glass of wine; but Brauws said:“Mevrouw, it’s so late....”“Not for us.”“Come along, Max,” said Van der Welcke.But Brauws laughed his queer, soft laugh and said:“What’s the good of my coming in?...”And he went off, with a shy bow. They all laughed.“Really, Brauws is impossible,” said Van Vreeswijck, indignantly.“And he’s forgotten to tell me at what time he’s coming for me with his old sewing-machine....”But next day, very early, in the misty winter morning, the “machine” came puffing and snorting and exploding down the Kerkhoflaan and stopped at Van der Welcke’s door with a succession of deep-drawn sighs and spasmodic gasps, as if to take breath after its exertions; and this monster as it were of livingand breathing iron, odorous of petrol—the acrid smell of its sweat—was soon surrounded by a little group of butchers’-boys and orange-hawkers. Brauws stepped out; and, as Constance happened to be coming downstairs, she received him.“I’m not fit to be seen, mevrouw. In these ‘sewing-machines,’ as Hans calls them, one becomes unpresentable at once.”He was shy, looked out at the gasping motor-car and smiled at the crowd that had gathered round:“I’m causing quite a tumult outside your door.”“They ought to be used to ‘sewing-machines’ at the Hague by now.”“That’s a very graphic word of Hans’.”They both laughed. She thought his laugh attractive and his voice soft and restful to listen to.“Mevrouw,” he said, suddenly, overcoming his bashfulness, “I hope you were not angry that I was so ungracious yesterday?...”“But you weren’t at all ungracious.”“Yes, I was, very. But what excuse can I make? I have lost the habit ... of just talking....”She smiled:“To ladies,” she said, jokingly.“Yes, about nothing ... you know ... small talk....”“You really needn’t apologize, Mr. Brauws. You had already said so many delightful things last night that I can quite understand....”“Yes, but I have said nothing this morning and....”“You wouldn’t know what to say ... about nothing. But please don’t trouble ... and make yourself at home. Henri will be down in a minute; he is very worried at not being ready.”In fact, they heard Van der Welcke upstairs, dressing excitedly; he was rushing madly round his room and shouting:“Addie! Addie! Pick me out a tie! Do be quick, boy!”And Constance rose to go. Brauws stopped her:“Mevrouw,” he said, hurriedly, “Hans asked me to dinner.”“And you refused....”“Well, you see, I’m such a bear. Don’t be angry and don’t let Hans be angry either and let me come and dine with you one day.”“So you’re inviting yourself?”“Yes.”“Very well; we shall be delighted to see you. When will you come?”“Whenever you like.”“To-morrow?”“With great pleasure.”“Would you rather come alone, or shall I ask Van Vreeswijck to meet you?”“Yes, certainly, Van Vreeswijck....”“And nobody else.”“No, nobody. But Imustn’tdictate to you.”“Why shouldn’t you, in this case?”Van der Welcke came rushing down the stairs, followed by Addie:“This is jolly of you, Max! Let’s have a look at the old machine. She’s a first-rater! And here’s my boy.... Addie, eat a bit of bread and butter, quick; then we’ll drop you at your school.”Addie laughed, quietly ate his bread and butter without sitting down:“I’ve lots of time,” he said.“So much the better ... we’ll drive you round a bit first. Quick, quick! Take your bread and butter with you in your hand!”He rushed like a madman through the dining-room and hall, hunted for his hat, couldn’t find it, shouted up the stairs, made Truitje look all over the place for his gloves, created a breezy draught all through the house. At last, he was ready:“If only I can manage the old sewing-machine! ... Tock-tock-tock-tock, tock-tock-tock-tock!... Good-bye, Constance....”He shoved Addie in front of him, made him get into the car, settled himself:“We’re off, Brauws!”“Good-bye, mevrouw. Till to-morrow then!”He ran out. Constance looked out of the window: they drove off, with Addie between them, wavinghis hand to her, while Brauws was showing Van der Welcke—much too quick, too wild, too impatient—how to work the “sewing-machine” and obviously asking him to be careful....

