# The Later Life/Chapter XXI

The door opened and Bertha, Louise and Marianne entered. And they stepped so suddenly right across Constance' thoughts that she was startled at their appearance: mother and daughters in deep mourning. She had not seen Bertha except on that first hurried visit immediately after Van Naghel's death and on the day of the funeral, six weeks ago; and she knew very little of what was happening; she had seen Marianne only once. And now that they both stepped right across her thoughts, into that narrow circle—which she condemned, though she herself was unable to move out of it—a great compassion suddenly surged through her, like a torrent. Bertha looked very pale, tired, wasted, grown all at once into an old woman, hopeless and resigned, as though broken under much silent sorrow. Louise's face wore a rather more tranquil expression; but Marianne beside her, delicate and white, still more delicate and white in her black dress, also diffused an almost tearful melancholy. Mamma rose and went towards them. It was the first time since her husband's death that Bertha had come to Mamma's Sunday-evening; and the gesture with which the old woman rose, approached her daughter, embraced her and led her to the sofa where she had been sitting ​showed the same open-armed and open-hearted motherly affection with which, as Constance remembered, Mamma had received her, Constance, at the door, on the landing, on the first evening of her own return. Dear Mamma!
It touched her so much that she herself rose, went to Bertha, kissed her tenderly, kissed Louise and Marianne. Her voice, for the first time for many a day, had a sisterly note in it that took Bertha by surprise. She pressed Constance' hand and, after the others had spoken to her, sat down quietly near Mamma, Aunt Lot and Constance. How pale, dejected and resigned she was! She seemed to be looking helplessly around her, to be looking for some one to assist her, to be wishing to say something, to somebody, that would have relieved her. She sighed:
"I have come, Mamma . . . but I cannot stay long," she said. "I am very tired. There are all those business matters; and, though Adolph is very kind and sympathetic and is a great help, it is terribly complicated and I sometimes feel half-dead with it all. . . . It's lucky that I have Otto and Frances; I don't know what I should do without them . . . You know we are going to live in the country? . . ."
"You were thinking about it the other day, dear," said Mamma, anxiously, "but it wasn't decided yet . . . Bertha, must I lose you?"
​"Dear Mamma, it's better in the country. Adolph wanted us to look round in Overijssel, but I would rather be at Baarn, for instance: it's nearer to the Hague and you . . ."
"Why, Baarn, my child? There's nobody there but Amsterdam people, business-people: such a very different set from ours! . . ."
"We sha'n't expect to make friends, Mamma, at first. I shall be alone with the girls. Otto and Frances have found a little house at the Hague: it's lucky that Otto is provided for at the Foreign Office. The minister spoke very nicely about him the other day . . . Frans and Henri must finish their university-course quickly now," she said, in a hesitating tone. "Karel is going to a boarding-school, for I can't manage him. And Marietje too: she was going soon, in any case. So there will be just the three of us: Louise, Marianne and I . . . Things have changed very much, all at once, Aunt Lot. We want to live quietly. In the first place, we shall just have to live quietly; and the girls are quite content to do so . . ."
It again seemed to Constance as if Bertha were looking for somebody in the room, were hushing something up. Constance had Emilie's name on her lips, but she did not like to ask. Mamma knew nothing more than that Emilie and Van Raven sometimes had differences.
"I shall have a lot of trouble and worry before ​me," said Bertha. "But, when it is all settled and we have our little villa . . ."
She sank back in her chair and stared before her with dim eyes.
Constance took her hand compassionately, held it tight. It looked as though Bertha, after that busy life which had suddenly snapped with Van Naghel's death, an hour after their last dinner-party, no longer knew what to do or say, felt derelict and helpless . . .
Though there was so much business to attend to, she seemed stunned all at once, in the grip of a strange lethargy, as though everything was now finished, as though there was nothing left now that there would soon be no more visits to pay, no receptions to hold, no dinners to give; now that Van Naghel no longer came home from the Chamber, tired and irritable from an afternoon's heckling; now that there would be no more calculating how they could manage to spend a thousand guilders less a month; now that she would simply have to live quietly on what she and the girls possessed. And it seemed as if she no longer knew how or why she should go on living, now that she would no longer have to give her dinners and pay her visits . . . for her children, particularly her girls. Louise and Marianne had said to her so calmly that they wanted very soon to begin living quietly that Bertha now began to wonder:
​"Why did I always make so much fuss, if the girls cared for it so little? Why did I go on till I was old and worn out?"
