Van Der Welcke kept himself under control that Sunday evening for Mamma
van Lowe's sake, but he was really shocked at Addie's concern and by the
calumnies that appeared to be stealthily uttered against him in the
Hague; and, next morning, he went to the Ministry of Justice, asked to
see Van Saetzema and, without beating about the bush, requested him to
punish his son Jaap for his spiteful slander. Van Saetzema, losing his
head in the face of Van der Welcke's lofty and resolute tone, stammered
and spluttered, spoke to Adolphine when he got home and delegated the
business to his wife. Adolphine, it is true, scolded Jaap for being so
stupid, but, in doing it, created an excitement that lasted for days and
penetrated to the Van Naghels, the Ruyvenaers, Karel and Cateau, Gerrit
and Adeline, Paul and Dorine, until everybody was talking about it and
knew of the incident, excepting only Mamma van Lowe, whom they always
spared, and Constance herself. A couple of days later, Van der Welcke
saw Van Saetzema again and asked him if he had corrected Jaap; and, when
he perceived in Van Saetzema's spluttering a certain vagueness, a
certain inclination to avoid the point, Van der Welcke, who was
naturally quick-tempered, flew into a rage and said he would speak to
Jaap himself. And, that same evening, three days after the Sunday in
question, Van der Welcke went to the Van Saetzemas', was very polite to
Adolphine and her husband, but told Jaap, in his parents' presence,
that, if he ever dared repeat his slanderous insinuations against Addie,
he, his Uncle van der Welcke, would give him a thrashing which he would
remember all the days of his life. Van Saetzema lost his head:
unaccustomed to such plain speaking, he spluttered and stammered,
blurting out conciliatory words; and Adolphine told Van der Welcke that
she was quite capable of punishing her children herself, if she thought
necessary. Van der Welcke, however, managed to keep cool and civil
towards the father and mother, but again warned Jaap, so that he might
know what to expect. And the whole family soon learnt that Van der
Welcke had been to the Van Saetzemas' and threatened Jaap; and all the
members of the family had their different opinions, all except Mamma van
Lowe, who was not told, who was always spared the revelation of any
unpleasantness, from a sort of reverence on her children's part, so that
she really lived and reigned over them in a sort of illusion of harmony
and close communion. And Constance also was not told, remained gently
happy, gently contented, with that calm, sweet sadness in her face and
soul which was the reflection of her moods. On the following Sunday,
however, merely knowing that Addie was still angry with Jaap, she said,
at lunch:
"Addie, won't you go to the three boys to-day and make it up with Jaap?"
But Addie gave a decided refusal:
"I'll do anything to please you, Mamma, but I'll never go back to those
boys."
Constance lost her temper:
"So on account of what you yourself call a boys' quarrel--about a
cat--you wish to remain on bad terms with the children of your mother's
sister!"
Addie took fright: it was true, the cause seemed very unreasonable.
But Van der Welcke, himself irritable under the restraint which he had
been imposing upon himself, said, trembling all over:
"I don't choose, Constance, that Addie should continue to go about with
those boys."
His determined manner brought her temper seething up; and all her gentle
calmness vanished:
"And I choose," she exclaimed, "that Addie should make friends with
them!"
"Mamma, I can't, really!"
"Constance, it's impossible."
Though she was quivering in all her nerves, there was something in the
manifest determination of them both that calmed her. But she grew
suspicious:
"Tell me why you quarrelled. If you can't make it up, then it wasn't
about a cat."
"Let us first have our lunch in peace, if possible," said Van der
Welcke. "I'll tell you everything presently, at least if you can be
calm."
He realized that he could no longer keep her in ignorance. She collected
all her strength of mind to remain cool. After lunch, when she was alone
with her husband, she said:
"Now tell me what it is all about."
"On one condition, that you keep calm. I want to avoid a scene if I
possibly can, if only for the sake of our boy, who has been very
unhappy."
"I am quite calm. Tell me what it is. Why has he been unhappy?"
He now told her. She kept calm. She first tried to gloss things over, in
a spirit of contradiction; but she was overcome with a deep sense of
depression when she thought of her boy and his trouble. For one
torturing moment, she doubted whether she had not been very wrong to
return to her native land, to her native town, in the midst of all her
relations. But she merely said:
"Slander ... that appears to be people's occupation everywhere...."
Now that she seemed calm, he resolved to tell her everything and said
that he had been to the Van Saetzemas and threatened Jaap.
Her temper was roused, for a moment, but subsided again in the profound
depression that immediately left her numb and disheartened. The
torturing pain followed again and the doubt whether she had not been
quite wrong....
But she did not give utterance to the doubt and simply went to the
"turret-room," where her boy was:
"Are you going out, Addie?" she asked, vaguely, calm amid her
depression.
"Let's go out together, Mamma," he said.
She smiled, glad that he was giving her this Sunday afternoon with that
justice with which he divided his favours. She stood in front of him,
with blank eyes to which the tears now stole, but with the smile still
playing about her mouth.
"Shall we, Mamma?"
She nodded yes. Then she knelt down beside her boy, where he sat with
his book in his hands, and it was as though she were making herself very
small, as though she were shrinking; and she laid her head on his little
knees and put one arm round him. She wept very softly into his lap.
"Come, Mummy, what's the matter?"
She now knew what he had suffered, a sorrow almost too great for one of
his years to bear. She almost wished to beg his pardon, but dared not.
She only said:
"Addie, you did believe Papa, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"And you believe me too, when I say that it's not true what people
say?..."
"Yes, I believe you."
He believed her; and yet a suspicion lingered in his mind. There was
something, even though that particular thing was not true. There was
something. But he did not ask what it was, out of respect for those past
years, the years that were his parents' own.
"My child!" she sobbed, with her head still in his lap. "Tell me, has my
boy been very unhappy?"
He just nodded, to say yes, and pressed her to him, lifted her up, took
her close to him on his knees, with the caress of an embryo man. She
closed her eyes on her son's breast. She felt so weary with her
depression that she could have remained lying there. It was as though
the illusion was beginning to crumble to pieces, like a dear house of
sympathy from which sympathy had shown itself to be absent.
"Don't let Grandmamma notice anything," she said, softly.
He promised.
She wanted to leave the old woman her happiness in her illusion, the
illusion of that dear house of sympathy. Her own illusion was crumbling.
And yet she thought that she was exaggerating, making too much of it,
because a wretched boy had given her child pain:
"That's no reason why they should all be like that," she thought.
And she once more summoned to her mind the illusion of that great, dear
house of sympathy for which she had yearned in her lonely exile.
"Come, Mamma, let's go out."
She released him slowly, smiled through her tears, as she rose from his
lap and went to change her things:
"How small we all are!" she thought. "What small creatures we are and
what small souls we have Is that life? Or is there something different?"