Oh, how the twilight was gathering, oh, how it was gathering around him! It was dark now, quite dark; and the fire on the hearth was dying out in the dark, shadowy room. But what was the use of making it blaze up: did the room not always remain shiveringly cold, however much the fire might glow? What was the use of lighting lamps: was the twilight not deeper and gloomier day by day, whether it were morning or evening? Did not the pale gold of the dawn shimmer more and more vaguely through the dense mist of twilight?... A dull, apathetic, feeble man.... Had he kept his secret all his life, concealed the real condition of his body and his soul, to become like that? And yet was he not Ernst's brother? Had he not always been Ernst's brother ... though it had always seemed otherwise? Were they not of the same blood and had not they, the brothers, the same soul, the same darkened soul? Was the darkness not gathering around all of them now, the sombre twilight of their small lives?... Would the darkness one day close in upon his own pale-golden dawn: his children, who also shared the same soul?... It might be the darkness of old age as it closed in upon Mamma—he could see her as she sat—or it might be the darkness of sorrow and weariness and loneliness, as yonder, round Bertha. Were the shadows not deepening round Paul and Dorine, for all their youth?... Had it not been as a night round Ernst, even though he was now stepping out of the dark ... back into the twilight that surrounded them all?... Was it their fault or the fault of their life: the small life of small souls?... Did the twilight come from their blood, which grew poorer, or from their life, which grew smaller?... Would they never behold through the twilight—the vistas, far-reaching as the dawn, where life, when all was said, must be spacious ... and would they never strive for that? Would his children never strive for that? Would they never send forth the rays of their golden sunlight towards the greater life and would they not grow into great souls?... Would the twilight, afterwards, deepen ... and deepen ... and deepen ... around them too ... until perhaps the very great things of life came thundering and lightening unexpectedly before them, crushing them and blinding them ... because they had not learnt to see the light?...
He tried to remember thoughts of former days ... but they shot ahead, like winged ironies. He knew only that night was falling, one vast night around all the family, under the grey skies of their winter. He knew only that the light was growing dimmer and dimmer around them, until it became unillumined dusk: the dusk of age; the dusk of sorrow; the dusk of cynical selfishness; the dusk of life without living; all the heavy, sombre twilight that gathered around small souls ... until with Ernst the dusk had grown into night and the dark dream from which he was now emerging.... They called that recovering.... They thought that he would recover.... Oh, how dark and gloomy were the shadows of the twilight and how heavy was the fate that hung over their small souls, hung over them like a leaden sky, an immensity of leaden skies!...
He, yes, he would get better. It might take months yet; and then he would resume his service as a dull, decrepit old man, diseased through and through, from his childhood, under the semblance of muscular strength, until one serious illness was enough to break him and make him dull and old for all the rest of his life.... Yes, he would get better. But it would no longer be necessary to raise his voice to a roar, to make his movements rough and blunt, to make a show of strength and force and roughness; for they would now all see through the sad pretence. He would jog along through his small, shadowed life, until the shadows gathered around him ... as they were now gathering, around his mother; and ... and ... and his children would never again recognize in him their father of the old days, who used to romp with them and fill the whole house with all the rush of his healthy vitality.... It was over, over for the rest of his life....
It was over. In the room which had grown chill and dark, the black thought haunted him, that it was over. It almost made him calm, to know that it was over, that for his children, his nine—did he not remember their golden number correctly?—he could never be other than the shadow of their father of the old days.... Oh, would he never again be able to love them, to be a father to them? Could he never do that again? Must he, when cured, remain for all the rest of his life the man conquered by the beast, the man eaten up by the beast, the man broken in the contest with the dragon-beast? Was it so? Was it so?...
Why did they leave him in the cold and the dark? Shivers ran down his back—his marrowless back, his bloodless body—like a stream of ice-cold water? Why didn't they make up his fire and why didn't they light his lamp?... Did they know that nothing could give him warmth and light?