Chapter IX

“I went last night with Van Vreeswijck to hear Brauws speak at Diligentia,” said Van der Welcke, one morning. “The fellow’s inspired. He speaks extempore and magnificently; he’s an orator. A splendid fellow, the way he spoke: it was astounding.... I knew him years ago at Leiden. He was a queer chap even then. He did not belong to any particular club, not to ours either: his family is nothing out of the way. His father has a factory, I believe, somewhere in Overijssel. He himself has nothing of the tradesman about him. He used to coach us dull beggars and help us get up our examinations. I should never have passed without him. He knows about everything, he’s not only good at law. He’s read everything; he has a tremendous memory. He’s travelled a lot and done all sorts of things, but I can’t find out exactly what. Now he’s lecturing. This evening, he’s lecturing in Amsterdam. I asked him to dinner, but he refuses to come, says he’s shy with ladies. Silly fellow!”The newspapers printed lengthy reports of Brauws’ speeches on Peace. He spoke in all the large Dutch towns and in many of the smaller ones. When he was to speak at the Hague for the second time, Van der Welcke said, excitedly:“Constance, you must absolutely go and hear Brauws this evening. He’s grand. You know, I can never listen to any one for more than a quarter of an hour....”“Nor I for more than three minutes,” said Paul, who was there. “But I love to talk for an hour on end myself.”“But Brauws: the fellow electrifies you. Though I think that Peace idea of his all rot. But that makes no difference: the chap speaks magnificently.... I’m dining with Van Vreeswijck and we’re going on together.”Paul asked Constance to go with him. That evening, the little hall of Diligentia—the proceeds were to go to the fund for the Boer wounded—was full: Constance and Paul had difficulty in finding seats.“All sorts of people,” Paul observed. “A curious audience. An olla podrida of every set in the Hague. Here and there, the very select people have turned up, no doubt brought by Van Vreeswijck: look, there are the Van der Heuvel Steijns; and there’s the French minister; and there, as I live, is Van Naghel, with his colleague from the Treasury.... And look, there’s Isidore the hairdresser.... A bit of everything, a bit of everything.... How brotherly and sisterly the Hague has become this evening: it makes me feel quite sentimental!”Brauws made his entrance, to faint applause.“The fellow’s not in evening-dress; he’s wearing a frock-coat. I suppose he’s playing the demagogue or the preacher.”But he had to stop, for Brauws at once began to speak from the rostrum. He had nothing with him, not a note; and his voice was firm but very gentle. He began with a masterly exposition of the present political situation, sketching it in broad outlines, like an enormous picture, for all those people in front of him. His voice became clearer; his eyes looked through the hall, steady and bright, like two shining stars. Constance, who seldom read any political news, listened, was at once interested, wondered vaguely for a moment that she lived like that, from day to day, without knowing the times in which she lived. The present took shape before her in those few sentences of Brauws’. Then he spoke of Peace, which would be essential sooner or later, which was already making its joyous way into the mind of the nations, even though they were actually still waging war upon one another. It was as though wide and radiant vistas opened under his words; and his voice, at first so gentle, now rang through the hall, triumphantly confirming the glad tidings. He spoke without pausing, for two hours on end; and, when he stopped, the hall was breathless for a moment, the audience forgot to cheer. Then indeed applauseburst forth, jubilant; but by that time Brauws was gone. They called him back, but he did not return; and the audience streamed out.Constance and Paul were in the crush, when they saw Van Vreeswijck and Van der Welcke behind them.“Mevrouw,” said Van Vreeswijck, bowing. “What do you think of our friend?”“Wonderful,” said Constance, excitedly.“The fellow speaks well,” said Paul, “but he is too earnest. He means all he says. People don’t like that in the long run.”Van der Welcke protested vehemently, as he pushed through the close-packed crowd, and declared that he was converted, that he believed in Peace.They reached the street: the hum of the crowd floated through the wintry air.“How excited our stolid Haguers are!” said Paul.“There’s our man,” said Van Vreeswijck.“Yes, there he is!” exclaimed Van der Welcke.And he darted forwards, stopped Brauws, who was walking fast and saw nobody, and seized his hand. The others drew near. Van Vreeswijck, out of politeness, stayed by Constance, waved his hand to Brauws. Van der Welcke was in a great state of excitement:“Where are you going?” they heard him ask Brauws. “To the Witte?”“No, my dear fellow, home.”“Home?Canyou go home now? Won’t you come to the Witte? I say, do let me introduce you to my wife, to my brother-in-law....”Brauws started:“No, Hans, honestly.... No, no.... What’s the good?...”Constance heard and could not help smiling. She walked on with Van Vreeswijck and Paul.“Yes, yes,” Van der Welcke insisted.Brauws no doubt realized that Constance had heard, for he said, in a voice of despair:“Very well then, Hans....”“Constance! Paul!” cried Van der Welcke, proud of his friend, and caught them up.He would have liked to introduce Brauws to the whole world, to the whole audience streaming out of Diligentia.