The Twilight of the Souls Part 41

"No; but when Van der Welcke has to arrange a thing...!"

"It was that young bounder who arranged things."

"Addie?"

"Of course."

"Oh, so that young bounder arranged things!"

"Look here, what are we to say to Mamma?"

"Well, I don't intend to mention it. For that matter, I know nothing."

"Nor I. The women had better do it."

"But they're too much upset."

"The best thing will be not to say anything."

"Yes, it's best not to say anything to Mamma."

"Lord, what a day!... And to have to ride for an hour in this weather at a foot's pace ... behind the body of an undergraduate who has been sent down from Leiden and must needs run away to Paris with his sister and become a circus-clown...."

"And go getting murdered into the bargain! But we mustn't tell anybody that. No, no, we won't speak about it. We'll merely say that he was taken ill. After all, it's a rotten incident ... for us."

"Yes, it's very rotten for us."

"Lord, Lord, how people will jabber!"

"Of course they will."

"Of course they will."

"If things con-tin-ue like _this_ ... _I_ shall leave the _Hague_," said Karel. "Ca-teau said so _too_."

He copied his wife's voice: he always copied her voice, unconsciously, when he talked about her.

"Are we nearly there?"

"No such luck!"

"Lord, what a day!..."

"How people will talk!..."

The carriage containing Constance had driven on ahead of the procession.

Emilie leant against her, feebly and listlessly, without speaking or hearing. When they approached the Kerkhoflaan, Emilie said:

"Auntie ... it's just stupid chance...."

"What, dear?"

"Is this life? My life has never been anything but stupid chance! The little pleasure I had ... and the sorrow ... was all stupid chance! I am now so miserable; and it's all ... all stupid chance!... Oh, Auntie, I shall never be able to live ... not now, when Henri's death will always ... will always haunt me like an accusing ghost!... Auntie ... do other people have so much stupid chance in their lives?... If I hadn't gone to Paris!... If Henri had not ... oh, I can't say it, I can't say it!

Auntie, we shall never know! It's _too_ awful, what happened! I can never tell you ... what I think!"

"My darling, I suspect it!"

"Oh, it's awful, awful! Uncle suspects it too ... so they do at the legation.... It's awful, awful!... He's disappeared: Eduard, I mean....

It was a mere accident: we were walking together, Henri and I, when we ... when we met Eduard.... They looked at each other.... They hated each other.... Then he walked on ... but we met him again later.... Then, in the evening, when I came home ... and found Henri ... lying in his blood...!"

She flung herself back with a scream.

"Auntie, Auntie, we know nothing!... But the suspicion will _always_ be with me! I shall always see it like that! Oh, Auntie, Auntie, help me ... and keep me with you always, always!..."

She closed her eyes in Constance' arms, too weak to face her life, which had changed from fantastic humour into tragedy.... The carriage suddenly, stopped, in the Kerkhoflaan; Truitje opened the door; Constance made a sign to her to ask no questions. She herself, on the other hand, asked:

"How is Mr. Gerrit doing?"

"Not at all well, ma'am."

"Where are the children?"

"They're in the dining-room, ma'am, playing: it's easier there for me to keep an eye on them."

Constance opened the door of the dining-room, with her arm round Emilie.

She saw Gerdy and Constant; but, just as in the drawing-room at home, they had hidden behind a sofa standing aslant, where they were quietly playing at father and mother, worshipping each other like a little husband and wife, two small birds in a little nest.

"Peek-a-boo!" said Constance, mechanically.

They were quiet at first and then burst into chuckles, crept out, kissed Auntie and Emilie:

"Auntie," asked Gerdy, "is Papa ill?"

"Yes, darling."

"Will Papa get better _very_ soon?"

"Oh, yes, dear!"

"Are we staying with you long?"

"No, not very long, darling."

And Constance did not know why, but she suddenly saw the children staying on; and this vision was mingled with a vague impression of the gloomy house at Driebergen. She thought that her brain must be very tired in her head, that she was sleeping while awake, dreaming as she moved about. Everything before her was confused: that terrible day in Paris; Henri's body; the mystery about the whole affair, with the dark, half-uttered suspicions; the formalities; the legation; the journey back: oh, she was dead-tired, dead-tired!... Oh, that coffin, that coffin!... And in the middle of it all a letter from Addie: Uncle Gerrit seriously ill; the children ordered out of the house; he was taking Gerdy and Constant and giving them his room: he was sure Mamma would approve.... Oh, how dead-tired, how dead-tired she was!...

"Auntie," said Constant, "Truitje has been so kind: she made us a lovely rice-pudding...."

"But we'd rather be at home!" said Gerdy.