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?"
"_All_ that 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 am _too tired_ to...."
"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....