The Later Life Part 48

"No, I couldn't either."

She suddenly pa.s.sed her hands along his face, along his shoulders, his knees, as though she wished to feel him, to feel the reality ... the reality of her life. He ... he was the real thing, the truth; but all the rest between her husband and her was falsehood, remained falsehood ... because of people. Could they not even for Addie's sake purge that falsehood into truth? No, no, not even for him. Would falsehood then always cleave to them?...

"We are too small," she thought and murmured her thought aloud.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing.... Very well, Addie.... Tell Papa that it shall be as he says, that I am quite content ... that I could not do without you either ... for six months!"

She looked at him, looked into his serious blue eyes, as though she had forgotten him and were now remembering him for the first time. Six months ... six months without him! The new life, the new paths, the new cities, on those far-off, new horizons ... and six months ... six months without Addie!...

Had she then been dreaming? Had she just been dazzled by that glittering vision? Was it just intoxication, ecstasy? Was it just glamour and enchantment?...

He left her. She dressed and went downstairs.

She felt as if she were back from a long journey and seeing her house again after an absence of months. Her movements were almost like those of a sleep-walker; the house seemed something remote and impersonal, though she had always loved it, looked after it, made it her beautiful home by a thousand intimate touches. She now went through the house mechanically performing her usual little housewifely duties, still half dreaming, in a condition of semi-consciousness. It was as if her thoughts were standing still, as if she no longer knew, nor for that matter thought, remembering only the night before, that lonely evening of inward conviction.... The morning had dawned, placid, with its cloudless sky; Addie had come: she now knew what Henri thought. It surprised her just a little that Henri thought like that ... and then she realized that, after all, he did not love Marianne very much ... that he must love her less than Addie. Poor Marianne, she thought; and she reflected that women love more absolutely than men.... She spoke to the servant, gave her orders, did all the actual, everyday things, in between her thoughts. And suddenly she looked deep down into herself, once more saw so completely into her own clear depths that she was startled at herself and shuddered. She saw that, if Henri had made the same proposal to her that she had made to him, she would have accepted it in her desire for happiness, for happiness with the man whom she loved and who--she felt it!--loved her. She saw that she would have accepted and that she would not have hesitated because of her son!... Her son! He was certain to be leaving them soon in any case ... to seek his own life!... Her son! To provide him for a few years more with the paternal house, that wretched fabric of lies, which he, the boy, alone kept together ... for his sake and for the sake of that joint falsehood, she would have to reject the new life of truth!... It was as if she were standing in a maze; but she was certain that she would not have hesitated in that maze, if the decision had been left to her ... that she would have known how to take the path of simple honesty ... that she would have elected to separate, in spite of Addie ... that she loved her new life--and the stranger--more than her child!

She had learnt to know herself in that new atmosphere of pure truth; and now ... now she saw so far into those translucent depths that she was frightened and shuddered as in the presence of something monstrous; for it seemed monstrous to her to place anything above her child, above the dear solace of so many years....

Just then Van der Welcke came home; she heard him put away his bicycle, go up the stairs ... and then turn back, as if reflecting that he could no longer avoid his wife. He entered, abruptly. She, trembling, had sat down, because she felt on the verge of falling....

"Has Addie told you?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, in a low voice.

"And ... you think it is the best thing?..."

"Yes ... I do...."

"So everything remains...." he said, hesitatingly.

"As it was," she replied, almost inaudibly; and her voice hesitated also.

"He told you ... the reason?" he went on.

"Yes."

"I could not do without him ... all the time that he would be with you, Constance. And you couldn't do without the boy either, could you, while he was with me?"

"No," she said, automatically; and, as her voice failed her, she repeated, more firmly, "No, I should not be able to do without him."

At that moment, she did not know if she was speaking the truth or not. Only she had a vague sensation ... as though that fair, unsullied truth were retreating a little farther from her ... like a glittering cloud....

"Then we might try to be more patient with each other," he said. "But still I should like to tell you, Constance, that I appreciate your thought ... your intention...."

"Yes," she said, vaguely.

"Your thought for me...."

"Yes."

But she now found it impossible to let that retreating truth slip still farther from her; and she said:

"I was thinking of myself also, Henri ... but it was not clear to me what I thought.... I don't quite know.... Henri, it is better like this, for everything to remain ... as it was."

"And we both of us love our boy."

"Yes, both of us...."

He saw her turn very pale as she leant back in her chair, her arms hanging limply beside her. He had a sudden impulse to say something kind, to give her a kiss; but at the same time he was conscious that neither his words nor his caress would reach her. And he thought, what was the good of it? They had no love for each other. They would remain strangers, in spite of all that they had felt for each other during these days: she suggesting for his happiness something dead against convention; he thrilling with genuine grat.i.tude....

"Well, that is settled then," was all that he said in conclusion, quietly; and he went out, gently closing the door behind him.

She did not move, but sat there, gazing dully into s.p.a.ce. Yes, she had counted her son a lesser thing than her new life! That was the simple truth, just as much as the new life itself.... And now ... now, as though her mind were wandering, she saw that new life like a crystal city around her, threatening to crack, to rend asunder, to be shattered in one mighty spasm of despair. Her eyes began to burn from staring into those distant, cruel thoughts. In her breast she felt a physical pain. The house, the room stifled her. She felt impelled to fly from that house, from the narrow circles, which whirled giddily around her, to fly from herself. She was so much perplexed in her own being, no longer knowing what was right, what was honest, what true ... that she yearned for s.p.a.ce and air. Her breast was wrung with grief and that gasping for breath. Still, she controlled herself, took up a hat, pinned it on and found the strength to say to the servant:

"Truitje, I am going out...."

She was outside now, in the road. She had become afraid of the loneliness of her room and of herself, a loneliness which in other ways had become so dear to her. Now she was seeking something more than s.p.a.ciousness of air and forest; but the road, in which a few people were walking, made her keep herself under control. She turned down a side-path, went through the Woods. Here again there were people taking their morning stroll.... Suddenly, she gave a violent start: she saw Brauws, sitting on a bench. She felt as if she would faint; and, without knowing what she was doing, she turned round and walked back.... By this time, she had lost all her self-command. He had seen her, however, and his hand had already gone up to his hat. Suddenly, she heard his step behind her; he came up with her:

"Is this how you run away from your friends?" he said, making an attempt to joke, but in obvious astonishment.

She looked at him; and he was struck with her confusion.

"Don't be angry," she said, frankly, "but I was startled at seeing you."

"I was not welcome," he said, roughly. "Forgive me, mevrouw. I ought not to have come after you. But I'm a tactless beggar in these matters. I am not one of your society-men."

"Don't be angry," she repeated, almost entreatingly. "Society indeed! I certainly showed myself no society-woman ... to ... unexpectedly to...."

She did not know what she wanted to say.

"To turn your back on me," he said, completing the sentence.

"To turn my back on you," she repeated.

"Well, now that I have said good-morning...."

He lifted his hat, moved as though to go back.

"Stay!" she entreated. "Walk a little way with me. Now that I happen to have met you...."

"I came back yesterday ... I meant to call on you to-day or to-morrow...."

"Walk with me," she said, almost entreatingly. "I want to speak to you...."

"What about?"

"I suggested to Henri...."