CHAPTER IX
OLD Takma was just coming from the razor-back
bridge by the barracks, stiff and erect in his tightly-buttoned
overcoat, considering each step and leaning
on his ivory-knobbed stick, when Ottilie Steyn de
Weert, arriving from the other side, saw him and
went up to him:
“How do you do, Mr. Takma?”
“Ah, Ottilie, how do you do? … Are you
going to Mamma’s too?”
“Yes ….”
“It was raining this morning and I thought I
shouldn’t be able to go. Adèle was grumbling because
I went out after all, but it’s fine now, it’s fine
now….”
“I think it’ll rain again presently though, and
you haven’t even an umbrella, Mr. Takma.”
“Well, you see, child, I hate an umbrella: I never
carry one…. Fancy walking with a roof over
your head!”
Ottilie smiled: she knew that the old man could
not lean on his stick when holding up his umbrella.
But she said:
“Well, if it rains, may I see you home? …..
That is, if you won’t have a carriage?”
“No, child, I think a carriage even more horrid
than an umbrella.”
She knew that the jolting of a cab caused him
great discomfort.
“The only carriage in which I’m likely to drive
will be the black coach. Very well, child, if it rains,
you shall bring me home … and hold your
little roof over my head. Give me your arm: I’ll
accept that with pleasure.”
She gave him her arm; and, now that he was
leaning on her, his stiff, straight step became irregular
and he let himself go and hobbled along like a very
old, old man….
“How quiet you are, child!”
“I, Mr. Takma?”
“Yes.”
“You notice everything.”
“I could hear at once by your voice that you were
not in good spirits.”
“Well, perhaps I am worried…. Here we
are.”
She rang at old Mrs. Dercksz’: old Anna, inside,
came hurrying at a great rate to open the door.
“I’ll just take breath, Anna,” said the old gentleman,
“just take breath … keep on my coat,
I think … and take breath for a moment …
in the morning-room.”
“It’s getting coldish,” said old Anna. “We shall
start fires soon in the morning-room. The mistress
never comes downstairs, but there’s often some one
waiting; and Dr. Roelofsz is a very chilly gentleman….”
“Don’t start fires too soon, don’t start fires too
soon,” said the old man, querulously. “Fires play
the dickens with us old people….”
He sat down, wearily, in the morning-room, with
his two hands on the ivory knob of his stick. Anna
left them to themselves.
“Come, child, what is it? Worry?”
“A little…. I shall be so lonely….,
The wedding’s to-morrow.”
“Yes, yes … to-morrow is Lot and Elly’s
wedding. Well, they’ll be very happy.”
“I hope so, I’m sure…. But I …”
“Well?”
“I shall be unhappy.”
“Come, come!”
“What have I left? Not one of my children
with me. I sometimes think of going to England.
I have John and Hugh there … and Mary is
coming home from India.”
“Yes, child, as we grow older, we are left all
alone. Look at me. Now that Elly is marrying, I
shall have no one but Adèle. It’s lucky that I can
still get out … and that I sometimes see
Mamma … and … and all of you …
and Dr. Roelofsz…. But, if I were helpless,
what would there be for me? … You, you’re
young still.”
“I? Do you call me young?….”
“Yes, child, aren’t you young?…”
“But, Mr. Takma, I’m sixty!”
“Are you sixty? … Are you sixty? …,
Child, do you mean to tell me you’re sixty?”
The old man cudgelled his brains, fighting against
a sudden cloud in his memory that hazed around
him like a mist. And he continued:
“No, you must be mistaken. You can’t be sixty.”
“Yes, really, Mr. Takma, really: I’m sixty!”
“Oh, Lietje, my child, are you really … as
old … as that!”
He cudgelled his brains … and closed his
eyes:
“Sixty …,” he muttered. “More than sixty …,
more than sixty years …”
“No, sixty exactly.”
“Yes, yes, sixty! Oh, child, are you really sixty?
I thought you were forty or fifty at most … I
was dreaming…. The old man was dreaming
… Sixty! … More than sixty years
ago!…”
His voice mumbled; she did not understand what
he meant:
“We’re you a little confused?”
“When?” he asked, with a start.
“Just now.”
