CHAPTER XXV
“OH dear!” said old Anna, with a sigh. “We can’t
possibly keep it a secret from the mistress always!”
She moaned and groaned and, raising her two
arms in the air, drove the cat back to the kitchen,
because the passage was full enough as it was: Ina
d’Herbourg had arrived with her daughter Lily van
Wely and two perambulators; one was pushed by
the little mother and the other by the nurse; and
Lily and the nurse now shoved the perambulators
into the morning-room, where Anna had made up
a good fire, to welcome the family; and, while Lily
and the nurse were busy, Ina talked to old Anna
about the old gentleman’s death and Anna said that
her mistress had not the least idea of it, but that,
after all, that couldn’t go on forever….
“Oh, what darlings, what sweet little dots!”
said Anna, clasping her hands together. “And how
pleased the mistress will be that Mrs. Lily has come
to show her the babies! Yes, I’ll let the old lady
know….”
“Lily,” said Ina, “you go first with Stefje; I’ll
come up afterwards with little Netta.”
Lily took the baby out of the perambulator. The
child whimpered a bit and crowed a bit; and the
dear, flaxen-haired little mother, with her very
young little motherly laugh, carried it up the stairs.
Anna was holding the door open and the old
lady was looking out. She was sitting upright in
her high-backed chair, which was like a throne,
with the pillow straight behind her back. In the
light of the early winter afternoon, which filtered
through the muslin blinds past the red curtains
and over the plush valance, she seemed frailer than
ever; and her face, brightened with a smile of expectation,
was like a piece of lined white porcelain,
but so vaguely seen under the even, hard-black,
just-suggested line of the wig and the little lace cap
that she did not seem to belong to the world of
living things. The ample black dress fell in supple
lines and hid her entirely in shadow-folds with
streaks of brighter light; and, now that Lily entered
with the baby, the old woman lifted from her
deep lap her trembling, mittened hands, with fingers
like slender wands, lifted them into a stiff and difficult
gesture of caress and welcome. Long cracked
sounded the voice, still round and mellow with its
Indian accent:
“Well, child, that’s a nice idea of yours, to bring
the little boy at last…. That’s a nice idea.
… That’s a nice idea…. Yes, let me have
a look at him…. Oh, what a sweet baby!”
Lily, to let Great-great-grandmother see the baby
well, had knelt down on a hassock and was holding
up the baby, which shrank back, a little startled at
the brittle, wrinkled face that made such an uncanny
patch in the crimson dusk; but its little mother was
able to hush it and it did not cry, only stared.
“Yes, Greatgranny,” said Lily, “this is your
great-great-grandchild.”
“Yes, yes,” said the old woman, with her hands
still trembling in the air, in a vague gesture of hesitating
caress, “I’m a great-great-grandmamma.
… Yes, little boy, yes … I’m your great-great-grandmother….”
“And Netta’s downstairs: I brought her too.”
“Oh, your little girl! … Is she here too?”
“Yes, would you like to see her presently?”
“Yes, I want to see them both…. Both
together, together….”
The little boy, hushed, looked with wondering
earnestness at the wrinkled face, looked with a wavering
glance of reflection and amazement, but did
not cry; and, even when the slender, wand-like finger
tickled him on his cheek, Lily was able to hush him
and keep him from crying. It was a diversion too
when Ina came upstairs with Netta on her arm: a
bundle of white and a little pink patch for a face
and two little drops of turquoise eyes, with a moist
little munching mouth; and Lily was afraid that the
little boy would start screaming and handed him to
the nurse at the door: fortunately, for on the landing
he opened his throat lustily, greatly perturbed
in his baby brain by his first sight of great age.
But the bundle of white and the little pink patch
with the two little drops of turquoise munched away
contentedly with the moist little mouth and was even
better-behaved than Stef je had been, so well-behaved
indeed that the old woman was allowed to take it
for a moment in her deep lap, though Lily remained
on her guard and kept her hands under it.
