Adolphine looked enviously around her. What a lot Constance must spend
on her clothes; and it was not as if they were well off either, for all
they had to live on was an allowance from Papa and Mamma van der Welcke,
the money which Constance had inherited from her father and the little
that Van der Welcke could scrape together at Brussels, as a wine- and
insurance-agent. Nothing to speak of, all told: that Adolphine knew for
a fact. She admired in particular a magnificent fur bolero and wondered
what two kinds of fur it was made of; but she said nothing: she never
praised anything in another, not his raiment, nor his intellect, nor his
virtues. Even if she had had anything to gain by it, she could never
have brought herself to say:
"Constance, what a pretty bolero that is!"
But, pale with envy, she kept looking at the fur as it hung over a
chair; and the sight of it caused her almost physical pain, because it
was not hers and she did not know how one like it ever could be hers.
Constance was rather tired. First, she had been unpacking trunks with
Addie; then Karel and Cateau had come and she had talked copiously in
the pleasure and excitement of seeing them. But that visiting-card of
Karel's had depressed her; and now she talked listlessly:
"So your girl is going to be married soon, Adolphine?"
"In May."
"I haven't seen either of them since Sunday. A couple of days ago, I
found their cards and Dijkerhof's. How quickly a week passes! I didn't
find any of you at home either."
"We are so busy shopping all day long, for the trousseau."
"Is Dijkerhof a nice fellow?"
"Yes; and they are a very good family."
As it happened, the Dijkerhofs were not in quite the same set as the Van
Lowes; and Mamma van Lowe was not over-enthusiastic about the
engagement.
Constance was silent: she was tired, she had a headache and she thought
that Adolphine had better keep the conversation going. But Adolphine was
too much distracted by the bolero to be in form. She cast about for a
subject. And yet there were plenty, for she was dying of curiosity to
know all sorts of things: for instance, what Constance thought of Bertha
and Cateau. If only that wretched bolero were not there! At last, she
began:
"So you're looking for a house?"
Constance answered at random; and, because of her headache, her
expression became stiff and haughty and her lips were tightly
compressed. Adolphine thought her arrogant and reflected that Constance
had always been stuck-up, after her marriage to De Staffelaer and all
the smart society in Rome. Adolphine suspected Constance of looking down
upon her; and Constance merely had a headache.
"And shall you call on many people?"
No, Constance thought not.
"Won't you go to Court?"
No, Constance hadn't given it a thought.
"Is your boy going to the high-school?"
No, he was to pass his examination for the grammar-school: Van der
Welcke wanted him to go to one of the universities, later.
"What photographs are those?"
"Friends of ours, in Brussels."
"Had you many friends there?"
"Not so many, latterly."
Suddenly Constance' eyes met Adolphine's. And Constance did not see
Adolphine's hateful hostility: Constance saw only her sister, four years
younger than herself, but worn out by a tiresome, difficult life, a life
full of money-bothers, full of trouble with spoilt, disagreeable
children, receiving no assistance from her husband, Van Saetzema, who
was chief clerk at the Ministry of Justice; Constance saw her sister,
thin, yellow, eaten up with worry and bitterness, in her almost shabby
and yet pretentious clothes. And, notwithstanding her raging headache,
she was filled with pity, because Adolphine was her sister. She rose and
went to Adolphine:
"Phine," she said, frankly, "don't be angry if I am not very talkative,
but I have such a headache. And I really do think it nice of you to look
me up. Come often. Let us see a lot of each other. I only came to the
Hague because of you all. I wanted you so badly. I have dragged through
so many dreary years. I have no one in my life, except my boy. And he is
still so young; and I tell him too much as it is. I have been very
unhappy, Adolphine, Phine. Be nice to me, be a little fond of your
Constance. She did not always behave as she should, she did not always
behave as she should. But forgive her, forgive her the past," she
whispered, more softly, so that Addie should not hear. "Forgive her that
past which is always there, which has never become the past for good and
all. Forgive her ... and love her a little!"
She burst into nervous sobs and, impulsively, knelt down by her sister
and laid her head on her breast and felt how poor and thin Adolphine was
in her arms. A damp smell of rain was steaming from her muddy dress.
"Dear Constance!" said Adolphine, really touched. "Certainly, I care for
you. And that past was so long ago: we have all of us forgotten about
it."
But Constance sobbed and sobbed.
"Mamma!" said Addie.
She drew him to her also, held her sister and her boy in a close
embrace.
"Come, Constance...."
"Mamma, don't cry.... You always have such a headache, Mummy, after
crying like that."
She controlled herself, stood up; and Adolphine found a few kind words.
Adolphine was certainly touched, but she was cross about that bolero
and, besides, she found Addie better-looking, more taking, almost, than
any of her own three ugly, lubberly boys. However, she kissed Constance
and arranged for Constance to come and take tea with her next evening.
When Constance was a little calmer and had laughed a little through her
tears, Adolphine took her leave with a warm kiss:
"And I'll just leave Van Saetzema's card, shall I, Constance, here, by
Karel's, for Van der Welcke? Then he'll get it when he arrives...."
She put down the card and, suddenly unable to restrain herself, went, as
though in passing, to the bolero, looked at it and said, in a voice that
bore no resemblance to the envious thoughts that still smouldered in her
heart:
"But, Constance!... Do you still wear those short little jackets?"
"Oh, they've been the fashion so long!" answered Constance, still
thinking of the visiting-cards.
"Well, I don't know: they'd be too short for me, at my age, I think!"
Seeing that she was younger than Constance, the remark was not only
unkind, but dishonest; and Adolphine, now satisfied, went away.
Constance stared at the two visiting-cards and suddenly burst out
sobbing again.
Addie took her in his arms. He was already nearly as tall as she was:
"Mamma," he said, gently, with his resolute lad's voice, "don't cry so;
and go and lie down a little. You have to go to Grandmamma's to-night;
and you'll be too tired if you don't rest first."
And he helped her to take off some of her things and settled her pillows
for her.
She lay on the bed, sobbing convulsively, without really remembering
why.
The boy sat down by the window, near the console-table, and took up his
book, a story of the Boer war. A movement of his arm sent the two cards
over. He just glanced down at them, at those two pieces of paste-board
formalism, let them lie on the carpet and went on reading....