Baroness van der Welcke. … On her cards: Baroness van der Welcke. … A coronet on her handkerchiefs, a coat-of-arms on her note-paper: oh, how delicious, how delicious! … What a joy at last to order the gowns in Brussels, to get out of the poverty of her parents' home, which reeked of rancid butter and spilt paraffin, to shake it from her, to plunge and drown it in the past, that poverty, as you drown a mangy dog in a pond. …
Driebergen … well, yes. But it wouldn't always be Driebergen. She would back herself to coax her husband out of that patriarchy, to coax him to the Hague, where he would be the young, fashionable doctor: a fine house, smart acquaintances, a box at the Opera, presentation at court, Baroness … Baronne van der Welcke. …
She had two children now, a boy and a girl. It was irresistible; and yet she knew that she must take care and not let the nurse have too much of it:
"Geertje, have you washed the jonker's hands? … Geertje, I want the freule to wear her white frock to-day?"[1]
For she had noticed that the others never used the words in speaking to Geertje or to the maids, never said jonker or freule, always just simply Constant and Henriette, or even Stan and Jet; and so, when the others were there, she copied them and said, "Stan" and "Jet"; but oh, the joy, as soon as they were gone, of once more blurting out the titles to Geertje, the warm rapture of feeling that she was not only a baroness but the mother of a freule and a jonker:
"Geertje, has Freule Henriette had her milk? … Geertje, let the jonker wear his new shoes to-day! … "
No, she simply could not keep from it; and yet she had sense enough to know and perception enough to feel that the others thought it a mark of bad breeding in her, to refer to her babies of one year old and two as freule and jonker. … That was the worst of it, that she had married not only her husband but his whole family into the bargain: his grandmamma, his parents and Aunt Adeline with her troops of children whom Addie—so silly of him, because he was so young—regarded as his own, for whom it was his duty to care. … That was the worst of it; and oh, if she had known everything, known what a martyr she would be in this house, where she never felt herself the mistress—a victim to the idiot child's rude ways, a victim to Gerdy, who gave her sugar in her tea—if she had known everything, she might have thought twice before marrying him at all! …
And yet she was wonderfully fond of Addie, might still be very happy with him, if he would only come back to her … and not neglect her, over and over again, for all that crew of so-called adopted children with which he had burdened himself. … Oh, to get him out of it, out of that suffocating family-circle … and then to the Hague: her husband a young, smart doctor, she at court; and then see all the old friends again … and Papa and Mamma's relations … and perhaps leave cards on them sweetly: Baronne van der Welcke! …
She was not all vanity: she had plenty of common sense besides and no small portion of clear and penetrating insight. She saw her own vanity, indeed, but preferred not to see it. She would rather look upon herself as a martyr than as vain and therefore saw herself in that light, deliberately thrusting aside her common sense; and then, sometimes, in an unhappy mood, she would weep over her own misfortunes. Her only consolation at such times was that she was handsome, a young, handsome woman, and healthy and the mother of two pretty little children: a jonker and a freule.
She now sat wearily, with very few words passing among them all; the dice in Adele and Guy's boxes rattled loudly and worked on Mathilde's nerves.
Gerdy could stand it no longer: she had run out into the hall and almost bumped against Van der Welcke, who was just going to the drawing-room.
"Hullo, kiddie!" he exclaimed.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Uncle!"
"Where are you rushing off to?"
She laughed.
"Nowhere, Uncle. I don't know. I'm going to wash my hands. I upset the milk. … There's no tea left, Uncle."
"That's all right, kiddie, I don't want any tea. … Shall we be having dinner soon?"
"It's not six yet."
"Anything from Addie?"
"No, Uncle."
"Has … has Mathilde come down?"
"Yes, Uncle."
"I see. Well, I think I'll go upstairs again for a bit."
"Oh, don't, Uncle!"
"I may as well."
"No, don't. Why should you? You're always putting her on us and clearing out yourself!"
"I? But I have nothing to do with her!"
"She's your daughter-in-law."
"I dare say, but I can't help that."
"Yes, you can."
"How do you mean? How can I help it?"
"Why, if you had stopped Addie at the time … had forbidden it … as his father."
"You young baggage! Do you imagine that I can forbid Addie anything? I've never been able to prevent his doing a thing. He's always done what he wanted to, from the time when he was a child."
"You can help it."
"Can I? Well, whether I can help it or not … I'm going upstairs."
"No, Uncle, you're not to. You must come in. Do be nice. Come along for our sake. You're fond of us, aren't you? You love all Addie's adopted children, Uncle, don't you?"
"Yes, kiddie, I'm fond of you all, though I've lost Addie altogether through you."
"No, Uncle, not altogether."
"Well, what's the use of sharing him with the pack of you?"
"But you can afford to share him a little bit. Tell me: you are fond of us?"
"Of course I am, you're a dear, jolly lot. But Mathilde. … "
"What about Mathilde, Uncle?"
He bent over her and bit each word separately into her ear:
"I—can't—stand—her. … I hate her as I have never hated anybody."
"But, Uncle, that's overdoing it," said Gerdy, lapsing into reasonableness.
"Overdoing it?"
"Yes, she's not so bad as all that. She can be very nice."
"You think her nice, do you? Well, she's like a spectre to me."
"No, no, you mustn't say that. And she's Addie's wife and the mother of his children."
"Look here, kiddie, don't be putting on such wise airs. They don't suit you."
"But she is the mother of his children and you're not to be so jealous."
"Am I jealous?"
"Yes, you're jealous … of Mathilde and of us."
"Very likely. I never see Addie. If I hadn't got Guy. … "
"Well, you've got Guy. And you've got Addie as well."
"No, I haven't. … Do you know when he's coming back?"
"No, I don't, Uncle. And now come along in."
She drew Van der Welcke into the room with her; and, as usual, he went up to the old woman seated silently in her corner, rubbing his hands, trying to speak a few words to her. She recognized him and smiled. … The wind outside raged with a deeper note. … The branches of the trees swished along the windows, the twigs tapped at them as with fingertips. … And amid the eeriness of it all Constance suddenly felt it very strange that they were all of them there, all strangers in the old, gloomy house, which had once belonged to Henri's stern