“That’s made me very happy, dear,” said the
old woman, “to have seen my great-great-grand-children.
Yes, Stefje is a fine little man … and
Netta is a darling, Netta is a darling…”
It was time to say good-bye; and Lily carried
off the pink-patched bundle of white, saying, in her
laughing, young-motherly way, that the children
must go home. Ina sat down.
“It has really made me happy,” the old woman
repeated, “to have seen that young life. For I
have been very sad lately, Ina. It must be quite ten
days since I saw Mr. Takma.”
“No, Granny, it’s not so long as that.”
“How long has he been ill then?”
“Six days, seven perhaps.”
“I thought it was quite ten days. And Dr.
Roelofsz comes so seldom too…. Yes, that
chair by the window … has been empty now a
whole week…. I thought it was ten days….
It’s cold, raw weather, isn’t it? … I don’t feel
it in here…. But, oh, even if that gets better
… it will take a very long time … and
Mr. Takma won’t come again this winter!…”
Her dry old eyes did not weep, but her cracked
voice wept. Ina could not find much more to say,
but she did not want to go away yet. She had come
with the children, in the hope of hearing something
perhaps at Grandmamma’s…. She still did
not know. She still knew nothing; and there was
so much to know. There was first the great Something,
that which had happened sixty years ago:
Grandmamma must know about it, but she dared
not broach the Something at Grandmamma’s, afraid
lest she should be touching upon the very Past. If
it was anything, then it might make the old woman
ill, might cause her sudden death…. No, Ina
looked forward in particular to seeing any one
who might call that afternoon, to having talks in
the morning-room downstairs, for there were more
things to know: how much Elly had come into;
and whether Aunt Ottilie had also come in for her
share…. All this was hovering in vagueness:
she could not get to the bottom of it; she must
manage to get to the bottom of it that afternoon.
… So she sat on quietly; and the old lady, who
did not like being alone, thought it pleasant when
she made an occasional remark. But, when it lasted
too long before any one else came, Ina got up,
said good-bye, went downstairs, chatted a bit with
Anna and even then did not go, but sat down in the
morning-room and said:
“Sit down too, Anna.”
And the old servant sat down respectfully on
the edge of a chair; and they talked about the old
man:
“Mrs. Elly is well-off, now,” said Ina. “Don’t
you know how much the old gentleman left?”
But Anna knew nothing, merely thought—and
said so with a little wink—that Mrs. Ottilie would
be sure to get something too. But there was a ring
at the door; and it was Stefanie de Laders, tripping
along very nervously:
“Doesn’t Mamma know yet?” she whispered,
after Anna had returned to the kitchen.
“No,” said Ina, “Grandmamma doesn’t know,
but she sits looking so mournfully at Mr. Takma’s
empty chair.”
“Is there no one with her?”
“No, only the companion.”
“I have a great piece of news,” said Stefanie.
Ina pricked up her ears; and her whole being
was thrilled.
“What, Aunt?”
“Only think, I’ve had a letter from Thérèse….”
“From Aunt Thérèse in Paris?…”
“Yes, from Aunt van der Staff. She’s coming to
the Hague. She writes that she felt something
urging her, something impelling her, while she was
saying her prayers—we know those Roman Catholic
prayers!—something impelling her to come to the
Hague and see Mamma. She hasn’t seen Mamma
for years. She hasn’t been to the Hague for years,
which wasn’t at all the thing…. What does she
want to come here for now, exciting Mamma perhaps,
with her popery, in her old age!”
It was a very great piece of news and Ina’s
usually weary, well-bred eyes glistened.
“What! Is Aunt Thérèse coming here?”
It was a most important piece of news.
“Could she know anything?” asked Ina.
“What about?”
“Well, about—you know—what we were talking
of the other day: what Papa has known for sixty
years … and Uncle Daan….”
