The front-door bell made old Takma wake with a start. And he knew that
he had been to sleep, but he did not allude to it and quietly acted as
though he had only been sitting and resting, with his hands leaning on
his ivory-knobbed stick. And, when Dr. Roelofsz entered, he said, with
his unvarying little joke:
"Well, Roelofsz, you don't get any thinner as the years go by!"
"Well-well," said the doctor, "d'you think so, Takma?"
He came rolling in, enormous of paunch, which hung dropsically and
askew towards his one stiff leg, which was shorter than the other;
and, in his old, clean-shaven, monkish face, his bleared little eyes
glittered behind the gold spectacles and were angry because Takma was
always referring to his paunch and he didn't like it.
"Harold is upstairs," said Ottilie Steyn.
"Come, child," said Takma, rising with an effort, "we'd better go
upstairs now; then we'll drive Harold away...."
They went up slowly. But there was another ring at the front-door.
"There's _such_ a bustle some days," said old Anna to the doctor. "But
the mistress isn't neglected in her old age! We shall soon have to
start fires in the morning-room, for there's often some one waiting
here...."
"Yes-yes-yes," said the doctor, rubbing his short, fat, fleshy hands
with a shiver. "It's coldish, it's chilly, Anna. You may as well have a
fire...."
"Mr. Takma says fires are the dickens."
"Yes, but he's always blazing hot inside," said Dr. Roelofsz,
viciously. "Well-well-well, here are the children...."
"Can we go up?" asked Elly, entering with Lot.
"Yes, go upstairs, miss," said Anna. "Mr. Harold is just coming down;
and there's no one upstairs but Mamma ... and Mr. Takma."
"Grandmamma's holding a court," said Lot, jestingly.
But his voice hesitated in joking, for a certain awe always oppressed
him as soon as he entered his grandmother's house. It was because
of that atmosphere of the past into which he sometimes felt too
hyperimaginative to intrude, an atmosphere from which bygone memories
and things constantly came floating. The old doctor, who had something
of a monk and something of a Silenus in his appearance, was so very
old and, though younger than Grandmamma, had known her as a young and
seductive woman.... Here was Uncle Harold coming down the stairs: he
was much younger, but a deep and mysterious melancholy furrowed his
faded face, which moreover was wrung with physical pain.
"Till to-morrow, till to-morrow, children," he said, gently, and went
away after shaking hands with them. "Till to-morrow, till to-morrow,
Roelofsz...."
That voice, broken with melancholy, always made Lot shudder. He now
followed Elly up the stairs, while the doctor remained below, talking
to old Anna:
"Yes-yes-yes, well-well-well!"
The ejaculations pursued Lot as he mounted the stairs. Each time that
he came to the house he became more conscious of finding himself on
another plane, more sensitive to that atmosphere of former days, which
seemed to drag with it something that rustled. A whole past lay hidden
behind the joviality of the voluble doctor. Oh, to grow old, to grow
old! He shivered at the thought on that first autumnal day.... They
now entered the room: there they sat, Grandmamma, Grandpapa Takma and,
in between them, so strangely, like a child, Lot's mother. And Lot,
walking behind Elly, modulated his tread, his gestures, his voice; and
Elly also was very careful, he thought, as though she feared to break
that crystal, antique atmosphere with too great a display of youth.
"So you're to be married to-morrow? That's right, that's right," said
the old woman, contentedly.
She raised her two hands with an angular gesture and, with careful and
trembling lips, kissed first Elly and then Lot on the forehead. They
were now all sitting in a circle; and a few words passed at intervals;
and Lot felt as if he himself were a child, Elly quite a baby, his
mother a young woman. She resembled Grandmamma, certainly; but what in
Grandmamma had been an imposing creole beauty had been fined down in
Mamma, had become the essence of fineness, was so still. Yes, she was
like Grandmamma, but--it struck him again, as it had before--she had
something, not a resemblance, but a similar gesture, with something
about the eyes and something about the laugh, to Grandpapa Takma....
Could it be true after all, what people had whispered: that the
youngest child, Ottilie, had been born too long after Dercksz' death
for his paternity to be accepted, for the paternity to be attributed
to any one but Takma? Were they really sitting there as father, mother
and child? He, was he Takma's grandson? Was he a cousin of Elly's?...
He didn't know it for certain, nothing was certain: there were--he
had heard them very long ago--those vague rumours; and there was that
likeness! But, if it was so, then they both knew it; then, if they were
not quite dulled, they were thinking of it at this moment. They were
not in their dotage, either of them, those old, old people. It seemed
to Lot that some emotion had always continued to sharpen their wits;
for it was wonderful how well Grandmamma, despite her age, understood
all about everything, about his marriage now, about the family:
"Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor are on their way from India," said
Grandmamma. "I can't imagine what they are coming for ... with the
winter so near. Aunt Floor won't like it, I know.... I only wish that
_I_ had remained in India, instead of coming here.... Yes, I've been
sitting here for years now, until ... until ..."
She stammered and looked out of the window, waiting, waiting. At the
other window sat Takma and waited, waited, nodding his head. Oh, it was
awful, thought Lot, looking at his mother. She did not understand his
look, had forgotten his moment of prostration and weakness, his dread
of old age, because she always forgot when he did not complain; and she
merely thought that he wanted to get up. She smiled, sadly, as was her
custom in these days, nodded and was the first to rise:
"Well, we'd better be going now, Mamma.... Mr. Takma, am I not to see
you home?"