"Adeline!"
His voice sounded faint and weak. In the next room, which was now dark, nothing stirred. He rose out of his deep chair with difficulty, like an old man, groped round for the door of the other room. A feeble light still entered from outside.... There she sat, there she lay, his wife: she had fallen asleep with weariness and anxiety for him, her arms on the table, her face on her arms.... Was it his imagination, or had she really changed? He had not noticed her for weeks, since his illness, had not looked at her, though she had nursed him all the time.... Certainly he was very fond of her; but she was doing her duty as his wife. She had borne him his children and she was nursing him now that he was ill. Had he been wrong in thinking like that? Yes, perhaps it had not been right of him.... Gad, how she had changed! How different from the young, fresh face that she used to have, the little mother-girl, the little child-mother! Was it the ghostly effect of the faint light orwasit so? Was she so pale and thin and tired ... with anxiety about him, with nursing and looking after him?... He felt his heart swelling. He had never loved her as he did now! He bent down and kissed her ... with a fonder kiss than he had ever given her. She just quivered in her sleep: she was sound asleep.... Lord, how tired she was! How pale she was, how thin! She lay broken with worry and weariness, her head in her arms....
"Adeline...."
She did not answer, she slept.... He would not wake her; he would ring for the fire and the lamp himself.... But what was the good? Lamp and fire would make things no brighter around him, now that the great twilight was descending.... Oh, the great inexorable, pitiless twilight! Would it fall around him as it had fallen around Ernst ... around whom it was now slowly clearing? Did the twilight clear again? Or would the shadows around him gradually deepen into darkness, the darkness that was now gathering around his mother? Or would it just remain dim around him, with the same wan light that glimmered around Paul and Dorine? What, what would their twilight be?...
The house was very cold and he felt chilly. Was there no fire anywhere? Where were the children? Were Marietje and Adèletje and the two boys not back from school yet?... He now heard Gerdy and Constant playing in the room downstairs—the nursery and dining-room—heard them talking together with their dear little voices.... Oh, his two sunny-haired darlings!... But Gerdy was afraid of him.... He was becoming afraid of himself.... He was no longer the man he used to be.... People now saw him as he was.... He could no longer put on that air of brute strength.... His voice had lost its blustering force....
He did not know why, but he roamed through the house.... It struck him as lonely, dreary and quiet, though the children were playing below.... He stood on the stairs and listened. What was that rushing noise in the distance? No, there was no rushing.... Yes, there was: something came rushing, from outside, to where he stood; something came rushing: a melancholy wind, like a wind out of eternity.... An immense eternity; and immense the wind that rushed out of it; and chilly and small and dreary the house; everything so small; he himself so small!... He did not know what was coming over him, but he felt frightened ... frightened, as he had sometimes felt when a child.... He was so afraid of that rushing sound that he called out:
"Adeline!... Line!..."
He waited for her to hear and answer. But she did not hear, she slept.... Then he roamed on, shuddering ... upstairs ... to his own little room.... And it was all so dreary and chill and lonely and the sound of rushing from the immense eternity outside the house was so melancholy that he sank helplessly into a chair and began to sob.... He was done for now.... He sobbed.... His great, emaciated body jolted up and down with his sobs; his lungs panted with his sobs; and, in his great, lean hands, his head sobbed, in despair....
He was done for now.... He knew now that he would not get well.... He knew now that he ought really to have died ... and that he had gone on living only because his life had gone on hanging to a thread that had not broken. Would that last thread soon break? Or would his darkened life go on for a long time—he always ill—hanging to that last thread? Would he yet be able to be a father to his children ... or would he ... on the contrary ... become ... a burden to his dear ones? Was it growing dark, was it growing dark? Was not that eternity rushing along?...
He heaved a deep sigh, amid his sobs. His eyes sought along the wall, where a rack of swords and Malay krises hung between prints of race-horses and pretty women. He had a whole collection of those weapons. Some of them had belonged to his father. At Papa's death they had been divided between him and Ernst.... Among the krises and swords were two revolvers....
