Part 29 (1/2)

And he ate up his bit of cheese and laughed....

Downstairs, Constance had put a piece of pudding on Addie's plate. He ate slowly. She looked at him contentedly, because he was enjoying it.

”If you hadn't fired up like that,” he said, ”I'd have told you something, about Henri.”

”What about him?”

”That chap's going to be ill.”

”Why?”

”He's so upset at Emilie's marriage that it's made him quite unwell.

Kees Hijdrecht got angry and said, 'Are you in love with your sister?'

And then Henri almost began to cry, Leiden man though he is. No, he wasn't in love, he said, but he had always been with Emilie, with Emilie and Marianne; and now she was married and would be a stranger. He was so bad that we took him home; and then he locked himself in his room and wouldn't even see Marianne.”

”But, Addie, that's morbid.”

”I dare say; but it's true.”

”I must go round to Aunt Bertha's. Will you take me?”

”No, let me go cycling with Papa. He's sitting upstairs, eating his cheese for all he's worth. You'd better tell Truitje to take him up his coffee.”

”But, Addie, what will the girl think when she sees Papa finis.h.i.+ng his dinner upstairs?”

”She can think what she likes. It's your fault. Shall I come and fetch you at Aunt Bertha's at a quarter to ten?”

She looked at him radiantly, delighted, surprised. And she kissed him pa.s.sionately:

”My boy, my darling!” she cried, pressing him to her heart.

[19] Quiet, that'll do.

CHAPTER XIX

In the same nervous mood in which she had been all day, Constance hurried, after dinner, to the Bezuidenhout, taking the tram along the Scheveningsche Weg and another to the Plein. When she rang at the Van Naghels', she thought it strange that there was no light in the hall, as she knew, from Addie, that they were at home that evening. The butler, who opened the door, said that he did not know whether mevrouw could see her, as mevrouw was not feeling well.

She waited in the drawing-room, where the butler hurriedly turned on the light before going to say that she was there. All round the big room were the faded and withered flower-baskets and bouquets of Emilie's wedding, the frail flowers shrivelled and brown and decayed, while the broad white ribbons still hung in silvery folds around them. The room had evidently not been touched since the wedding-breakfast: the dust lay thick on the furniture; and the chairs still stood as though the room had just been left by a mult.i.tude of guests.... Constance waited some time; then she heard footsteps. Marianne came in, looking pale and untidy:

”We are so sorry, Auntie, to have kept you waiting. Mamma is very tired and has an awful headache and is lying down in her room.”

”Then I won't disturb her.”

”But Mamma asked if you would come upstairs.”

She followed Constance to Bertha's bedroom. Constance was astonished at the almost deathly stillness in that great house, which, on the three or four occasions that she had entered it, she had never seen other than full of movement, life, all sorts of little interests which together made up a bustling existence. There was no draught on the top floor, where Frances had her apartments; there were no doors slamming; she saw no maids, no _baboe_, no children: everything was quiet, deadly quiet.

And, when she entered Bertha's room, it looked to her, in the subdued light, like a sick-room.