Small Souls Part 39

"Go, go to-morrow!"

Never had a voice spoken so plainly to her, the old woman, and as it were ordered her to go, to go to-morrow. She was very old, in years, in movement and in feeling; and she never, never travelled. She lived quietly in her house beside the country-road, summer and winter alike; and sometimes she went for a little drive in the neighbourhood: Beyond that she no longer went, for she was gouty and full of aches and pains which bent her withered back. For years and years, she had not travelled, had not sat in the train which, for years, she had heard whistling at the station, sometimes even heard rumbling. And now the mysterious voice so plainly and insistently commanded:

"Go!"

Then she went back to the room, sat down and, this time, was unable to stifle her sigh. She sighed. The old man heard, but did not know how to ask her why she was sighing. For years, for long years, there had been so little said between them. Only now, this spring, when Henri's letter came, they had spoken, but not much. A couple of days after receiving the letter, the old man said:

"I will write to him."

And that was really the only thing that had been said. But they had not lived so many years in silence, side by side, without learning to hear each other speak though both were silent. They knew, without speaking, what either said, silently in his heart. Only now, though the old man himself was thinking of Henri that night, he did not know what his wife was saying to him, silently, without words, in that one sigh; and this was because he did not read that strange book and never heard the strange voices. Therefore he sought for a word to say and found it very difficult to find a word, but at last he did speak and said, simply:

"What is it?"

He did not look up, went on reading his book as he spoke.

Then the old woman's aching feet fidgeted still more nervously on their stool; the bent shoulders shivered more nervously under their little black shawl; and she began to cry, softly.

"Come, what is it?"

He pretended to go on reading his book, because talking and crying were so difficult, and because it was easier to pretend to go on reading.

The old woman said, because his old voice had spoken gently:

"I should like to go to Henri, to-morrow."

Now they were both silent; and the old man went on reading; and the old woman, waiting for his answer, ceased crying, ceased moving her feet, her shoulders. And, after a silence, the old man said:

"Take Piet with you, then, to help you."

She nodded her head; and the tears flowed from her eyes, while she drew her book to her, inwardly pleased that he had said so much and said it so kindly. She sighed once more, this time with relief, and read on. But her eyes did not see the words, because she was thinking that to-morrow she would be going with Piet, the butler, in the train--in which she had not been for years and years--to the Hague, to see Henri.

"Go!" the voice had said. "Go!" the voice had commanded.

And she was going. It had come at last, come so near that it would be there to-morrow: not that Henri was coming to her, but that she was going to Henri, to kiss him, to forgive him....

And she read on, did not see the strange words which told what happened to people after death, but wept softly, inaudibly, over her book, wept for still contentment and peace, because he had spoken to her and had said:

"Take Piet with you, then, to help you."

When it was ten o'clock, he closed his book, stood up. And she would so much have liked to ask him if he too would come with her to-morrow, in the train, to Henri, because it was not so difficult and Piet could take the tickets. But she did not ask him, because she knew that it was even more difficult for him than for her to travel and go by train, that train which he also for years had heard whistling and sometimes rumbling. So she did not ask him, because he would certainly refuse. And without a doubt he heard within himself what she hesitated to ask him, for he said, gently:

"I shall not go; but give him many good wishes, from his father."

Then, stiffly and with difficulty, he bent his tall figure and his ivory forehead, went to her and kissed her on the brow. And she took his gnarled hand and pressed it gently. Then he went upstairs and she rang the bell.

The butler entered.

"Piet," she said, hesitatingly and shyly, and she blushed before the butler. "I am going to-morrow to the Hague, to Mr. Henri. It's his birthday. And I should like you to take me there."

The man looked up in surprise, smiled:

"Very well, ma'am, as you please."

And, as she went up the stairs, she tried to hold herself more erect; she felt younger....

CHAPTER XXVII

And in her room she hardly slept for nervousness about the great event that was to happen on the morrow. All the night through, while the wind moaned against the panes, she lay in bed, with unclosed eyes, listening whether she could not hear in the voices of the wind yet other voices, strange voices, voices warning or commanding the living.