He stared past the swords and krises ... and his eyes fastened on the revolvers.... In among the swords and krises, in among the race-horses and the pretty women whirled all the heads of his children—he did not know if they were portraits or spectres—as they had been, children's heads of six months, one year old, two years old: growing older and bigger, radiating more and more sunlight, his golden dawn of nine bright-haired children?... Would he be able to be a father to them, or would he on the contrary become a burden?...
It was as if his imagination were digging in a deep pit. In a deep pit his imagination, with hurrying hands, dug up sand. What was it seeking, his rooting imagination? What was it seeking in the deep pit, why was it flinging the sand around him ... just as Addie once told him that Ernst had dug and flung up sand ... in the dunes ... in the dunes at Nunspeet?... What!... What!... Was he going mad too!... Was he going mad ... like Ernst? Was he going mad ... like Ernst?... A cold sweat broke out over his chilly, shivering body. Was he going mad?...
"Gerrit!... Gerrit!"
A voice sounded very far away through the house, which had suddenly become very deep, very wide, very big.
"Gerrit!... Gerrit!"
He could hear the hurrying footsteps on the creaking stairs, but he was powerless to answer.
"Gerrit!... Gerrit!... Where are you?"
The door opened. It was Adeline, looking for him ... in the dark:
"Gerrit!... Are you here?..."
Even yet he did not answer.
"Where are you, Gerrit?"
"Here."
"Are you here?"
"Yes."
"Why are you sitting in the dark ... in the cold?... What are you doing here, Gerrit?..."
"I ... I was looking for something."
"For what?..."
"I've forgotten."
"Why didn't you ask me?"
She had lit the gas.
"You were asleep."
"Don't be angry, Gerrit. I was tired."
"I'm not angry, dear. I didn't like to disturb you."
"Why didn't you wake me?"
"You were asleep."
"You ought to have waked me."
He put out his arms to her:
"Come here, dear."
She came; he drew her to his knees.
"What is it, Gerrit?"
"Darling ... Line ... I believe I'm very ... very ill."
"You've been ill, Gerrit. You're ... you're getting better now...."
"Do you think so?..."
"Oh yes!"
"Line, I believe.... I'm very ... very ... ill."
"Why, do you feel worse?... It's so cold in here. Come downstairs. We'll make up the fire."
"No, stay here.... Tell me, Line: if I died, would you...."
"No, no, Gerrit, I can't bear it!"
"Hush, dear: if I died, would you believe ... after I am dead...."
"Oh, Gerrit, Gerrit!"
"That I have always been very fond of you...."
"Gerrit, don't!"
"That I have always been kind to you ... that I have not neglected you?..."
"Oh, you're not going to die, Gerrit!... You will get better ... and you have always, always been kind!..."
"Line ... and all our children...."
"Don't, Gerrit!"
"Won't they think ... if I die ... that I had no business to die ... because I ought to have lived and been a father to them?..."
"But, Gerrit, you're not going to die!"
"I should like to go on living, Line ... for you, dear, and for the children. But I fear I'm very ill...."
"Will you see the doctor, Gerrit?..."
"No, no.... Stay like this, quietly, for a minute, on your husband's knees.... Line, Gerdy has become frightened of me. Tell me, Line, are you also frightened of your skeleton of a husband?"
"Gerrit, Gerrit, no! Gerdy isn't frightened ... and I ... I'm not frightened...."
"Put your arms round me."
She put her arms right round him. She hugged him, warmed him against herself, while she sat upon his knees:
"I'm not frightened, Gerrit. Why should I be frightened of you? Because you've been ill, because you've grown thin? Aren't you still my husband, whom I love, whom I have always loved? Sha'n't I nurse you till you are yourself again, till you're quite well ... and strong?... Oh, Gerrit, even if it should take weeks ... months ... a year! Gerrit, what is a year? In a year's time, you will be yourself again and well ... and strong ... and then we shall be happy once more ... and then our children will grow up...."