Aunt Stefanie made repeated deprecatory gestures
with her hand:
“I don’t know … whether Aunt Thérèse
knows anything about it. But what I do know, Ina,
is that I mean to keep my soul clear of any sins and
improper things that may have happened in the
past. It’s difficult enough to guard one’s soul in
the present. No, dear, no, I won’t hear any more
about it.”
She closed her beady bird’s-eyes and shook her
nodding bird’s-head until her little old-lady’s toque
jigged all askew on her scanty hair; and she almost
stumbled over the cat before she hoisted herself
upstairs, jolting and stamping, to go to her
mother.
Ina remained irresolute. She went into the
kitchen. Anna said:
“Oh, is that you, ma’am? Are you staying a
little longer?”
“Yes … Mrs. Ottilie may come presently….
I want to speak to her.”
It was quite likely, thought Anna, that Mrs.
Ottilie would come to-day. But, when there was a
ring at the front-door, she looked out of the window
and cried:
“No, it’s Mr. Daan….”
Daan Dercksz stuck his parroty profile through
the door of the morning-room, nervously, and, on
seeing Ina, said:
“I’ve brought bad news!”
“Bad news!” cried Ina, pricking up her ears
again. “What is it, Uncle?”
“Dr. Roelofsz is dead.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yes,” said Uncle Daan to Ina, staring at him
in dismay, and Anna, standing with the cat among
her petticoats. “Dr. Roelofsz is dead. An apoplectic
stroke…. They sent round to me first,
because my pension was nearest…. It seems
he took Takma’s death very much to heart.”
“It’s dreadful,” said Ina. “How is Grandmamma
to be told? It will be such a blow to her.
And she doesn’t even know of Mr. Takma’s
death….”
“Yes, it’s very difficult…. I’ve sent word to
your father and I expect him here any minute; then
we can talk over what we are to do and say. Perhaps
somebody else will come to-day….”
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” sighed Anna.
She looked at the stove, which was burning rather
low, and, reflecting that perhaps there would be a
good many using the morning-room that day, she
shook the cinder-drawer: the fire began to glow behind
the mica panes.
“Ah me!” cried Ina. “Grandmamma won’t
survive them long now…. Uncle, do you know
that Aunt Thérèse is coming to the Hague? Aunt
Stefanie has had a letter…. Oh, if only she
arrives in time to see Grandmamma! … Oh,
what a terrible winter! … And Papa is looking
so depressed…. Uncle,” she said—Anna had
gone back to the kitchen, moaning and groaning
and stumbling over the cat—”Uncle, tell me: why
has Papa been so depressed … ever since you
came back to Holland?”
“Since I came back to Holland, dear? …”
“Yes, Uncle. There’s something that brought
you back to Holland … something that’s made
Papa so terribly depressed.”
“I don’t know, dear, I don’t know….”
“Yes, you do…. I’m not asking out of
curiosity, I’m asking for Papa’s sake … to help
him … to relieve him … if he’s in trouble.
… It may be business-matters …”
“No, dear, it’s not business-matters….”
“Well, then, what is it?”
“Why, dear, it’s nothing, nothing at all.”
“No, Uncle Daan, there’s something”
“But then why not ask your father?”
“Papa refuses to speak about it.”
“Then why should I speak about it?” cried Daan
Dercksz, put on his guard by Ina’s slip of the tongue.
“Why should I speak about it, Ina? There may be
something … business-matters, as you say
… but it’ll be all right. Yes, really, Ina, don’t
alarm yourself: it’s all right.”
He took refuge in a feigned display of indignation,
pretended to think her much too curious about
those business-matters and scratched the back of his
head.
Ina’s eyes assumed their well-bred, weary expression:
“Uncle, other people’s money-matters are le
molndre de mes soucis…. I was only asking
you for an explanation … because of my love
for my father.”
“You’re a good daughter to your father, we all
know that, all of us…. Ah, there he is: he’s
ringing!”
And, before Anna had time to go to the door, he
had let Harold Dercksz in.
“Do you mean to say that Dr. Roelofsz is dead?”
asked Harold.