It was true, that had been Van Naghel's ambition: he had wanted to see his house a political salon. What he wished had happened. Now it was all over. Now there was nothing to be done but to live quietly, in the little villa at Baarn; to make no debts; to let the boys finish their college-course as quickly as possible; and then to educate Karel and Marietje and let theirs be a different life from the others': how she did not know . . . Bertha remained sitting wearily, staring vaguely before her, half-listening to the sympathetic words, uttered with an emphatic Indian accent, of Aunt Lot, who kept saying:
"Kassian! . . ."
But suddenly an access of nervousness seemed to startle her out of her depression. She looked round again, as though seeking for somebody . . . somebody to say something to. Her glance fastened for a moment on Aunt Lot and then on Constance. Suddenly she rose, with a little laugh, as though she wanted to speak to Louise, farther away. But the nervous pressure of her hand seemed to be urging Constance also to get up, to go with her, somewhere, anywhere . . . They went through the other drawing-room, past the card-table at which ​Uncle, Adolphine, Karel and Dotje were sitting, past the other with Cateau, Van Saetzema, Dijkerhof and Pop; and the conversation at both tables at once flagged; the cards fell hurriedly one after the other . . . They were talking about Bertha, thought Constance, as Bertha drew her gently to the little boudoir, the room where the wine and cakes were set out, where Papa van Lowe's portrait hung, stern and inexorable; the little room where they all of them went when they had anything confidential to say to one another, when there was a scene, or a difference, or a private discussion. And Constance at once remembered how, five months ago, she had appealed to Van Naghel and Bertha in this very room; how they had refused to receive her "officially" at their house; how Van der Welcke had lost his temper, flown into a rage, made a rush for Van Naghel . . . She was now here with Bertha once more; and Papa's portrait stared down coldly and severely upon the two sisters.
They looked at each other in silence. Bertha glanced round timidly: she felt that, in the big drawing-room, at the card-tables, the brothers and sisters had at once begun to talk again, criticizing her, because she had retired for a moment with Constance . . . with Constance. And, lowering her voice to a hardly audible whisper, she murmured:
"Constance . . . Constance . . ."
"What is it, Bertha?"
​"Help me . . . help me . . . be kind to me."
"But what's the matter?"
"Oh dear, nobody knows about it yet, but I can't keep it all . . . here . . . to myself!"
"Tell me what it is and what I can do."
"I don't know what you can do. But, Constance, I felt I had to . . . had to . . . tell you . . ."
"Tell me then."
"Nobody, nobody knows yet . . . except Louise and Marianne."
"What is it?"
"Emilie . . . Emilie has . . ."
"Has what?"
"She has gone away . . . with Henri . . ."
"Gone away?"
"Run away perhaps . . . with Henri . . . I don't know where. Van Raven doesn't know where. Nobody knows. Adolph van Naghel, my brother-in-law the commissary, has made enquiries . . . and has found out nothing . . . We dissuaded her from seeking a divorce; so did Adolph. Then, no doubt because of that, she ran away with Henri, with her brother. She absolutely refuses to live with Eduard. She has run away . . . Constance, where has she gone to? I don't know! Constance, it's a terrible thing! But keep it to yourself, don't tell anybody. Mamma doesn't know. I want to pretend, if there's nothing else for it, if they don't come back, that she has gone on a little journey, a trip ​somewhere, alone with her brother. We must pretend that, Constance. I don't think they intend to come back. Henri has been very excited lately: he fought Eduard, came to blows with him, for ill-treating his sister. You know how fond they are of each other, Emilie and Henri. It's almost unnatural, in a brother and sister. Now they've run away . . . Oh dear, Constance, I am so terribly unhappy!"
She threw herself into Constance' arms, sobbed, with her arms round Constance' neck:
"Constance, Constance, help me! . . . I have no one to turn to, no one I can talk to. Adolph is helping me with the business-matters; Otto too. Louise is very kind; but she and Otto think that Emilie ought to divorce her husband, on the ground of cruelty. But, Constance, in our class, men don't beat their wives! It never happens. It's an awful thing. It only happens with the lower orders! . . . Oh dear, Constance, I am so unhappy! . . . The business-matters will be settled . . . But there are debts. I thought that we were living within our income, but I don't know: there appear to be debts. Bills mount up so . . . I did so hope that the boys would finish their course. Frans will; but now Henri . . . that mad idea . . . going away with Emilie . . . running away . . . nobody knows where . . . Oh dear, Constance, I am so unhappy: help me, do help me!"
