CHAPTER XXIV
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.
Nguồn: Wikisource English — Old People and the Things that Pass/Chapter XXIV. Văn bản được nhập và định dạng lại; CC BY-SA 4.0, có thể áp dụng điều khoản bổ sung của tác phẩm.