“Just now?…”
“When you thought … that I was forty.”
“What do you say?”
“When you thought that I was forty.”
“Yes, yes … I hear what you say….
I can still hear very well…. I have always
heard very well … too well … too
well …”
“He’s wandering,” thought Ottilie Steyn. “He’s
never done that before.”
“So you’re sixty, child!” said the old man, more
calmly, recovering his voice. “Yes, I suppose you
must be…. You see, we old people, we very
old people, think that you others always remain
children … well, not children, but young …
that you always remain young…. Ah …
and you grow old too!”
“Oh, yes, very old! And then there’s so little
left.”
Her voice sounded ever so sad.
“Poor girl!” said old Takma. “But you
oughtn’t to quarrel so with Pauws … I mean,…
I mean, with Trevelley.”
“With Steyn, you mean.”
“Yes, I mean, with Steyn … of course.”
“I can’t stand him.”
“But you could, once!”
“Ah … when one’s in love …
then…!”
“Yes, yes, you were able to stand him at one
time!” said the old man, obstinately. “And so the
wedding is to-morrow?”
“Yes, to-morrow.”
“I can’t be there: I’m very sorry, but …..”
“Yes, it would tire you too much…. They’re
coming to take leave of Grandmamma presently.”
“That’s nice, that’s nice of them.”
“It’ll be a tame affair,” said Ottilie. “They are
so tame. There’ll be nothing, no festivity. They
refuse to be married in church.”
“Yes, those are their ideas,” said the old man,
in a tone of indifference. “I don’t understand it,
that ‘not being married in church;’ but they must
know their own business.”
“Elly hasn’t even a bridal dress; I think it so
odd…. Elly is really very serious for so young
a girl. I shouldn’t care to be married like that, when
you’re married for the first time. But, on the other
hand, what’s the use of all that fuss, as Lot says?
The relations and friends don’t really care. And it
runs into money.”
“Elly could have had whatever she liked,” said
the old gentleman, “a dinner, a dance or anything
… But she refused.”
“Yes, they’re both agreed.”
“Those are their ideas,” said the old man,
with indifference.
“Mr. Takma ….” said Ottilie, hesitatingly.
“Yes, child?”
“I wanted to ask you something, but I dare
not….”
“What are you afraid of, child? Do you want
something?”
“No, not exactly, but …”
“But what, child? … Is it money?”
Ottilie heaved a great sob:
“I hate asking you! … I think it’s horrid
of me…. And you mustn’t ever tell Lot that
I ask you sometimes…. But, you see, I’ll tell
you frankly, I’ve sent Hugh some money; and now
… and now I have nothing left for myself.
… If you hadn’t always been so immensely
kind to me, I should never dare ask you. But you’ve
always spoilt me, as you know…. Yes, you
know: you’ve always had a soft place in your heart
for me…. And, if you don’t think it horrid
of me to ask you and if you could … let me
have …”
“How much do you want, child?”
Ottilie looked at the door, to see if any one was
listening:
“Only three hundred guilders….”
“Why, of course, child, of course. Come round
to-morrow, to-morrow evening … after the
wedding…. And, when you want anything, ask
me, do you see? Ask me with an easy conscience.
… You can ask me whenever you please….”
“You are so good to me! …”
“I have always been very fond of you …
because I’m so very fond of your mother….
So ask me, child … ask me whenever you
please, only … be sensible … and don’t
do …”
“Don’t do what, Mr. Takma?”
The old man suddenly became very uncertain in
his speech:
“Don’t do … don’t do anything rash….”
“What do you mean? …”
“Sixty years … sixty years ago …”
He began to mumble; and she saw him fall asleep,
sitting erect, with his hands on the ivory knob of
his stick.
She was frightened and, stealing noiselessly to
the door, she opened it and called:
“Anna … Anna….”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Come here…. Look…. Mr. Takma
has fallen asleep…. We’d better stay with
him till he wakes up, hadn’t we?”
“Oh, the poor soul!” said the maid, compassionately.
“He isn’t…?” asked Ottilie, in the voice
of a frightened child.
But Anna shook her head reassuringly. The old
man slept on, stiff and straight in his chair, with
his hands resting on his stick.
The two women sat down and watched.
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