"Yes, child, every Sunday. There's a great kindness and affection among them all. I always think that so delightful."
"We are a large family. I am glad to be here, but they are still like strangers to me. How many of us are there here, Mamma?"
"Oh, quite thirty! Let me see. … " Mamma van Lowe counted on her fingers. "Uncle and Aunt Ruyvenaer, with Toetie and Dot and Poppie and Piet and young Herman: that makes seven; then, Van Naghel and Bertha, with the four girls and Karel: that's seven more; fourteen. … "
Constance listened to her mother's addition, and smiled. … Twenty years, twenty years ago! She felt as though she could have burst out sobbing; but she controlled herself, smiled, stroked Mamma's hand:
"Mamma, dear Mamma. … I am so glad to be back among you all!"
"Dear child!"
"They have all received me so nicely. So simply."
"Why, of course, Connie. You're their sister."
Constance was silent. … Dorine, with two of the young nieces, poured out the tea, brought it round:
"Have a cup, Constance? Milk? Sugar?"
How familiar and pleasant it sounded, just as though she were really one of them, as though she always had been one of them: "Have a cup, Constance?" … As if it wasn't the first cup of tea she had had there for years and years! … Dear Dorine! Constance remembered her as a girl of seventeen, shy, not yet out, but even then caring, always caring, for others. She was not pretty, she was even plain, ungraceful, clumsy, badly-dressed. …
"Yes, Dorine, I should like a cup. … Come here, Dorine. Sit down and talk to me: the girls can see to the tea."
She drew Dorine to the sofa beside her and nestled between her mother and her sister:
"Tell me, Dorine, do you still look after everybody so well? Do you still pour the tea?"
Her voice had a broken sound, full of a melancholy that permeated her simple, bantering words. Dorine made some vague reply.
"When I went away," said Constance, "you were not seventeen. You were always cutting bread-and-butter for Bertha's children. Otto and Louise were seven and five then; Emilie was a baby. Now she's engaged. … "
She smiled, but her eyes were full of tears, her breast heaved.
"My dear child," said the old lady.
"It's a long time ago, Connie," said Dorine.
It was twenty years since any one had called her Connie.
"So you're thirty-six now, Dorine?"
"Yes, Connie, thirty-six," said Dorine, uncomfortable, as usual, when anybody spoke of her; and she felt her smooth, flat hair, to see if it was drawn well back.
"You've changed very little, Dorine."
"Do you think so, Connie?"
"I am very glad of it. … Will you like me a little, Dorine?"
"Why, of course, Connie."
"My dear child," said the old lady, much moved.
They were all three silent for a while. Constance felt so much, was so full of the past years, that she could not have uttered another word.
"Why didn't you bring Addie?" asked Mamma.
"I thought he might be too young."
"The two Marietjes always come; and so do Adolphine's boys. We never sit up late, because of the children."
"Then I'll bring him next time, Mamma."
Dorine stole a glance at her sister and reflected that Constance was still pretty, for a woman of forty-two. What a young and pretty figure, thought Dorine; but then it was a smart dress; and Constance was sure to wear very expensive stays. Regular features: she was like Mamma; a clear-cut profile; dark eyes, now dimmed with melancholy; very pretty, white hands, with rings; and her hair especially interested Dorine: it was turning into a uniform steel-grey and it curled.
"Connie, does your hair curl of itself?"
"Of course not, Dorine; I wave it."
"What a labour!"
Constance gave a careless laugh.
"Constance always had nice hair," said Mamma, proudly.
"Oh, no, Mamma dear! I have horrid, straight hair."
They were silent again; and all three of them felt that they were not speaking of what lay at their hearts.
"Constance, what lovely rings you have!"
"Ah, Dorine, I remember you used to admire me in the old days; when I went to a ball, you used to stand and gaze at me. But there is nothing left to admire, Dorine: I'm an old stick, now. … "
"My dear!" said Mamma, indignantly.
"You needn't mind, Mamma: you're always young, a young grandmamma. … "
And she pressed Mamma's hand, with a touching fervour.
[1] A half-caste.
[2] The lunch or tiffin of the Dutch East Indies, consisting of rice with a great variety of spiced meats and vegetables.
[3] Cakes.
[4] Lord!
[5] Poor dear!
CHAPTER III
"Dorine," asked Constance, "where is Papa's portrait?"
"In the boudoir."
"Oh, so Mamma has moved it! I want to see it."
She went with Dorine through the drawing-room, past the card-tables. … She noticed that the conversation at once stopped at the table where Adolphine and Uncle Ruyvenaer were playing and that her sister raised her voice and said:
"Did I deal? … Diamonds!"
"They were talking about me," thought Constance.
She went into the boudoir with Dorine: there was a card-table, with cards and markers, but there was no one in the room. Decanters and glasses, sandwiches and cakes had been put out in readiness for later.
"Papa," said Constance, softly.
She looked up at the big portrait. It was not a work of art; it was painted in the regulation, wooden style of thirty or forty years before; and it struck Constance as an ugly daub, dark and flat, in spite of all the gold on the governor-general's uniform, all the stars of the orders. The portrait represented a tall and commanding man, with a hard face and dark, stony eyes.
"I … I used to think that portrait much finer," said Constance. "Was Papa so hard? … "
Her eyes were riveted on her father's face. … She had certainly been his favourite daughter. Her marriage to De Staffelaer, his friend, a man much older than herself, had pleased him, because it flattered his ambition. … But then, then he fell ill; he died soon after,