The Later Life Part 5

"So you would rather that Van Naghel and I did not come?"

"It's not for me to decide, Bertha: I shall speak about it to Van der Welcke and write you a line."

"Is that cold answer all you have to say to me, Constance?"

"Bertha, a little time ago, I was not backward in showing my affection for you all. Perhaps I asked too much in return; but, in any case, I was repulsed. And now I retire. That is all."

"Constance, you don't know how sorry we all are that the old aunts ... spoke as they did. They are foolish old women, Constance; they are in their second childhood. Mamma had to take to her bed, her nerves are still quite upset; she can't bear to see her sisters now; and it sometimes sends her almost out of her mind. I have never seen her like it before. And we are all of us, all of us, Constance, very, very sorry."

"Bertha, those two old women only yelled out at the top of their voices, as deaf people do, what the rest of you thought in your hearts."

"Come, Constance, don't be so bitter. You are hard and unjust. I swear that you are mistaken. It is not as you think. Let me show it to you in the future, let me prove it to you ... and please speak to Van der Welcke and write and tell me a day when we shall find you at home, so that Van Naghel can shake hands with Van der Welcke. He is not a young man, Constance, and your husband is under forty. It's true, Van der Welcke has apologized and Van Naghel appreciates it, but that doesn't prevent him from wishing to shake hands with Van der Welcke."

"I'll tell my husband, Bertha. But I don't know that he will think it so necessary to shake hands, any more than I do. We live very quietly now, Bertha, and people, Hague people, no longer concern us. And Van Naghel only wants to shake hands because of people."

"And because of the old friendship."

"Very well, Bertha," said Constance, coldly, "because of the old friendship: a vague term that says very little to me. What I wished for was brotherly and sisterly affection, cordial companionship. That is no longer possible: it was a foolish fancy of mine, which has gone forever. But, as I said, I shall speak to Van der Welcke."

They came out into the hall; the maid was waiting at the door. It was raining. Bertha's carriage was outside, had been sent to fetch her.

"Shall I drop you on my way, Constance?"

"No, thank you, Bertha; the fresh air will do me good; I'd rather walk."

And, as she walked, she thought:

"Oh, why did I go on like that to annoy them? And why didn't I welcome Bertha's visit at once?... It's all so small, so petty...."

And she shrugged her shoulders under her umbrella, laughed at herself a little, because she had shown herself so petty.

CHAPTER VI

At Addie's wish, at the little schoolboy's wish, the Van der Welckes responded to Van Naghel's advances and Constance sent a note. The visit was paid and the brothers-in-law shook hands. Van der Welcke himself shrugged his shoulders over the whole business; but Addie was pleased, started going for walks again with Frans and spoke to Karel again at the grammar-school, though he did not much care for him. Two days later, Marianne called in the afternoon, when the rain was coming down in torrents. Constance was at home. The girl stood in the door-way of the drawing-room:

"May I come in, Auntie?..."

"Of course, Marianne, do."

"I don't like to: I'm rather wet."

"Nonsense, come in!"

And the girl suddenly ran in and threw herself on her knees beside Constance, almost with a scream:

"I am so glad, I am so glad!" she cried.

"Why?"

"That Uncle wrote to Papa ... that Papa and Mamma have been here ... that everything is all right again.... It was so dreadful; it kept me from sleeping. I kept on thinking about it. It was a sort of nightmare, an obsession. Auntie, dear Auntie, is everything all right now?"

"Yes, certainly, child."

"Really all right?... Are you coming to us again ... and may I come and see you ... and will you ask me to dinner again soon? Is everything all right, really all right?"

She snuggled up to her aunt like a child, putting her head against Constance' knees, stroking her hands:

"You will ask me again soon, Auntie, won't you? I love coming to you, I simply love it. I should have missed it so, I can't tell you how much...."

Her voice broke, as she knelt by Constance' side, and she suddenly burst into tears, sobbing out her words so excitedly that Constance was startled, thinking it almost unnatural, absurd:

"I was nearly coming to you before Papa and Mamma had been.... But I didn't dare.... I was afraid Papa would be angry.... But I can come now, it's all right now...."

"Yes, it's all right now...."

She kissed Marianne. But the door opened and Van der Welcke entered.

"How do you do, Uncle?"

He always thought it odd when Marianne called him uncle, just like that:

"Is it you, Marianne?... Constance, did I leave my Figaro down here?"

"The Figaro? No...."

He hunted for his paper and then sat down.

"Uncle," said Marianne, "I've just been telling Auntie, I'm so glad, I'm so glad that everything's settled."

"So am I, Marianne."

Outside, the rain came pelting down, lashed by the howling wind. Inside, all was cosiness, with Constance pouring out the tea and telling them about Nice, while Marianne talked about Emilie and Van Raven and how they were not getting on very well together and how Otto and Frances were also beginning to squabble and how Mamma took it all to heart and allowed it to depress her:

"I sha'n't get married," she said. "I see nothing but unhappy marriages around me. I sha'n't get married."

Then she started. She had a knack of behaving awkwardly and tactlessly, of saying things which she ought not to say. Van der Welcke looked at her, smiling. To make up for her indiscretion, she was more demonstrative than ever, profuse in exclamations of delight:

"Oh, Auntie, how glad I am to be with you once more!... I must be off presently in the rain.... I wish I could stay...."

"But stay and dine," said Van der Welcke.

Constance hesitated: she saw that Marianne would like to stop on and she did not know what to do, did not wish to seem ungracious; and yet....

"Will you stay to dinner?" she asked.