"Yes, dear ... if only it doesn't get dark...."
"Gerrit...."
"If only it doesn't get so dark!... Do you know that it got very dark around Ernst? It's getting lighter around him now ... but there's some twilight around him still ... even now. ... Do you know that it is getting dark around Mamma ... and that it will get darker and darker?... Do you know that the twilight is closing around Bertha ... and that there's twilight around the others?... Line, darling, I'm frightened. I'm frightened ... when it gets dark. As a child, I remember, I used to be frightened ... when it grew dark.... You've lit the gas now, you see, Line.... Is there only one light burning? The flame of a gas-jet ... and yet ... and yet it's getting dark...."
"Gerrit, my Gerrit, is the fever returning? Would you like to go to bed?"
"Yes, Line, I want to go to bed.... Put your baby to bed, Line ... it's tired, it's not well. Put it to bed, Line, and tuck the nice, warm clothes round its cold back ... and promise to stay and sit with it ... till it's asleep ... till it's asleep.... Put it to bed, Line.... And, Line, if your baby ... if your baby dies ... if it dies ... will you promise never ... to think ... that it did not love you ... as much as it ought to?..."
She had gently forced him to rise from his chair and she opened the partition-door. He stood in the middle of the little room while she busied herself in the bedroom and lit the gas and then came back for him and helped him undress.
"It's getting dark ... it's getting dark," he muttered, shivering, while his teeth chattered with the cold.
And he felt that it was not the cold of fever, but a cold in his veins and his spine, because the beast had sucked all his blood and marrow with its voluptuous licks, had eaten him up from the days of his childhood, had devoured him until now, in the twilight, his soul shrank and withered in his body, which had no more sap to feed it....
"It's getting dark," he muttered.
It was snowing heavily. For days the great snowflakes had been falling over the small town out of an infinite sky-land, out of infinite sky-plains of infinite snow. And, after all the gloom of the dark days that had been, the days under the grey skies of storm and rain, it was now snowing whiter and whiter out of a denser greyness of sky-plains and sky-land, flakes falling upon flakes in a soft white shroud of oblivion that enveloped houses and people. And, in that ever-falling snow from the great, grey infinity above the small town and the small people, the town seemed still smaller, with the outline of its houses now scarcely defined against the all-effacing oblivion, which fell and fell without ceasing, and the people also seemed still smaller, as they moved about the town or looked through the windows of their small houses at the white flakes descending from the grey infinity overhead.
For old Mrs. van Lowe the white days dragged on monotonously from Sunday to Sunday: only the Sunday gave her a glimpse of light; but the other days had become so white and blank, so white and blank in their twilight emptiness. Even though the children called to see her regularly, she no longer knew that they had been. It was only on Sundays that she missed them: when she did not see all of those whom she still carried in her mind gathered in her large rooms, rooms which not the largest fires now seemed able to warm, a mournful reproach swelled up in her heart; and her head nodded in sad understanding and protest against the sorrows of old age....
"But here is Ernst, Mamma, coming again as he used to," said Constance, leading Ernst by the hand to her mother.
He now came up once a week from Nunspeet, for the day, in order to reaccustom himself to all the familiar things at the Hague, to the houses and the people; and, though still a little shy, as usual, he had lost all his nervous restlessness and become quite calm.
"Ernst?" asked Mamma.
"Yes, Mamma, he is coming again as he used to."
"Has he been long away?"
"Yes, Mamma."
Light seemed to break upon the old woman and she smiled, becoming younger in her smile, now that she remembered. She took her son's hands and looked at Constance with unclouded eyes:
"Is he better now?"
"Yes, Mamma," said Constance.
"Are you better now, Ernst?"
"Yes, Mamma, I am much better."