“Let me introduce you: my friend, Max Brauws; my wife; my brother-in-law, Van Lowe.”They shook hands. Brauws remained standing in front of Constance, shyly and awkwardly. She tried to pay him a compliment that would not sound too obvious; and, like the tactful woman that she was, she succeeded. Paul also said something; they walked on, Van Vreeswijck silently amused at Van der Welcke’s excitement and Brauws’ awkwardness.“And are you really going home? Won’t youcome to the Witte?” Van der Welcke urged, in imploring tones.“My dear Hans, what would you have me do at the Witte?”“So you’re going home.”“Yes, I’m going home, but I’ll walk a bit of the way with you.”And, wishing to appear polite, he bowed vaguely to Constance, but said nothing more.It was a delightful winter evening, with a sharp frost and a sky full of twinkling stars.“I love walking,” said Constance. “When I’ve heard anything fine—music, a play, or a speech like to-night’s—I would much rather walk than rattle home in a cab.”“My dear fellow!” cried Van der Welcke, still bubbling over with enthusiasm. “You’ve converted me! I believe in it, I believe in that Peace of yours!”Brauws gave a sudden bellow.“There, now the chap’s laughing at me again!” said Van der Welcke, in an injured tone.“Well,” said Brauws, “shall I come and fetch you in a motor to-morrow, to reward you?”They all laughed this time.“Have you got one?” cried Van der Welcke, delightedly.“No, but I can hire one,” said Brauws. “And then you can drive.”“Can you hire one? Can you hire one?” cried Van der Welcke, in delighted amazement. “And may I really drive?”And forgetting all about Peace, he was soon eagerly discussing motor-cars and motor-cycles....When they reached the Kerkhoflaan, Constance asked:“Won’t you all come in?”Van Vreeswijck and Paul said that they would be glad to come and have a glass of wine; but Brauws said:“Mevrouw, it’s so late....”“Not for us.”“Come along, Max,” said Van der Welcke.But Brauws laughed his queer, soft laugh and said:“What’s the good of my coming in?...”And he went off, with a shy bow. They all laughed.“Really, Brauws is impossible,” said Van Vreeswijck, indignantly.“And he’s forgotten to tell me at what time he’s coming for me with his old sewing-machine....”But next day, very early, in the misty winter morning, the “machine” came puffing and snorting and exploding down the Kerkhoflaan and stopped at Van der Welcke’s door with a succession of deep-drawn sighs and spasmodic gasps, as if to take breath after its exertions; and this monster as it were of livingand breathing iron, odorous of petrol—the acrid smell of its sweat—was soon surrounded by a little group of butchers’-boys and orange-hawkers. Brauws stepped out; and, as Constance happened to be coming downstairs, she received him.“I’m not fit to be seen, mevrouw. In these ‘sewing-machines,’ as Hans calls them, one becomes unpresentable at once.”He was shy, looked out at the gasping motor-car and smiled at the crowd that had gathered round:“I’m causing quite a tumult outside your door.”“They ought to be used to ‘sewing-machines’ at the Hague by now.”“That’s a very graphic word of Hans’.”They both laughed. She thought his laugh attractive and his voice soft and restful to listen to.“Mevrouw,” he said, suddenly, overcoming his bashfulness, “I hope you were not angry that I was so ungracious yesterday?...”“But you weren’t at all ungracious.”“Yes, I was, very. But what excuse can I make? I have lost the habit ... of just talking....”She smiled:“To ladies,” she said, jokingly.“Yes, about nothing ... you know ... small talk....”“You really needn’t apologize, Mr. Brauws. You had already said so many delightful things last night that I can quite understand....”“Yes, but I have said nothing this morning and....”“You wouldn’t know what to say ... about nothing. But please don’t trouble ... and make yourself at home. Henri will be down in a minute; he is very worried at not being ready.”In fact, they heard Van der Welcke upstairs, dressing excitedly; he was rushing madly round his room and shouting:“Addie! Addie! Pick me out a tie! Do be quick, boy!”And Constance rose to go. Brauws stopped her:“Mevrouw,” he said, hurriedly, “Hans asked me to dinner.”“And you refused....”“Well, you see, I’m such a bear. Don’t be angry and don’t let Hans be angry either and let me come and dine with you one day.”“So you’re inviting yourself?”“Yes.”“Very well; we shall be delighted to see you. When will you come?”“Whenever you like.”“To-morrow?”“With great pleasure.”“Would you rather come alone, or shall I ask Van Vreeswijck to meet you?”“Yes, certainly, Van Vreeswijck....”“And nobody else.”“No, nobody. But Imustn’tdictate to you.”“Why shouldn’t you, in this case?”Van der Welcke came rushing down the stairs, followed by Addie:“This is jolly of you, Max! Let’s have a look at the old machine. She’s a first-rater! And here’s my boy.... Addie, eat a bit of bread and butter, quick; then we’ll drop you at your school.”Addie laughed, quietly ate his bread and butter without sitting down:“I’ve lots of time,” he said.“So much the better ... we’ll drive you round a bit first. Quick, quick! Take your bread and butter with you in your hand!”He rushed like a madman through the dining-room and hall, hunted for his hat, couldn’t find it, shouted up the stairs, made Truitje look all over the place for his gloves, created a breezy draught all through the house. At last, he was ready:“If only I can manage the old sewing-machine! ... Tock-tock-tock-tock, tock-tock-tock-tock!... Good-bye, Constance....”He shoved Addie in front of him, made him get into the car, settled himself:“We’re off, Brauws!”“Good-bye, mevrouw. Till to-morrow then!”He ran out. Constance looked out of the window: they drove off, with Addie between them, wavinghis hand to her, while Brauws was showing Van der Welcke—much too quick, too wild, too impatient—how to work the “sewing-machine” and obviously asking him to be careful....