She lay back limply in Constance' arms and the ​tears flowed incessantly down her pale face, which in those few weeks had fallen away till it was the face of an old woman. She lay there feeble and ill; and it seemed as if Van Naghel's death, coming suddenly as an additional catastrophe on that evening of misfortunes—her guests in the drawing-room, Emilie hiding upstairs, Van Raven waiting below—had so terribly shaken her composure, the composure of a prudent, resourceful woman of the world, that she was simply compelled to speak of private matters which she would never have mentioned before . . . An instinct drove her into Constance' arms, drove her to unbosom herself to Constance as the only one who could understand her. Her near-sighted, blinking eyes sought anxiously, through her tears, to read the expression on Constance' face. And she was so broken, so shattered that Constance had to make an effort to realize that it was really Bertha whom she held in her arms.
The ill-feeling which she had cherished for months past was gone. None of it remained in her soul, in her heart, as though she had passed out of the depths of that atmosphere to purer heights of understanding and feeling. Only for a moment did she still remember that evening when she herself, in this same room, had implored Bertha and Van Naghel to help her "rehabilitate" herself in the eyes of their friends and of the Hague. It seemed long ago, years ago. She could hardly understand herself: ​that she could have begged so earnestly for something that was so small, of such little importance to her soul, to the world. She could not have done it now . . . She did not understand how she could so long have cherished a grudge against Van Naghel, against Bertha . . . because they did not ask her to their official dinners, when the invitation would have given her the rehabilitation which she sought. At the present moment, she did not even desire that rehabilitation, did not care about it, treated it as something that had become of no value: an idea which had withered and shrivelled within her and which blew away like a dead leaf to far-off spacious skies . . . Addie? He did not need his mother's rehabilitation in the eyes of the Hague. The boy would make his own way in life . . . Oh, how small she had been, to beg for it; to go on bearing a grudge, months on end, for something so little, so infinitesimal . . . so absolutely non-existent! . . . She felt that something had grown up inside her and was looking down upon all that earlier business . . . No, there was no bitterness left. She felt a deep pity and a sisterly affection for this poor, old woman, Bertha, who now lay feebly and impotently in her arms, begging . . . for what? She collected her thoughts: what could she do, how could she help Bertha? Her thoughts crowded upon one another rapidly; she thought vaguely of Van der Welcke, of Addie: what could they do, how could ​they help Bertha, how get upon the track of Emilie and Henri? And in the end she could think of nothing to say but:
"Yes, Bertha, the best thing will be to pretend that Emilie has gone for a trip with her brother. We will put it like that, if necessary. What does Van Raven want to do?"
"He won't consent to a divorce . . . And it would be an awful thing, you know . . . Oh, Constance, they have not been married ten months!"
A weariness suddenly came over her, like the abrupt extinction of all the little mundane interests that had always meant so much to her.
"But," she murmured, "if he beats her . . . perhaps it is better that they should be divorced . . . I don't know . . . We are going to Baarn: there is a small villa to let there. I should prefer to take it at once and go down there with Louise and Marianne . . . Karel gives me a lot of trouble: he doesn't behave well, no, he doesn't behave well. And he is still so young. Perhaps he will go to live with Adolph, his guardian, who will be very strict with him. I don't know what to do, I can do nothing . . . I used to do everything with Van Naghel, he and I together. He was really good and kind. We were always thinking of the children, both of us. He was tired . . . of being in the Cabinet; but he went on, for the children's sake . . ."
Her unconscious simplicity, in implying that Van ​Naghel was in the Cabinet for the sake of his children and not of his country, seemed to strike Constance for the first time: she almost smiled, held Bertha closer to her.