She looked very glad, as though a flood of light were shining around her:
"Don't you hear ... any of those ... of those strange things?"
"No, Mamma," he answered, smiling gently.
"And don't you see ... don't you see any ... of those strange things?"
"No, Mamma."
"That's good."
She said it with grateful, shining eyes, the flood of light making everything very clear.
"I have been very strange, I believe," Ernst admitted, softly and shyly.
"That's all cured now, Ernst," said Constance.
"But Aunt Lot?" asked Mamma. "What's become of her ... and the girls?"
"They've gone to Java, Mamma."
"To Java?..."
"Yes, don't you remember? They came and said good-bye last week. They'll be back in twelve months.... Don't you remember? They thought they could live more cheaply in India...."
"Yes, yes, I remember," said the old woman.
"India ... I wish I could go there myself...."
She felt as if she must go there to have warmth in and around her. And yet ... Ernst was back; and at the card-tables were Karel and Cateau; Adolphine and her little tribe; Otto and Frances were there; Van der Welcke, Dorine and Paul, Addie....
"There are a good many, after all," she said to Constance. "There are a great many.... But I miss ... I miss...."
"Whom, Mamma?"
"I miss my big lad ... I miss Gerrit. Where is Gerrit?"
"He hasn't been very well lately, Mamma. I don't think he'll come."
"He's ill again...."
"Not ill, but...."
"Yes, he is, he's ill.... He's very seriously ill.... Constance...."
"What is it, Mamma?"
"You're the only one to whom I dare say it.... Constance, Gerrit is very ... very ill.... Hush ... he's ... he's dead!..."
"No, Mamma, he's not dead."
"He is dead."
"No, Mamma."
"Yes, child.... Look, don't you see, in the other room?..."
"What, Mamma?"
"That he's dead."
"No."
"What do you see in the other room then?"
"Nothing, Mamma. I see the two card-tables and Karel and Adolphine and Adolphine's two girls playing cards."
"And that light...."
"What light?"
"Allthat light: don't you see it?"
"No, Mamma."
"He's lying there ... on the floor."
"No, no, Mamma."
"Be quiet, child ... I can see it plainly!... There, now it's gone!..."
"Mamma darling!"
"Constance...."
"Yes, Mamma?..."
"Go ... go to Gerrit's house...."
"Do you want me to go to him?"
"No, no, stay here.... Constance...."
"Yes, Mamma?..."
"Send your husband ... or your son."
"Are you feeling anxious?"
"Anxious?... No. But send your husband ... or your son.... Send Addie.... If you send Addie ... that'll be best."
"Would you like him just to go ... and find out for you how Gerrit is?"
"Yes, yes."
"What's the matter with Mamma?" asked Van der Welcke.
"Isn't Mamma well?" asked Adolphine, at the card-table.
"Mamma is very restless and excited," said Van Saetzema. "Hadn't we better send for the doctor?..."
"The doctor?" they repeated, irresolutely.
"Addie," asked Dorine, "are you going to the doctor's?"
"No, I'm going to Uncle Gerrit's. Granny is uneasy. She wants to know how he is."
"Constance," whispered the old woman, with strangely luminous eyes, "it's better that you should go too."
"Addie's gone now, Mamma."
"You go too ... with your husband. You and your husband go too.... Tell the others that I am tired. Let them go away ... now ... soon. Tell the others that I am tired, dear. And tell them ... tell them...."
"Tell them what, Mamma?"
"That I amtoo tiredto...."
"Yes?"
"On Sundays...."
"To have us here on Sundays, Mamma?"
"No, dear, no, don't say it.... Don't say that!... But tell them that this evening...."
"This evening?"
"Is the last time...."
"The last evening?"
"No, dear, no, not the last.... Just tell them to go away, dear ... and you go with your husband.... Has Addie gone? But you go now ... you go also ... to Gerrit's house.... And then come back here again.... I want to see you ... all three of you ... here again.... Do you understand?... All three of you ... do you understand?"
