Next morning, in a mist, a drizzly mist, the relations met at the
railway-station: Otto van Naghel; Karel; Van Saetzema; Uncle Ruyvenaer,
just back from India; Paul; Addie. They moved about, in the
waiting-room, on the platform, with gloomy faces and upturned
coat-collars, waiting for the train, which was late, which would not
arrive for another quarter of an hour or twenty minutes.
"Does Grandmamma know about it yet?" Uncle Ruyvenaer asked Addie.
"No, Uncle. No one liked to tell her. I believe the uncles and aunts
would really prefer to keep it from her altogether."
"That's impossible."
"I think it would be very difficult, Uncle. Grandmamma might hear it
from an outsider.... She has friends who call to see her."
"Is Emilie coming?"
"Yes, Uncle. She'll stay with us."
"Is Uncle Gerrit very ill?"
"Yes, Uncle, very ill indeed."
"Does Grandmamma know he's ill?"
"No."
"The children are now all out of the house, aren't they? We've got Alex
and Guy with us."
"And we have Adèletje, Gerdy and Constance. The three little ones are at
Otto's: Louise came and fetched them. Marietje is with Aunt Adolphine."
"Has Aunt Adeline any one to help her?"
"There are two male nurses, Uncle. Uncle Gerrit is very violent in his
delirium."
"Oughtn't the train to be here soon?"
"It's overdue now."
"It's a very sad affair. And how people will talk! Yes, how people will
talk! Lord, Lord, how they're going to talk!"
"Here comes the train, Uncle."
The train steamed slowly into the station, like a grey ghost of a train
through the ghostly, drizzling mist; and the waiting relations saw
Constance, Van der Welcke and Emilie get out, Emilie leaning heavily
upon Constance. Then came the dreary, dreary task of taking possession
of the coffin. The hearse was waiting outside. And it all went as in a
dream, in the ghostly, drizzling mist....
"How people will talk!" Uncle Ruyvenaer whispered to Karel and Van
Saetzema, with whom he was sitting in the second coach.
"Yes, it's a damned rotten business."
"It's not over-respectable...."
"Having a nephew who becomes a clown...."
"And then, it seems, goes and gets murdered in Paris...."
"For a girl?"
"Yes ... some obscure story about a girl ... in Paris."
"I thought he had committed suicide?"
"We really don't know anything. Constance wrote no particulars."
"In any case, it's not over-respectable."
"I call it a damned rotten business."
"Constance has gone on ahead with Emilie."
"Yes. What a sight Emilie looked!"
"Very odd, that sister and brother."
"Yes, it was because of _him_ that she left her husband. And now--no
doubt through his own imprudence--stabbed, I suppose...?"
"Unless he committed suicide."
"Van Raven, after all, was a decent fellow."
"Van Raven? I believe you! Van Raven was a _very_ decent fellow."
"Those young Van Naghels never had a sensible bringing-up...."
"No, I bring my boys up very differently."
"Ah, but then they're fine boys!"
"Is Van der Welcke in the first coach?"
"Yes, with Otto, Paul and Addie."
"Then why did they put us in the second coach?"
"Perhaps it was a mistake."
"I daresay, but it's not the thing. Uncle ought to be in the first
coach."
"Yes; and you too, Karel."
"Yes; and you too, Saetzema, of course."
"Well ... I daresay it's a mistake. The thing wasn't arranged...."
"No; but when Van der Welcke has to arrange a thing...!"
"It was that young bounder who arranged things."
"Addie?"
"Of course."
"Oh, so that young bounder arranged things!"
"Look here, what are we to say to Mamma?"
"Well, I don't intend to mention it. For that matter, I know nothing."
"Nor I. The women had better do it."
"But they're too much upset."
"The best thing will be not to say anything."
"Yes, it's best not to say anything to Mamma."
"Lord, what a day!... And to have to ride for an hour in this weather at
a foot's pace ... behind the body of an undergraduate who has been sent
down from Leiden and must needs run away to Paris with his sister and
become a circus-clown...."
"And go getting murdered into the bargain! But we mustn't tell anybody
that. No, no, we won't speak about it. We'll merely say that he was
taken ill. After all, it's a rotten incident ... for us."
"Yes, it's very rotten for us."
"Lord, Lord, how people will jabber!"
"Of course they will."
"Of course they will."