"No, child, it's not raining; and I can manage by myself, I can
manage...."
Ottilie's voice sounded very sad and childish and old Takma's paternal,
but fluttering and airy. Lot and Elly rose; and there were more careful
kisses; and Mr. Takma kissed Ottilie also. When they were gone, the old
doctor came rolling in.
"Well, Roelofsz," said Grandmamma.
"Well-well-well, yes-yes," mumbled the doctor, dropping into a chair.
They sat like that, without words, the three old people. The light was
waning outside; and a bleak autumnal wind drove the first yellow leaves
through the gardens of the Sofialaan.
"You're out too late, Takma," said the doctor.
"No, no," said the old man.
"It gets chilly early, at this season."
"No, no, I'm not chilly."
"Yes, you're always blazing hot inside."
"Yes, just as you're always getting fatter."
The doctor gave an explosive laugh, not viciously this time, because
he had got his joke in first; and Takma also laughed, with a shrill,
cracked note. The old woman did not speak, leant over slightly, looked
out of the window. The dusk of evening was already gathering over the
Nassaulaan.
"Look," said the old woman, pointing with her trembling, slender,
wand-like finger.
"What?" asked the two men, looking out.
"I thought ..."
"What?"
"I thought that there was something ... moving ... over there, under
the trees...."
"What was moving?"
"I don't know: something ... somebody...."
"She's wandering," thought the doctor to himself.
"No, Ottilie," said Takma, "there's nothing moving."
"Oh, is there nothing moving?"
"No."
"I thought that something was passing ... just hazily...."
"Yes ... well ... that's the damp rising," said the doctor.
"Yes," said Takma, "that's mist...."
"You're out of doors much too late, Takma," said the doctor.
"I've got my great-coat, a warm one...."
"Well-well...."
"The leaves are rustling," said the old woman. "And the wind's howling.
It'll soon be winter."
"Well ... yes-yes, winter's coming. One more of 'em...."
"Yes," said the old woman. "The last ... the last winter...."
"No-no-no-no!" boasted the old doctor. "The last! I promise you, you'll
see a hundred yet, Ottilie!..."
Old Takma nodded his head:
"It's more than sixty years ..."
"Wha-at?" exclaimed the doctor, in a startled voice.
"Ago ..."
"What are you saying?" cried the old woman, shrilly.
"I'm saying," said Takma, "that Ottilie, that Lietje ... is turned
sixty ..."
"Oh, yes!"
"And so it's more than sixty ... more than sixty years ago since ..."
"Si-ince _what?_" exclaimed the doctor.
"Since Dercksz ... was drowned," said Takma.
And he nodded his head.
"Oh!" moaned the old woman, lifting her hands to her face with an
angular and painful movement. "Don't speak about that. What made you
say that?"
"No," said Takma, "I said nothing...."
"No-no-no-no!" mumbled the doctor. "Don't talk about it, don't talk
about it.... We never talk about it.... Yes ... aha ... Takma, what
made you talk about it?... There-there-there-there ... it's nothing,
but it makes Ottilie sad...."
"No," said the old woman, calmly. "I'm never sad now.... I'm much too
old for that.... I only sit and wait.... Look, isn't that something
passing?..."
"Where?"
"In the street, opposite ... or down there, in the road ... something
white...."
"Where? Aha, oh, there?... No, Ottilie, that's mist."
"The leaves ... the leaves are rustling."
"Yes-yes-yes, autumn ... winter's coming...."
"The last," said the old woman.
The doctor mumbled a vague denial. Takma nodded his head. They sat
very still, for a time. Yes, it was more than sixty years ago.... They
all three saw it: the old man and the old woman saw it happening; and
the doctor saw it as it had happened. He had understood and guessed,
at once, and he had known, all those years long. Very many years ago
he had been in love with Ottilie, he much younger than she, and there
was a moment when he had called upon her to pay him the price of his
knowledge.... He had buried all that in himself, but he saw it as it
had happened.... It was more than sixty years ago.
"Come," said Takma, "it's time I went.... Else ... else it'll be too
late...."
He rose with an effort and remembered that he had not torn up one
letter to-day. That was not right, but the tearing tired his fingers.
The doctor also arose and rang the bell twice, for the companion.
"We're going, juffrouw."
It was almost dark in the room.
"Good-bye, Ottilie," said Takma, pressing the mittened hand, which was
raised an inch or two.
The doctor also pressed her hand:
"Good-bye, Ottilie.... Yes-yes-yes: till to-morrow or next day."
Mr. Takma found Ottilie Steyn de Weert waiting downstairs:
"You here still, child?"
"Yes, Mr. Takma. I'll just see you home. You've really stayed out too
late to-day; Elly thought so too; and Adèle will be uneasy...."
"Very well, child, do; see the old man home."
He took her arm; and his now irregular step tottered as Anna let them
out.
"Juffrouw," said the old woman, upstairs, when the companion was about
to light the lamp, "wait a moment and just look out of the window. Tell
me: there, on the other side of the road, through those leaves falling
... isn't there something ... something white ... passing?"
The companion looked through the window:
"No, mevrouw, there's nothing. But there's a mist rising. Mr. Takma has
stayed much too long again."
She closed the shutters and lit the lamp. The old woman sat and took
her soup; then the companion and old Anna put her to bed.