"Yes, Mamma."
"Go now ... go...."
They went; and the children took their leave.
Outside, it was snowing great flakes. The snowflakes had been falling all through the night over the small town out of an infinite land of death, out of infinite sky-plains of infinite death. And, after all the gloom of the dark nights that had been, the nights under the grey skies of storm and rain, it had snowed whiter and whiter out of the dense greyness of sky-plains and skyland, flakes falling upon flakes in a soft white shroud of oblivion that enveloped houses and people....
Outside, the snow was falling in great flakes. The parlour-maid had opened the door:
"But your cab isn't here yet, ma'am...."
"It doesn't matter. We'll walk."
"I must say, it's a little absurd of Mamma," said Van der Welcke, on the doorstep. "Must we go to Gerrit's ... in this weather? And has Addie gone too?... Was Mamma as anxious as all that?... It's snowing hard, Constance: it's enough to give one one's death, to go out in this weather...."
"Well, then you stay, Henri."
"Do you mean to go in any case?"
"Yes, Mamma wants me to."
"But it's absurd!"
"Perhaps so ... but she would like it.... And we mayn't be able to do things to please her much longer!"
"Then send the cab on to the Bankastraat, when it comes...."
"Very well, sir."
They went....
"Didn't Addie go just now?"
"Yes, a minute or two before we did."
"I don't see him."
"He walks very fast."
"Was Mamma so uneasy?"
"Yes.... She was very restless and anxious."
"Have the others gone away as well?"
"Yes, Mamma was tired.... All the same, she relies upon us ... to come back presently for a moment."
"Mamma is becoming a little exacting...."
"She's growing so old.... We may as well give her that pleasure ... of just going."
How much gentler her tone had become!...
Once, ah, once she would have flared out at him violently for less than this little difference!... Now, ah, now, how much gentler everything about her had become!...
She stumbled through the snow.
"Take care, Constance.... The pavements are slippery.... Take my arm."
"No, I can manage."
"Take my arm."
She took his arm. She slipped again; he held her up. He felt that she was trembling.
"Are you cold?"
"No."
"You've got a thick cloak on."
"I'm not cold."
"What are you so nervous about?"
"I don't know...."
"Your nerves have been all wrong for some time.... You often cry ... about nothing."
"Yes. I don't know why.... It's nothing.... It's the weather...."
"Yes ... our Dutch climate.... Now at last it's something like winter. It's freezing like anything. The snow is crisp underfoot."
She slipped again. He held her up and they walked close together, in the driving snow, which blinded them....
"I must say, it's absurd of Mamma ... to send us out in this weather...."
She did not answer: she understood that he thought it absurd. The cold took her breath away; and it seemed to her, as she kept on slipping, that they would never reach the Bankastraat.... At last they turned the corner of the Nassauplein. And she calculated: not quite ten minutes more; then a moment with Gerrit and Adeline; the cab would fetch them there; then back to Mamma's with Addie ... to set Mamma's mind at ease. And, as she reckoned it out, she grew calmer and thought, with Henri, that it was certainly rather absurd of Mamma. She planted her feet more firmly; she was now walking more briskly, still holding her husband's arm.... Was it the cold or what, that made her keep on trembling with an icy shiver?... Now, at last, they were nearing the Bankastraat and Gerrit's house; and it seemed to her as if she had been walking the whole evening through the thick, crisp snow. Suddenly, she stopped:
"Henri," she stammered.
"What?"
"I ... I daren't...."
"What daren't you?"
"I daren't ring."
"Why not?"
"I daren't go in."
"But what's the matter with you?"
"Nothing.... I'm frightened. I daren't."
"But, Constance...."
"Henri, I'm trembling all over!..."
"Are you feeling ill?"
"No ... I'm frightened...."
"Come, Constance, what are you frightened of? Now that we're there, we may as well ring. What else would you do?... Here's the house."