“I went last night with Van Vreeswijck to hear Brauws speak at Diligentia,” said Van der Welcke, one morning. “The fellow’s inspired. He speaks extempore and magnificently; he’s an orator. A splendid fellow, the way he spoke: it was astounding.... I knew him years ago at Leiden. He was a queer chap even then. He did not belong to any particular club, not to ours either: his family is nothing out of the way. His father has a factory, I believe, somewhere in Overijssel. He himself has nothing of the tradesman about him. He used to coach us dull beggars and help us get up our examinations. I should never have passed without him. He knows about everything, he’s not only good at law. He’s read everything; he has a tremendous memory. He’s travelled a lot and done all sorts of things, but I can’t find out exactly what. Now he’s lecturing. This evening, he’s lecturing in Amsterdam. I asked him to dinner, but he refuses to come, says he’s shy with ladies. Silly fellow!”

The newspapers printed lengthy reports of Brauws’ speeches on Peace. He spoke in all the large Dutch towns and in many of the smaller ones. When he was to speak at the Hague for the second time, Van der Welcke said, excitedly:

“Constance, you must absolutely go and hear Brauws this evening. He’s grand. You know, I can never listen to any one for more than a quarter of an hour....”

“Nor I for more than three minutes,” said Paul, who was there. “But I love to talk for an hour on end myself.”

“But Brauws: the fellow electrifies you. Though I think that Peace idea of his all rot. But that makes no difference: the chap speaks magnificently.... I’m dining with Van Vreeswijck and we’re going on together.”

Paul asked Constance to go with him. That evening, the little hall of Diligentia—the proceeds were to go to the fund for the Boer wounded—was full: Constance and Paul had difficulty in finding seats.

“All sorts of people,” Paul observed. “A curious audience. An olla podrida of every set in the Hague. Here and there, the very select people have turned up, no doubt brought by Van Vreeswijck: look, there are the Van der Heuvel Steijns; and there’s the French minister; and there, as I live, is Van Naghel, with his colleague from the Treasury.... And look, there’s Isidore the hairdresser.... A bit of everything, a bit of everything.... How brotherly and sisterly the Hague has become this evening: it makes me feel quite sentimental!”

Brauws made his entrance, to faint applause.

“The fellow’s not in evening-dress; he’s wearing a frock-coat. I suppose he’s playing the demagogue or the preacher.”