He had received Daan’s note after Ina had gone
out to take Lily’s children to their great-great-grand-mother.
“Yes,” said Daan, “he’s dead.”
Harold Dercksz sank into a chair, his face twisted
with pain.
“Papa, are you ill?” cried Ina.
“NO, dear, it’s only a little more pain … than
usual…. It’s nothing, nothing at all….
Is Dr. Roelofsz dead?”
He saw before his eyes that fatal night of pouring
rain: saw himself, a little fellow of thirteen,
saw that group of three carrying the body and heard
his mother crying:
“Oh, my God, no, not in the river!”
The day after, Dr. Roelofsz had held an inquest
on his father’s body and certified death by drowning.
“Is Dr. Roelofsz dead?” he repeated. “Does
Mamma know?”
“Not yet,” said Daan Dercksz. “Harold, you
had better tell her.”
“I?” said Harold Dercksz, with a start. “I?
I can’t do it…. It would mean killing my
mother…. And I can’t kill my mother….”
And he stared before him….
He saw the Thing….
It passed, spectral in trailing veils of mist, which
gathered round its slowly, slowly moving form; the
leaves rustled; and ghosts threatened to appear
from behind the silent trees, to stop the Thing’s
progress…. For, once his mother was dead,
the Thing would sink into the abyss….
“I can’t kill my mother!” Harold Dercksz
repeated; and his martyred face became drawn with
torturing pain.
He clasped his hands convulsively….
“And yet some one will have to tell her,” Ina
muttered to Anna, who stood beside her, mumbling,
speaking to herself, utterly distraught.
But there was a ring at the bell. She went to
the door. It was Anton: this was the day when he
came to pay his mother his weekly visit.
“Is there any one with Mamma?”
“Aunt Stefanie,” said Ina.
“What’s happened?” he asked, seeing her consternation.
“Dr. Roelofsz is dead.”
“Dead?”
Daan Dercksz told him, in a few words.
“We’ve all got to die,” he muttered. “But it’s
a blow for Mamma.”
“We were just discussing, Uncle, who had better
tell her,” said Ina. “Would you mind?”
“I’d rather not,” said Anton Dercksz, sullenly.
No, they had better settle that among themselves:
he was not the man to meddle in tiresome things
that didn’t concern him. What did it all matter to
him! He called once a week, to see his mother:
that was his filial duty. For the rest, he cared
nothing for the whole pack of them! … As it
was, Stefanie had been bothering him more than
enough of late, trying to persuade him to leave his
money to his godchild, the Van Welys’ little Netta;
and he had no mind to do anything of the sort: he
would rather pitch his money into the gutter. With
Harold and Daan, who did business in India together
and were intimate for that reason, he had
never had much to do: they were just like strangers
to him. Ina he couldn’t stand, especially since
D’Herbourg had helped him out of a mess, in
the matter of that little laundry-girl. He didn’t
care a hang for the whole crew. What he liked best
was to sit at home smoking his pipe and reading
and picturing to himself, in fantasies of sexual
imagination, pleasant, exciting events which had happened
in this or that remote past…. But this
was something that no one knew about. Those
were his secret gardens, in which he sat all alone,
wreathed in the smoke that filled his room, enjoying
and revelling in indescribable private luxuries.
Since he had become so very old that he allowed
himself to be tempted into futile imprudent acts, as
with the laundry-girl, he preferred to keep quiet,
in his clouds of smoke, and to evoke the lascivious
gardens which he never disclosed and where no one
was likely to look for him. And so he chuckled with
secret contentment, brooding ever more and more in
his thoughts as he grew older and older; but he
merely said, repeating his words:
“No, I’d rather not…. It’s very sad….
Is no one upstairs except Stefanie? Then I may
as well go up too, Anna….”
He moved towards the stairs….
