They arrived in the evening, on the day after the funeral, Lot and
Elly, tired from the journey and out of harmony amid their actual
sorrow. Aunt Adèle--they were to stay in the Mauritskade--did not
notice it at once; for she, after bearing up for the last two days, had
thrown herself sobbing in Elly's arms, sobbing as Elly had never seen
her; and, when the sobs gave themselves free scope, her nerves gave out
and she fell in a faint.
"The mistress has had such a busy, upsetting time," said Door; and
Keetje confirmed it; and they and Elly brought Aunt Adèle round.
"I'm better, dear, it's nothing. Come, let's go to the dining-room. I
expect you two will be glad of something to eat."
She was still sobbing, overwrought, but she steadied herself with an
effort. When they were seated at dinner, she noticed Lot's and Elly's
lack of harmony.
"Was Grandpapa buried yesterday?" asked Elly.
"Yes, dear. Dr. Thielens dared not wait any longer."
"Then it was really superfluous for us to come home," said Lot,
irritably.
His lips trembled and there was a set hardness in his usually gentle,
pink-and-white face.
"We telegraphed to you to come," said Aunt Adèle, still crying, softly,
"because Elly will have to go into business-matters at once ..."
"Perhaps I might have come home by myself," said Elly, "for these
matters of business...."
"Steyn is the executor," said Aunt Adèle, gently, "and he thought ..."
"Steyn?" asked Elly. "Why not Lot?"
"The old man had settled it so, dear.... He's the husband of Mamma ...
who comes into money too ... with you ..."
"Mamma?" asked Lot.
"Yes," said Aunt Adèle, a little embarrassed.
They understood and asked no more questions, but it was obvious that
they were out of harmony; their features looked both tired and hard.
"Mamma is coming this evening to see you," said Aunt Adèle.
Elly shook her head:
"I'm dead-tired," she said. "I can't see Mamma this evening. I'm going
up to bed, Auntie."
"_I'll_ see Mamma," said Lot.
Elly rose quickly and went upstairs. Aunt Adèle followed her; and Lot
went to another room to change his things. On the stairs, Elly began to
cry:
"Poor old Grandpapa!" she sobbed; and her voice broke.
They reached the bedroom. Aunt Adèle helped her undress.
"Are you so tired, dear?"
Elly nodded.
"Dear, is anything the matter? You've something so hard about your
face, something I've never seen there before.... Tell me, dear, you are
happy, aren't you?"
Elly gave a vague smile:
"Not quite as happy perhaps as I expected, Auntie.... But, if I'm not,
it's my own fault."
Aunt Adèle asked nothing more. She thought of the elated letters which
had always given the old man such pleasant moments and reflected how
deceptive letters could be.
Elly undressed and got into bed.
"I'll leave you to yourself, dear...."
But Elly took her hand, with a sudden tenderness for the woman who had
been a mother to her:
"Stay a little longer, Auntie ... until Mamma comes."
"Dear," said Aunt Adèle, feeling her way, "you're not put out, are you,
because Mamma inherits her share too. She's his daughter, you know...."
"Yes, Auntie, I know that. No, Auntie, really I'm not put out at that.
I'm only tired, very tired ... because everything that we set ourselves
to do ... seems useless...."
"Darling," said Aunt Adèle, only half hearing, "I also ... am tired, I
am worn out. Oh, I wish I dared tell you!..."
"What?"
"No, dear, no, I daren't."
"But what is it?"
"No, dear, I daren't. Not yet, not yet, perhaps later.... Hark, there's
the bell: that must be Mamma.... Yes, I hear Steyn's voice too.... I'd
better go downstairs, dear...."
She left Elly, but was so much upset that downstairs she once more
burst into tears....
"Elly is so tired," she said to Ottilie, "she's gone to bed: I should
leave her alone to-day, if I were you...."
But she herself was quite unhinged. She felt that the terrible secret
which she alone knew--so she thought--weighed too heavily on her simple
soul, that she was being crushed by it, that she must tell it, that she
must share it with another. And she said:
"Steyn, Steyn.... While Lot is talking to his mother, don't you know,
I'd like to speak to you ... if I may...."
"Certainly," said Steyn.
They left the room.
"Upstairs?" asked Steyn.
"Yes," said Aunt Adèle, "in the old gentleman's room."
She took him there: it was cold, but she lit the gas.
"Steyn," she said, "I'm sorry for what I've done. I tidied up those
papers a bit, there was such a litter. And on the ground was a ... a
letter, a torn letter: the last one ... which the old gentleman meant
to tear up.... I don't know how it happened, Steyn ... but, without
intending to or knowing it, I ... I read that letter.... I would give
all the money in the world not to have done it. I _can't_ keep it to
myself, all to myself. It's driving me crazy ... and slowly making me
frightened ... and nervous.... See, here's the letter. I don't know if
I'm doing right. Perhaps I'd have done better just to tear the letter
up.... After all, that was the old man's wish...."
She gave him the four pieces.
"But then it will be best," said Steyn, "for me to tear up the letter
... and not read it...."
And he made a movement as though to tear the letter. But she stopped
him:
"And leave _me_ ... to carry about with me ... all by myself ...
something that I can't speak of! No, no, read it, in Heaven's name ...
for _my_ sake, Steyn ... to share it with me.... Read it...."
Steyn read the letter.
Silence filled the room: a cold, lonely, wintry, silence, with not
a sound but that of the flaring gas. From the faded characters of
the frayed, yellow letter, torn in part, rose hatred, passion, mad
jubilation, mad agony of love and remorse for a night of blood, an
Indian mountain night, clattering with torrents of rain. With all of
that these two had nothing to do; they were foreign to it; and yet the
Thing that was passing brushed against their bodies, their souls, their
lives. It made them start, reflect, look each other shudderingly in the
eyes, strangers though they were to the Thing that was passing....
"It is terrible," said Steyn. "And no one knows it?..."
"No," said Aunt Adèle, "no one knows it except you and me...."
But Steyn was not satisfied:
"We ought not to have read that letter," he said.
"I don't know how I came to do it," said Aunt Adèle. "Something
impelled me to, I don't know what. I'm not naturally inquisitive. I had
the pieces in my hand to tear them up still smaller. I tore the two
pieces into four...."
Mechanically, Steyn tore the four pieces into eight.
"What are you doing?" asked Aunt Adèle.
"Destroying the letter," said Steyn.
"Wouldn't you let Lot...?"
"No, no," said Steyn, "what does Lot want with it? _There!_..."
He tore up the letter and dropped the pieces, very small, into the
paper-basket.
Before his eyes shimmered pale-red the bygone passions that were
strange to him; they loomed up before him; and yet he saw the room,
wintry-cold and silently abandoned by the old man, with not a sound in
it save the flaring gas.
"Yes," said Aunt Adèle, "perhaps it's better that no one should know
... except ourselves.... Oh, Steyn, it _has_ relieved me ... that you
should know, that you should know!... Oh, how dreadful life is, for
such things to happen!"
She wrung her hands, shook her head from side to side.
"Come," said Steyn; and his great frame shuddered. "Come, let's go...."
Aunt Adèle, trembling, turned out the gas.
They went downstairs.
The dark room remained wintry and silently abandoned.
The letter lay in the basket, torn up very small....