She had never spoken to her husband about the voices, though he was well aware that she read the strange book and disapproved of her reading it, because it could not be fit and proper reading for people who, from their childhood, had believed that the best of all books was the Bible and the best of all beliefs the belief in the Lord, from Whom every sorrow came and every blessing. And she had hidden the strange book also from the old minister, who came to see them every week, since they both, growing older each year and ailing, had ceased to go to church: she put the strange book out of the way when he was expected on a Sunday-afternoon; but she studied it without concealment from her old husband and yet in silence, as though guilty of a secret heresy. He had asked her once:

"What are you reading there?"

And she told him the strange t.i.tle and said that she wanted to enquire into things, but nothing further had been uttered between the two old people, though she heard him silently express his disapproval. But, since the day when, years ago, she had yielded to her husband and consented to the superhuman sacrifice of surrendering her son to the woman whom that son had plunged into unhappiness--because this sacrifice was the duty which was required of her by divine and human equity--since that time she had had no peace, read as she might in her Bible, talk as she would with the minister, pray as she did for hours on end. She had had no peace: deep down in herself she had always borne a grudge because Heaven had laid so heavy a sacrifice upon her, the mother. Her husband had had the strength of a man who pursues the straight path, the path of duty, and he had surrendered his son and lost him without a superfluous word. But she, though she also spoke no word, had not resigned herself; and her soul had rebelled; and she had thought that she was lost for all eternity ... until a gentle ray had come, by accident, to comfort her out of the strange book which, by accident, she had taken up and opened.

And, still a believer, though she no longer went to church and though, in her heart, she did not agree with the minister, did not agree with her old husband, she nevertheless endeavoured to unite, to reconcile, to blend what remained of the old faith, which had once stood firm as a rock, with the new faith; and, when she prayed, she prayed indeed to the same G.o.d of her old, former faith, but she listened also to the voices, to that part of the invisible world which hovers around us and saves us and guides us and warns and protects us and sets its soft-smiling compa.s.sion between us and the rigid immutability of the divine grace or displeasure, tempering the divine brow into a softer glance. That was her secret; and what she silently told her husband of the new faith still remained an unpenetrated secret to him in the dumb evenings when they sat together and read and he heard her, in silence, say that she believed differently from what she once did because she had found no peace in that divine immutability.

And now the day came which was Henri's birthday. She dressed very early, with difficulty and with shaking hands, and, when Piet told her that there was a train at nine o'clock, she blushed and remained quietly waiting for the carriage to be got ready and for Piet to come and tell her. She was her ordinary self at breakfast, but tried, without attracting attention, not to eat, because the bread stuck in her throat; and, when, at the breakfast-table, her husband asked if she had not telegraphed to Henri, she answered:

"No."

Almost inaudibly and silently, she thus conveyed to her husband that she wished to give Henri a surprise.

She remained sitting motionless; did not wash up the breakfast-cups that morning, as she was always wont to do; was a little uncomfortable in the presence of her husband and the parlour-maid and Piet at this omission of her usual habit. She heard the clock ticking, the seconds falling away; and she was afraid that, if Piet loitered so, she would be late, or that there would be an accident. Luckily, the morning-paper came; and the old man plunged into its pages while she remained waiting, in her cloak and her unfashionable, black, old lady's bonnet, for Piet to come and say that it was time to go. The parlour-maid washed up the breakfast-cups; and she was afraid the maid would break one, because she was not used to it. It made quite a change, throughout the house, that she was going this morning by train, to the Hague, to Henri, whose birthday it was. She was uncomfortable and she feared that the people along the road and at the station would stand looking and wondering why Mrs. van der Welcke was going on a journey. And, when, at last, Piet came to tell her, she could not get up at first, because her old legs shook so and her feet p.r.i.c.ked her, as though they had been asleep. But she made a painful effort, stood up, gave Piet her purse; and the old man said:

"Piet, will you look after mevrouw, getting in and out of the train?"