But he had to stop, for Brauws at once began to speak from the rostrum. He had nothing with him, not a note; and his voice was firm but very gentle. He began with a masterly exposition of the present political situation, sketching it in broad outlines, like an enormous picture, for all those people in front of him. His voice became clearer; his eyes looked through the hall, steady and bright, like two shining stars. Constance, who seldom read any political news, listened, was at once interested, wondered vaguely for a moment that she lived like that, from day to day, without knowing the times in which she lived. The present took shape before her in those few sentences of Brauws’. Then he spoke of Peace, which would be essential sooner or later, which was already making its joyous way into the mind of the nations, even though they were actually still waging war upon one another. It was as though wide and radiant vistas opened under his words; and his voice, at first so gentle, now rang through the hall, triumphantly confirming the glad tidings. He spoke without pausing, for two hours on end; and, when he stopped, the hall was breathless for a moment, the audience forgot to cheer. Then indeed applauseburst forth, jubilant; but by that time Brauws was gone. They called him back, but he did not return; and the audience streamed out.

Constance and Paul were in the crush, when they saw Van Vreeswijck and Van der Welcke behind them.

“Mevrouw,” said Van Vreeswijck, bowing. “What do you think of our friend?”

“Wonderful,” said Constance, excitedly.

“The fellow speaks well,” said Paul, “but he is too earnest. He means all he says. People don’t like that in the long run.”

Van der Welcke protested vehemently, as he pushed through the close-packed crowd, and declared that he was converted, that he believed in Peace.

They reached the street: the hum of the crowd floated through the wintry air.

“How excited our stolid Haguers are!” said Paul.

“There’s our man,” said Van Vreeswijck.

“Yes, there he is!” exclaimed Van der Welcke.

And he darted forwards, stopped Brauws, who was walking fast and saw nobody, and seized his hand. The others drew near. Van Vreeswijck, out of politeness, stayed by Constance, waved his hand to Brauws. Van der Welcke was in a great state of excitement:

“Where are you going?” they heard him ask Brauws. “To the Witte?”

“No, my dear fellow, home.”

“Home?Canyou go home now? Won’t you come to the Witte? I say, do let me introduce you to my wife, to my brother-in-law....”

Brauws started:

“No, Hans, honestly.... No, no.... What’s the good?...”

Constance heard and could not help smiling. She walked on with Van Vreeswijck and Paul.

“Yes, yes,” Van der Welcke insisted.

Brauws no doubt realized that Constance had heard, for he said, in a voice of despair:

“Very well then, Hans....”

“Constance! Paul!” cried Van der Welcke, proud of his friend, and caught them up.

He would have liked to introduce Brauws to the whole world, to the whole audience streaming out of Diligentia.

“Let me introduce you: my friend, Max Brauws; my wife; my brother-in-law, Van Lowe.”

They shook hands. Brauws remained standing in front of Constance, shyly and awkwardly. She tried to pay him a compliment that would not sound too obvious; and, like the tactful woman that she was, she succeeded. Paul also said something; they walked on, Van Vreeswijck silently amused at Van der Welcke’s excitement and Brauws’ awkwardness.

“And are you really going home? Won’t youcome to the Witte?” Van der Welcke urged, in imploring tones.

“My dear Hans, what would you have me do at the Witte?”

“So you’re going home.”

“Yes, I’m going home, but I’ll walk a bit of the way with you.”

And, wishing to appear polite, he bowed vaguely to Constance, but said nothing more.

It was a delightful winter evening, with a sharp frost and a sky full of twinkling stars.

“I love walking,” said Constance. “When I’ve heard anything fine—music, a play, or a speech like to-night’s—I would much rather walk than rattle home in a cab.”

“My dear fellow!” cried Van der Welcke, still bubbling over with enthusiasm. “You’ve converted me! I believe in it, I believe in that Peace of yours!”

Brauws gave a sudden bellow.

“There, now the chap’s laughing at me again!” said Van der Welcke, in an injured tone.

“Well,” said Brauws, “shall I come and fetch you in a motor to-morrow, to reward you?”

They all laughed this time.

“Have you got one?” cried Van der Welcke, delightedly.

“No, but I can hire one,” said Brauws. “And then you can drive.”

“Can you hire one? Can you hire one?” cried Van der Welcke, in delighted amazement. “And may I really drive?”

And forgetting all about Peace, he was soon eagerly discussing motor-cars and motor-cycles....