He rang the bell.... They waited; no one came to the door; and the snow beat in their faces.
"But there's a light," he said. "They haven't gone to bed."
"And Addie...."
"Yes, Addie must be there."
"Ring again," she said.
He rang the bell.... They waited.... The house remained silent in the driving snow; but there was a light in nearly every window.
"Oh!... Henri!"
He rang the bell.
"Oh!... Henri!" she began to sob. "I'm frightened! I'm frightened!..."
She felt as if she were sinking into the snow, into a fleecy, bottomless abyss. Her knees knocked together and he saw that she was giving way. He held her up and she fell against him almost swooning.... He rang the bell....
The door was opened. It was Addie who opened the door. They entered; Constance staggered as she went. And, in her half-swooning giddiness, she seemed to see the house full of whirling snowflakes, coming through the roof, filling the passage and the rooms; and, amid this strange snow, her son's face appeared to her as the face of a ghost, very white, with the blue flame of his big eyes....
At that moment there came from upstairs a wailing cry, a long-drawn-out shriek, uttered in an agony of despair; and that cry seemed to call to Constance out of Adeline's body through all that night of snow indoors and out.
"Mamma, Papa, hush!... Uncle Gerrit ... Uncle Gerrit is ... dead.... Uncle Gerrit has...."
It was snowing, before Constance' giddy eyes, as she went up the stairs, with her husband and her son; it was snowing wildly, a whirl of all-obliterating white; it was snowing all around her. And through it, for the second time, Adeline's long wail of despair rang out loud and shrill....
The rooms upstairs were open.... The maids ... and Marietje in her little nightgown ... were peeping round the doors, trembling.... Gerrit's little room was open ... and on the floor lay the big body, looking bigger still, stretched out like that ... and, beside it, beside the big body, on her knees, the wife ... the small, fair-haired wife.... And her wail of despair rang out for the third time.
"Adeline!"
She now looked round, flung up her arms, felt her sister's arms, Constance' arms, around her:
"He's dead! He's dead!"
"No, Adeline ... perhaps he's fainted."
"He's dead! He's dead!... He's cold ... wet ... blood ... feel!..."
She uttered a scream of horror, the small, fair-haired wife. And suddenly, drawing herself up, she looked at the sword-rack.... Yes, the missing revolver ... was clutched in his stiff hand.
Van der Welcke and Addie closed the doors. The maids were sobbing outside. But the sound of little voices came; and small fists banged at the closed door:
"Mamma! Mamma! Mamma!... Aunt Constance!"
Constance rose, giddy and fainting, not knowing whether to go or stay....
"Constance! Constance!" cried Adeline, calling her back, holding her in her arms.
"Mamma! Mamma!... Aunt Constance! Aunt Constance!"
Constance rose to her feet, made a vast effort to overcome that dizzy faintness ... and, now that the body of the small, fair-haired woman lay moaning upon the body of the dead man, she opened the door.... Was every light in the house full on? Why were the maids sobbing like that? Was it real then, was it real?... Was this Marietje, clasping her so convulsively, trembling in her little nightgown?... Were these Guy and Alex, sleepy still their gentle eyes, cheeky their little mouths?... Were these Gerdy—oh, so frightened!—and little Constant?...
"Aunt Constance, Aunt Constance!"
She overcame her dizziness, she did not faint:
"Darlings, my darlings, hush!... Hush!..."
And she led them back to their bedroom.... What could she do but embrace them, but press them to her?...
"Darlings, my darlings!..."
The wail of despair rang out once more.... Oh, she must go back to that poor woman! Oh, she had not arms enough, not lives enough!... Oh, she must multiply her life tenfold!...
"Mamma." It was Addie speaking. "The cab is here.... I'm going for Dr. Alsma. One of the maids has gone to another doctor, close by."
"Yes, dear; and then ... and then go to ... oh, go to Grandmamma's! She's expecting us! I know for certain that she's expecting us!... Stay in here, darlings, don't leave the room, promise me!... And, Addie, don't tell her ... don't tell her anything yet ... tell her ... tell her that...."