"He couldn't very well resign . . . and he didn't want to," Bertha continued, feebly. "And now I don't know what to do. I feel so very much alone; and yet I was once a capable woman, wasn't I, Constance? Now I no longer feel capable. Perhaps that life was too crowded. And, Constance, what was the use of it all? My children, our children, for whom we lived, are none of them happy. I have grown weary and old . . . for nothing. I wish that we were at Baarn now. I want to live there quietly, with the two girls. Louise is nice, so is Marianne. They neither of them want to go about any more. They're not happy, no, they are not happy. Oh, my poor, poor children! . . . You must never tell Mamma, Constance. Mamma doesn't know: dear Mamma! There is no need for her to know, poor dear! Better leave her under the impression that all is well with us, even though Van Naghel is gone . . ."
And she sobbed at the thought that she was alone. Then, suddenly, she drew herself up a little, made Constance take a chair, sat down beside her and asked, peering anxiously through her tears into Constance' face:
"Constance, tell me . . . Marianne?"
​"Yes, Bertha?"
"Are you fond of Marianne?"
"Yes, very."
"Still?"
"Yes, still."
"Constance . . ."
"Yes, Bertha?"
"It is just as well . . . that we are going to Baarn . . . Tell me, Constance: Van der Welcke . . ."
"Well?"
"What sort of a man is he?"
"What do you mean, Bertha?" asked Constance, gently.
"Is . . . is it his fault? . . . Is he a gentleman?"
Constance defended her husband calmly, but not without astonishment that Bertha could speak so frankly about that . . . as if they both knew all about it:
"No, Bertha, I don't think that Henri . . . that it is Henri's fault. I don't think it's Marianne's fault either. Bertha, I don't believe they can help it. They have an attraction for each other, a very great attraction . . ."
A tenderness came over her soul, like a glow, like a glowing compassion.
"Constance, they must not let themselves go. They must struggle against it."
​"Who can tell what they are doing, Bertha? Who can tell what goes on inside them?"
"No, they are not struggling."
"Who can tell?"
"No, no . . . Constance, it is just as well that we are going to Baarn."
They heard voices in the drawing-room, loud voices, with an Indian accent. The Ruyvenaers were going:
"Good-bye, Ber-r-rtha," said Aunt Lot, looking through the door. "We're going, Ber-r-rtha."
Constance and Bertha went back to the drawing-room. Bertha forgot to wipe the tears from her eyes, kissed Aunt Lot. Adolphine and Cateau came up to Bertha:
"Ber-tha," whined Cateau; and this time she whined with a vengeance. "We just want-ed to say a word to you. Emilie-tje must not get a di-vorce."
"No," said Adolphine, "if she goes and gets a divorce, the family will become impossible. It'll create a scandal, if they are divorced."
"Ye-es," Cateau droned aloud, "it would be a scan-dal, Ber-tha. Don't you think so too, Constance?"
"There's no question of it . . . for the moment," said Constance. "Emilie has gone abroad for a bit with Henri; and the change is sure to do her good and make her a little calmer."
"Oh? . . . Has she gone a-broad?"
​"Where to?" asked Adolphine, all agog.
"They were to go to Paris," said Constance, without hesitating.
"O-oh? . . . Has Emilie-tje gone to . . . Pa-ris?"
"Yes, with her brother," Constance repeated. A minute later, she found an opportunity of saying quietly to Bertha:
"It's better like that, Bertha; better to say it as if it was quite natural . . . If you don't say it yourself . . . and they come to hear . . ."
"Thank you, Constance . . . thank you."
"Oh, Bertha . . . I wish I could do something for you!"
"You have helped me as it is . . . Thank you . . . That's all that I can say . . ."
She lay back helplessly in her chair, staring dimly before her. Constance followed her glance. She saw that Van der Welcke had come, very late. He was sitting in the conservatory—where the boys had cleared away the cards after their game, as Grandmamma always expected them to do—sitting a little in the shadow, but still visible. He was bending over towards Marianne, who sat beside him, her face a white patch in the darkness: a frail little black figure making a faint blur in the dim conservatory, where the gas was now turned out. She seemed to be weeping silently, sat crushing her handkerchief. He appeared to be saying something, ​anxiously and tenderly, while he bent still nearer to her. Then, suddenly, he took her hand, pressed it impulsively. Marianne looked up in alarm. Her eyes met, at the far end of the long drawing-room, the eyes of Aunt Constance, the dull, staring eyes of her mother. She drew away her hand . . . and her pale face flushed with a glow of shame . . .
Grandmamma stood in the middle of the drawing-room, a little sad at the gloom which the recent mourning had cast over her rooms. The children took their leave.