When they reached the Kerkhoflaan, Constance asked:

“Won’t you all come in?”

Van Vreeswijck and Paul said that they would be glad to come and have a glass of wine; but Brauws said:

“Mevrouw, it’s so late....”

“Not for us.”

“Come along, Max,” said Van der Welcke.

But Brauws laughed his queer, soft laugh and said:

“What’s the good of my coming in?...”

And he went off, with a shy bow. They all laughed.

“Really, Brauws is impossible,” said Van Vreeswijck, indignantly.

“And he’s forgotten to tell me at what time he’s coming for me with his old sewing-machine....”

But next day, very early, in the misty winter morning, the “machine” came puffing and snorting and exploding down the Kerkhoflaan and stopped at Van der Welcke’s door with a succession of deep-drawn sighs and spasmodic gasps, as if to take breath after its exertions; and this monster as it were of livingand breathing iron, odorous of petrol—the acrid smell of its sweat—was soon surrounded by a little group of butchers’-boys and orange-hawkers. Brauws stepped out; and, as Constance happened to be coming downstairs, she received him.

“I’m not fit to be seen, mevrouw. In these ‘sewing-machines,’ as Hans calls them, one becomes unpresentable at once.”

He was shy, looked out at the gasping motor-car and smiled at the crowd that had gathered round:

“I’m causing quite a tumult outside your door.”

“They ought to be used to ‘sewing-machines’ at the Hague by now.”

“That’s a very graphic word of Hans’.”

They both laughed. She thought his laugh attractive and his voice soft and restful to listen to.

“Mevrouw,” he said, suddenly, overcoming his bashfulness, “I hope you were not angry that I was so ungracious yesterday?...”

“But you weren’t at all ungracious.”

“Yes, I was, very. But what excuse can I make? I have lost the habit ... of just talking....”

She smiled:

“To ladies,” she said, jokingly.

“Yes, about nothing ... you know ... small talk....”

“You really needn’t apologize, Mr. Brauws. You had already said so many delightful things last night that I can quite understand....”

“Yes, but I have said nothing this morning and....”

“You wouldn’t know what to say ... about nothing. But please don’t trouble ... and make yourself at home. Henri will be down in a minute; he is very worried at not being ready.”

In fact, they heard Van der Welcke upstairs, dressing excitedly; he was rushing madly round his room and shouting:

“Addie! Addie! Pick me out a tie! Do be quick, boy!”

And Constance rose to go. Brauws stopped her:

“Mevrouw,” he said, hurriedly, “Hans asked me to dinner.”

“And you refused....”

“Well, you see, I’m such a bear. Don’t be angry and don’t let Hans be angry either and let me come and dine with you one day.”

“So you’re inviting yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Very well; we shall be delighted to see you. When will you come?”

“Whenever you like.”

“To-morrow?”

“With great pleasure.”

“Would you rather come alone, or shall I ask Van Vreeswijck to meet you?”

“Yes, certainly, Van Vreeswijck....”

“And nobody else.”

“No, nobody. But Imustn’tdictate to you.”

“Why shouldn’t you, in this case?”

Van der Welcke came rushing down the stairs, followed by Addie:

“This is jolly of you, Max! Let’s have a look at the old machine. She’s a first-rater! And here’s my boy.... Addie, eat a bit of bread and butter, quick; then we’ll drop you at your school.”

Addie laughed, quietly ate his bread and butter without sitting down:

“I’ve lots of time,” he said.

“So much the better ... we’ll drive you round a bit first. Quick, quick! Take your bread and butter with you in your hand!”

He rushed like a madman through the dining-room and hall, hunted for his hat, couldn’t find it, shouted up the stairs, made Truitje look all over the place for his gloves, created a breezy draught all through the house. At last, he was ready:

“If only I can manage the old sewing-machine! ... Tock-tock-tock-tock, tock-tock-tock-tock!... Good-bye, Constance....”

He shoved Addie in front of him, made him get into the car, settled himself:

“We’re off, Brauws!”

“Good-bye, mevrouw. Till to-morrow then!”

He ran out. Constance looked out of the window: they drove off, with Addie between them, wavinghis hand to her, while Brauws was showing Van der Welcke—much too quick, too wild, too impatient—how to work the “sewing-machine” and obviously asking him to be careful....

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