Could Uncle Anton know anything, Ina wondered,
with fierce curiosity. He was so sullen always,
so reserved; no doubt he kept what he knew
to himself. Should she go and ask him? And, while
her father, sitting on his chair in pain, was still discussing
with Uncle Daan which of them had better
tell the old lady that Dr. Roelofsz was dead, Ina
hurried after her uncle in the passage—Anna had
gone back to the kitchen—and whispered:
“Tell me, Uncle. What was it that happened?”
“Happened? When?” asked Anton.
“Sixty years ago…. You were a boy of fifteen
then…. Something happened then
that …”
He looked at her in amazement:
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Something happened,” she repeated. “You
must remember. Something that Papa and Uncle
Daan know, something that Papa has always known,
something that brought Uncle Daan to Holland….”
“Sixty years ago?” said Anton Dercksz.
He looked her in the eyes. The suddenness of
her question had given such a shock to his self-centred,
brooding brain that he suddenly saw the
past of sixty years ago and clearly remembered that
he had always thought that there must be something
between his mother and Takma, something
that they kept concealed between themselves. He
had always felt this when, full of awe, almost hesitatingly,
he approached his mother, once a week,
and found old Takma sitting opposite her, starting
nervously with that muscular jerk of his neck and
seeming to listen for something…. Sixty years
ago? … Something must, something must have
happened. And, in his momentary clearness of
vision, he almost saw the Thing, divined its presence,
unveiled his father’s death, sixty years ago, was
wafted almost unconsciously towards the truth, with
the sensitive perspicacity—lasting but a second—of
an old man who, however much depraved, had
in his very depravity sharpened his cerebral powers
and often read the past correctly.
“Sixty years ago?” he repeated, looking at Ina
with his bleared eyes. “And what sort of thing
could it be?”
“Can’t you remember?”
She was all agog with curiosity; her eyes flashed
into his. He hardly knew her, with all her well-bred
weariness of expression gone; and he couldn’t
endure her at any time and he hated D’Herbourg
and he said:
“Can’t I remember? Well, yes, if I think hard, I
may remember something…. You’re right: I
was a lad of fifteen then….
“Do you remember”—Ina turned and looked
down the passage, looked at the open door of the
morning-room, saw her father’s back huddled into
a despondent curve—”do you remember …
Grandmamma’s baboe?”
“Yes, certainly,” said Anton Dercksz, “I remember
her.”
“Ma-Boeten?”
“I daresay that was her name.”
“Did she know anything?”
“Did she know anything? Very likely, very
likely…. Yes, I expect she knew….”
“What was it, Uncle? Papa is so depressed: I’m
not asking out of curiosity….”
He grinned. He did not know; he had only
guessed something, for the space of a second, and
had always suspected something between his mother
and Takma, something that they hid together, while
they waited and waited. But he grinned with pleasure
because Ina wanted to know and because she was
not going to know, at least not through him, however
much she might imagine that he knew. He
grinned and said:
“My dear, there are things which it is better not
to know. It doesn’t do to know everything that
happened … sixty years ago….”
And he left her, went slowly up the stairs, reflecting
that Harold and Daan knew what the hidden
Something was, the Something which Mamma and
Takma had kept hidden between themselves for
years and years…. The doctor had also known
it, probably…. The doctor was dead, Takma
was dead, but Mamma did not know that yet …
and Mamma now had the hidden Thing to herself.
… But Harold knew where it lay and Daan
also knew where it lay … and Ina was looking
for it….
He grinned on the landing upstairs before he
went in to his mother; he could hear Stefanie’s
grating voice inside.
“I,” he said to himself, “don’t care a hang for
the whole crew. As long as they leave me alone,
with my pipe and my books, I don’t care a hang for
the whole pack of them … even though I do
come and see my mother once a week…. And
what she is keeping to herself and what she did with
Takma, sixty years ago, I don’t care a curse about
either; that’s her business, their business maybe
… but my business it is not.”
He entered and, when he saw his mother, preternaturally
old and frail in the red dusk of the curtains,
he hesitated and went up to her, full of
awe……
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