The wail of despair rang out. And there were only two of them, now that Addie was gone, there were only two of them, helpless, she and Henri, in that night of death and snow—as though death were snowing outside, as though death were snowing into the brightly-lit house, with its all-obliterating whiteness, dazzlingly light, dazzlingly white—there were only two of them....
The twilight had passed away in the dazzling white light.
But yonder, in the big, dark, chilly house, the old woman sat waiting. She had sent the maids to bed and told them to put out all the lights, but she herself did not go to bed; she waited. She sat in her big, dark room, with just a candle flickering on the table beside her.
It seemed to her that she was waiting a long time. She felt very cold, though she had put her little black shawl round her shoulders. And she peered into the frowning shadow, which quivered with dancing black ghosts and with the flickering of the candle. It was a dance of ghosts, hovering silently round the room, and they seemed to have come from the distant past to haunt her, to have come out of the things of long ago, of very long ago: far-off, forgotten years of childhood and girlhood; the young man whom she had married; their long life together; their children, young around them.... Then the rise of their greatness; the rise of the white palaces in tropical climes; the glitter around them and their children of all the glittering vanity of the world.... Then the children growing up and moving farther and farther away from her.... And she saw it all looming so darkly and so menacingly in the long, dark rooms, while she sat waiting and watching by the flickering flame of the candle.
Then her old head nodded very slowly up and down, as if to say that she recognized all the things of long ago which loomed so darkly and threateningly, that there was not a ghost which she did not recognize, but that she did not understand why they all thronged round her to-night, like a vision of menace, a dance of death.... And, while she sat and wondered, it was as if each dancing phantom blacked out something of the room and the present that she still saw faintly gleaming, blacked out one outline after the other with dancing phantom after dancing phantom, until at last all was black around her ... and not only the room and the present had become black, but also the pale visions of the past: the years of childhood and girlhood; the young man whom she had married; and the children; and all the life, yonder, in the white palaces amid the tropical scenery: black, everything became black, until everything was blotted out, until the dance of all those phantoms was obliterated in shadow and the old woman, nodding her head, still sat peering into the dark, with the flickering candle beside her.
Thus she sat and waited; and, with the darkness before her, it was as if she did not see the candle, now that everything had become black. Thus she sat and waited and wondered whether many and many nights would still drag their blackness over her: how many black hours, how many black nights could the black future still drag along?... Until at last she heard a bell, clanging like a shrill alarm through the livid darkness. And mechanically—because she was waiting—she rose painfully and took her candle. Through the dark room and the dim passage she went; and the faint light went with her, so faint that she did not see it, that she just groped her way painfully through the passage and down the stairs, still holding high the candle.... The stairs seemed steep to her and she went cautiously, waiting on each step; at each step the faint light of the candle descended with her; and behind her the night accumulated with each step that she left behind her.... She had now reached the foot of the stairs; and, slowly and painfully, with the dragging tread of age, she went through the hall to the front door, whence the alarm had rung.
And her trembling hand opened the door. Addie entered:
"Granny, is that you yourself?..."
"Yes, child."
"I came, Granny dear, because Mamma said that you expected us."
"Yes."
"Were you waiting up for us, Granny?"
"Yes."
TABLE
CHAPTER ICHAPTER IICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER VCHAPTER VICHAPTER VIICHAPTER VIIICHAPTER IXCHAPTER XCHAPTER XICHAPTER XIICHAPTER XIIICHAPTER XIVCHAPTER XVCHAPTER XVICHAPTER XVIICHAPTER XVIIICHAPTER XIXCHAPTER XXCHAPTER XXICHAPTER XXIICHAPTER XXIIICHAPTER XXIVCHAPTER XXVCHAPTER XXVICHAPTER XXVIICHAPTER XXVIIICHAPTER XXIX