Piet promised; and she took leave of her husband. The carriage was at the door; and she dared not look at Dirk, the coachman, because she was shy, while Piet held open the carriage-door and helped her to step in, with some little difficulty. In the carriage, she shrank back, because the woman with the vegetables was just pa.s.sing and she was afraid that she might see her. Also she reflected that the people in the other villas would be sure to see the carriage drive out and wonder what was happening, so early in the morning. But, when, at the station, Piet helped her to alight and led her to the little waiting-room and went to take the tickets, she was very shy before a lady and gentleman who were also waiting and who no doubt thought it very strange that she, an old woman, should go travelling like that. Fortunately, Piet had calculated the time and she had not long to wait, at which she was very glad, because the whistling of the trains and the ringing of the bell made her very nervous, terrified lest she should miss the train, and she did not know to a minute at what time it started. But Piet came to tell her and fetched her; and she tried to walk straight and, a.s.sisted by Piet, to climb into the carriage not all too painfully and laboriously. Piet had taken a second-cla.s.s ticket for himself; and she would rather have had him come into her compartment, but he had, of course, not dared, from respect for his mistress, and she had not dared ask him. But she resolved to sit very quiet until Piet came to fetch her. The lady and the gentleman were in the same compartment as herself, but they were very polite: the gentleman had bowed and the lady too; and fortunately they did not look at her again, but talked to each other in low voices.

And, when the train moved off, the old woman sat quietly, with set lips, looking out of the window at the meadows speeding past.... Now she was beginning to wonder what Henri would say and she also thought of Constance and of her grandson, Adriaan. And she was a little frightened at what she had done. They might be out, or very busy with the Van Lowes, Constance' relations. She did not quite know in what way Henri and Constance lived, at the Hague. Henri, it was true, had been to Driebergen again, just once more, by himself, but she had received no distinct impression from his words, because she had hardly listened, had only sat gazing at him, her son, whom she had not seen for so many years, who had not been allowed to exist for her.... She trembled suddenly at what she had dared to do, but it was now too late. She was sitting in the train; and the train was carrying her along; and also she did not know how to tell Piet, when the train stopped, that she would rather just go back again. Then, from sheer inability to do otherwise, she at last found courage to sit still and let the train take her on until it slowed into the station at the Hague and Piet came to fetch her and helped her climb down the high steps of the railway-carriage. Piet now led her slowly and quietly through the busy crowd of people, which he allowed to flow ahead of them, and out of the station, chose a nice cab, helped her in, gave the address of Baron van der Welcke, Kerkhoflaan, and got up on the box, next to the driver. And now, seated in the cab, which rattled over the cobble-stones, she was glad, after all, that she had persevered and she thought that it was not so very difficult, after all, and believed that, after all, Henri would perhaps think it nice of her to have come without notice. It was a long drive; and she had not been to the Hague for years and had forgotten the streets and squares; but, at last, the cab stopped and she looked out while Piet climbed down from the box, rang the bell, opened the door of the cab, helped her out....

Yes, she was there now and she trembled violently when the maid opened the door and she entered the hall. She was there now. And she could find nothing to say when a door in the pa.s.sage opened and Constance, amazed, came out to her. This was the second time that she had seen that woman....

"Mamma!"

"Yes, I thought I would come, because it was Henri's birthday...."

She knew--she had not failed to understand--that her son was not happy with that woman and she felt a certain disappointment that it was not Henri himself who came out to welcome her.

But the astonishment in Constance' face changed to a look of soft and glad surprise. She was very sensitive to kindness and she felt that it was kind of this old woman to come: this old lady who never went anywhere, who had come with her butler....

"How pleased Henri will be!" she said, gently, and her eyes grew moist.

"How very pleased Henri will be! He is out now, on his bicycle, but he'll be back soon. Come in, take off your cloak inside: I'm afraid there's a draught out here. Good-morning, Piet: so you've brought mevrouw? Go into the kitchen, Piet, will you? Come in, Mamma. How delighted Henri will be! He is sure to be in very soon. And this is my mother, who has also come to see us this morning."

She led Mrs. van der Welcke into the morning-room; and there stood old Mrs. van Lowe. And, when Constance closed the door, the two old ladies looked at each other and were both very nervous; and Constance felt like that too, trembling in her limbs. The old ladies looked at each other; and it was as though the two mothers, with that long, long look, asked each other's forgiveness, after many long years, for their two children.

Then Mrs. van Lowe approached and put out her two hands; and her words sounded very simple: