"Five-three. … "
"Double-six. … Double-four. … One more: two-three. … "
And Klaasje had come and sat by Aunt Constance, almost creeping into her dress, with a very babyish picture-book in her hand. She pressed her fair-haired little head comfortably in Auntie's skirts, against Auntie's lap and had silently taken Auntie's arm and laid it round her neck. Herself unobserved, she noticed every single thing that happened: Guy and Adele's backgammon, Gerdy's fussing with the tea-things; and she listened to Auntie, Mamma and Emilie; but all the time it was as though she were outside that circle of homeliness, as though she were far away from it, as though she were hearing and seeing through a haze, unconsciously, in her slowly awakening little brains, the brains of a backward child. And, so as not to be too far away, she took Aunt Constance' hand, opened the palm with her fingers and pushed her little head under it: that made it seem as if she were much nearer. …
Suddenly, the door opened; and everybody gave a little start, soon recovering, however: Mathilde had entered and only Grandmamma, yonder, more in the background in her dark corner, had remained motionless, with quivering fingers in her lap, white and waxen, trembling in the dark shadow of her dress. … But, near the fire, Constance, Adeline and Emilie were silent and remained sitting, stiffly, Adeline and Emilie without moving. Constance alone forced herself to look round at Mathilde; Alex read on, nervously hunching his shoulders; but Guy rattled his dice and Adeletje had a sudden flush on her cheek and turned pale. … And Gerdy was the most nervous of all: she suddenly ducked down in front of the fire and began poking it desperately.
"Do be careful, Gerdy!" said Adeline. "You'll set us on fire, the sparks are flying all over the place!"
Mathilde had sat down in the arm-chair next to Constance, which made little Klaasje feel a bit squeezed, in between Auntie and Mathilde, and Mathilde's shadow fell across the child's book and prevented her from seeing the pictures, causing such a sudden outburst of temper that, before anyone could stop her, she put out both arms convulsively, pushed with her hands against Mathilde's chair and cried:
"Go away!"
So much enmity was apparent in the child's voice that they all started again: only Grandmamma, in her corner, noticed nothing. But Constance recovered herself at once:
"For shame, Klaasje!" she said, in a chiding tone. "You mustn't do that, you know! What makes you so naughty?"
But the child pushed against the chair with such force that she pushed it aside, with Mathilde in it:
"Go away!" she repeated, pale in the face, with wide eyes starting from her head in hatred.
"Klaasje!" cried Constance. "Stop that at once!"
Her voice rang harsh and loud through the room. The child looked at her in alarm, understood merely that Auntie was angry and burst into loud sobs.
"Oh, very well, I'll go and sit somewhere else!" said Mathilde, pretending indifference.
She got up and sat beside Emilie.
"Haven't you been out?" asked Emilie, gently, for the sake of saying something.
"Out? In this horrible weather? Where would you have me go?" asked Mathilde, coldly. "No, I've had two hours' sleep. Gerdy, have you any tea left for me?"
"Yes, certainly," said Gerdy, in a forced voice.
She poked the fire once more, fiercely.
"But, Gerdy, mind what you're doing!" cried Adeline, terrified, for the sparks were flying out of the hearth.
Gerdy bobbed up from among her skirts and began clattering with her tea-tray. Klaasje had ceased crying, had stopped the moment that Mathilde had moved and was now looking up at Aunt Constance and trying to take her hand again.
"No," said Constance, "you're naughty."
"No-o!" whined the little girl, like a very small child. "I'm not naughty!"
"Yes, you are. It's not at all nice of you to push Mathilde away. You must never do that again, do you hear?"
"Oh, let the child be, Mamma!" said Mathilde, wearily.
The child looked up at Constance with such an unhappy expression in her face that Constance put her hand on her head again; and, at once forgetting everything, Klaasje now looked at her book and even hummed softly as she showed herself the pictures.
Gerdy was pouring out Mathilde's tea. There it was again: she had spilt the milk; the tea-tray was one white puddle! However, she mopped it up with a tea-cloth and now handed the cup to Mathilde.
Mathilde tasted it:
"Did you put any sugar in?"
"Yes, one lump."
"I never take sugar."
"Oh! … Shall I give you another cup?"
"No, thanks. … Your tea is weak."
Gerdy's tea was her pride, always:
"Tea gets bitter after standing three quarters of an hour," she said, aggressively, "or, if you pour water on it, it gets weak."
"Then I must always come three quarters of an hour late, for your tea is always either bitter or weak."
"Then make your own tea. … "
But Gerdy saw Aunt Constance looking at her and said nothing more.
"Mamma," asked Mathilde, "do you know when Addie is coming back?"
"No, dear; to-morrow, I expect, or the next day."
"Haven't you had a card from him?"
"No, dear."
"Oh, I thought he would have written to you! … I might really have gone with him to Amsterdam."
"He had business to attend to. … "
"Well, I shouldn't have hindered him in his business. … "
She sat silent now and indifferent and looked at her watch, regretting that she had come down too early. She thought that it was six and that they would be having dinner at once. And it was not even half-past five yet. … Should she go upstairs again for a bit? … No, she was there now and she would stay. … She had slept too long that afternoon. … She felt heavy and angry. … What a place, what a place, Driebergen in November! Not a soul to talk to, except three or four antediluvian families. … When was she likely to see the Hague again? The children would be looked after all right: there were busybodies enough in the house for that! … And she remained sitting beside Emilie, without moving or speaking, weary, indifferent and heavy after her long sleep. … She knew it: as usual, her entrance had caused friction. That odious idiot child, pushing her chair away, with its "Go away!" She could have boxed its ears. … But she had controlled herself. Didn't she always control herself? Wasn't she always being insulted by her husband's relatives? … Why on earth had she married him? Couldn't she have married anybody at the Hague? … In her weary, heavy indifference, mingled with spiteful rancour, she felt herself a martyr. … Wasn't she a very handsome woman? Couldn't she have married anybody, though her father was a penniless naval officer, though there was no money on her mother's side either? … She was a handsome girl; and, from the time when she was quite young, her one thought had been to make a good match, first and foremost a good match, and to get away from the poverty and the vulgar crew that gathered in Papa and Mamma's house. … Oh, yes, she was very fond of her husband; but now it was all his fault: he … he was neglecting her! … Wasn't she a martyr?
Deep down within herself, no doubt, she knew that she had not married him for himself alone, that she had certainly thought it heavenly, she, a Smeet, plain Mathilde