The intolerable nature of their existence was enough to give Constance a feeling of home-sickness for Holland. The last few years in Brussels, now that their acquaintances were scattered, had been so lonely, so melancholy, so forlorn, so bitter, so full of dislike, hatred, envy of Henri, that she yearned for consolation, for some sort of love that would come to her with open arms and understand and pity her. There were days when she did not utter a word, after a scene with Henri, until Adriaan threw his arms about her, while she burst out sobbing on his childish breast. The boy, in other respects a sturdy lad, had his nerves so much shaken by this open conflict between his parents that he often fell ill.
Then both Henri and Constance, greatly alarmed, would suggest parting from Adriaan, for the boy's own good, so that he might not be a witness to their inevitable disputes. But they were both too weak. In their intolerable life Adriaan was the only alleviation. And neither of them had ever been able to resolve upon this parting; both merely promised themselves to exercise restraint in future, so that the boy might not suffer. …
Gradually, Constance had talked more and more about Holland, confessed that she was yearning for all those whom she had left behind. She longed for them all: her mother, her brothers, her sisters. She yearned for affection, for family-affection, for the fostering warmth and love and sympathy of a large circle of relations, who would show her the kindness which she had known of old, at Buitenzorg, at the Hague. And Van der Welcke also began to feel that strange nostalgia which urges a man towards the land of his birth, of his own tongue, of his kindred. Weary of living abroad, he fell in with Constance' view, really because of a chance word from Addie, who also often had the word Holland on his lips; the father was now thinking of his child's future. … But they must first learn how the family would receive them. Van der Welcke wrote to his parents, Constance to Mamma van Lowe. They wrote with all the humility of exiles; once more asked for forgiveness, after those fourteen years; said that they were longing to see their country again, their parents, brothers, sisters, to enjoy the sweet happiness of living where they would be at home. Both had felt the old inviolable bonds drawing them towards Holland, as though there were something which they needed before they could grow old and be a father and mother to their son. … Henri's parents had not yet written, did not at once reply to his question whether they could not forgive him now that those long, long years were past, whether they would not receive his wife, who, after all, was their daughter-in-law, who, after all, was the mother of his son, their grandchild. But Mamma van Lowe had sent Constance a sweet and loving letter, a letter which Constance had kissed, which had made her sob with happiness. Mamma had written that her child was to come to her, that all was forgiven, all forgotten, that the brothers and sisters would receive her with open arms. And she had expressed her own delight, as the old mother, who found it so difficult to get about, who disliked travelling, though it was but a two or three hours' journey to Brussels, and hated being so far from her child, for Constance was her child, in spite of all. Then Constance could restrain herself no longer and, without waiting for the letter from Henri's father and mother, had gone on ahead with Adriaan. Henri remained behind to settle a few matters of business: he was to follow in a week.
And Holland, yonder, so near and yet so long unattainable, was to them as a land of promise, a land of peace, of happiness long-deferred, where they would find, for themselves and for their son, all that of which they had been starved for years and years: parents and relations, old friends and acquaintances and, as the very essence of it all, that fragrant Dutch atmosphere, so indescribable and yet, as they now realized, craved for by their parched and famished souls. Both, as with one thought, had suddenly, for all the discord of their lives, known as a certainty, both for themselves and their son, that, to grow old and be a father and mother to their boy, they must return to their country, to which they were attached by those strange, mysterious and long-unsuspected bonds which may be denied for years, but which end by reasserting themselves, irrefragably, for ever and all time. …
[7] Umbrella or parasol.
[8] The title borne by noblemen's unmarried daughters.
CHAPTER V
It was Sunday afternoon.
"We must re-ally, Ka-rel, pay a coup-le of vis-its, this af-ter-noon," drawled Cateau van Lowe.
Karel assented: it was visiting-day.
"Where?" he asked.
She named one or two acquaintances:
"And then we must al-so go to Aunt and Un-cle Ruyvenaer; it's their turn. … And then, Ka-rel, to your sis-ter, to Con-stance. … "
"Hadn't we better wait till Van der Welcke's there? Otherwise we shall have to go again."
"I don't think it looks friend-ly … to wait till Van der Wel-cke comes. … Mamma did set us the exam-ple, Ka-rel, you know."
"Then wouldn't it be better, Cateau, for you to go alone first: then I can call on Van der Welcke later. Or do you think I ought to wait until Van der Welcke has been to see me?"
"We won't cal-culate it quite so close-ly as all that," said Cateau, generously. "It looks as if we were not friend-ly. … It would be bet-ter if you came with me to-day, Karel."
So they decided both to call on Constance that afternoon; and they were on the point of starting when the bell rang and Adolphine van Saetzema entered:
"What a nui-sance," thought Cateau. "Now the carriage will ab-solute-ly have to wait."
It was raining; and this meant that the brougham would get wet. The horse was jobbed; the coachman did not count: he was only a man.
"Ah, Adolph-ine! This is nice of you. … "
"I see your carriage is at the door. … Are you going out?"
"Yes, pres-ently, to pay a visit … or two. … "
"So am I. But don't let me keep you. I am going to Constance this afternoon."
"So are we."
"Oh, are you? I would really rather have waited till she had called on me."
"Oh," said Cateau, "it looks as if we weren't friend-ly, to cal-culate it so close-ly, don't you think, Adolph-ine? But do sit down, Adolph-ine."
Adolphine sat down, for she was paying Karel and Cateau a visit; and, if she had not sat down, the visit would not have been paid, would not have counted as a visit. Perhaps that was also the reason why Karel and Cateau urged Adolphine to sit down: otherwise, she would have been obliged to come back another day.
They all sat down: the brother, the sister, the sister-in-law. Outside, the rain was pouring in torrents; and already the brougham was glistening with the wet: Cateau's saucer-eyes watched every drop through the curtains. The usual drawing-room talk began:
"What terrible wea-ther, isn't it, Adolph-ine?"
"Terrible."
Adolphine was thin, angular, envious, badly-dressed. Beside the prosperous, opulent respectability of Karel and Cateau, sleek with good living, heavy with comfort, radiating money and ease—Karel in his thick frieze great-coat, Cateau in a rich silk dress and a rich fur-trimmed jacket, with a rich toque crowning her round, pink-and-white, full-moon face—Adolphine looked shabby, peevish and pretentious. The stuff of her clothes could not compare with Cateau's, which were eloquent of money, good, substantial money; and yet Adolphine had certain pretentions to fashion and elegance. A thin, straggling boa wound its length around her neck. Her fringe, out of curl because of the wet, hung in