"If things con-tin-ue like _this_ ... _I_ shall leave the _Hague_," said
Karel. "Ca-teau said so _too_."
He copied his wife's voice: he always copied her voice, unconsciously,
when he talked about her.
"Are we nearly there?"
"No such luck!"
"Lord, what a day!..."
"How people will talk!..."
The carriage containing Constance had driven on ahead of the procession.
Emilie leant against her, feebly and listlessly, without speaking or
hearing. When they approached the Kerkhoflaan, Emilie said:
"Auntie ... it's just stupid chance...."
"What, dear?"
"Is this life? My life has never been anything but stupid chance! The
little pleasure I had ... and the sorrow ... was all stupid chance! I am
now so miserable; and it's all ... all stupid chance!... Oh, Auntie, I
shall never be able to live ... not now, when Henri's death will always
... will always haunt me like an accusing ghost!... Auntie ... do other
people have so much stupid chance in their lives?... If I hadn't gone to
Paris!... If Henri had not ... oh, I can't say it, I can't say it!
Auntie, we shall never know! It's _too_ awful, what happened! I can
never tell you ... what I think!"
"My darling, I suspect it!"
"Oh, it's awful, awful! Uncle suspects it too ... so they do at the
legation.... It's awful, awful!... He's disappeared: Eduard, I mean....
It was a mere accident: we were walking together, Henri and I, when we
... when we met Eduard.... They looked at each other.... They hated each
other.... Then he walked on ... but we met him again later.... Then, in
the evening, when I came home ... and found Henri ... lying in his
blood...!"
She flung herself back with a scream.
"Auntie, Auntie, we know nothing!... But the suspicion will _always_ be
with me! I shall always see it like that! Oh, Auntie, Auntie, help me
... and keep me with you always, always!..."
She closed her eyes in Constance' arms, too weak to face her life, which
had changed from fantastic humour into tragedy.... The carriage
suddenly, stopped, in the Kerkhoflaan; Truitje opened the door;
Constance made a sign to her to ask no questions. She herself, on the
other hand, asked:
"How is Mr. Gerrit doing?"
"Not at all well, ma'am."
"Where are the children?"
"They're in the dining-room, ma'am, playing: it's easier there for me to
keep an eye on them."
Constance opened the door of the dining-room, with her arm round Emilie.
She saw Gerdy and Constant; but, just as in the drawing-room at home,
they had hidden behind a sofa standing aslant, where they were quietly
playing at father and mother, worshipping each other like a little
husband and wife, two small birds in a little nest.
"Peek-a-boo!" said Constance, mechanically.
They were quiet at first and then burst into chuckles, crept out, kissed
Auntie and Emilie:
"Auntie," asked Gerdy, "is Papa ill?"
"Yes, darling."
"Will Papa get better _very_ soon?"
"Oh, yes, dear!"
"Are we staying with you long?"
"No, not very long, darling."
And Constance did not know why, but she suddenly saw the children
staying on; and this vision was mingled with a vague impression of the
gloomy house at Driebergen. She thought that her brain must be very
tired in her head, that she was sleeping while awake, dreaming as she
moved about. Everything before her was confused: that terrible day in
Paris; Henri's body; the mystery about the whole affair, with the dark,
half-uttered suspicions; the formalities; the legation; the journey
back: oh, she was dead-tired, dead-tired!... Oh, that coffin, that
coffin!... And in the middle of it all a letter from Addie: Uncle Gerrit
seriously ill; the children ordered out of the house; he was taking
Gerdy and Constant and giving them his room: he was sure Mamma would
approve.... Oh, how dead-tired, how dead-tired she was!...
"Auntie," said Constant, "Truitje has been so kind: she made us a lovely
rice-pudding...."
"But we'd rather be at home!" said Gerdy.
And the children suddenly began to cry. Constance took them in her arms,
pressed them to her:
"You would be just a little in Mamma's way," she said, with a dead
voice. "Mamma must look after Papa...."
And she dropped almost fainting into a chair.
"Aunt Constance!" Emilie sobbed: "Aunt Constance, let me ... let me ...
stay with you!... Let me stay with you!... Where ... where could I go?"
She sobbed wildly, huddled on the floor against Constance' knees. The
children were also crying. Constance had put one arm round Emilie and
held the children in the other. It was very gloomy out of doors.
Indoors, life's tragedy lay heavy upon them.