# The Later Life/Chapter VI

At Addie's wish, at the little schoolboy's wish, the Van der Welckes responded to Van Naghel's advances and Constance sent a note. The visit was paid and the brothers-in-law shook hands. Van der Welcke himself shrugged his shoulders over the whole business; but Addie was pleased, started going for walks again with Frans and spoke to Karel again at the grammar-school, though he did not much care for him. Two days later, Marianne called in the afternoon, when the rain was coming down in torrents. Constance was at home. The girl stood in the door-way of the drawing-room:
"May I come in, Auntie? . . ."
"Of course, Marianne, do."
"I don't like to: I'm rather wet."
"Nonsense, come in!"
And the girl suddenly ran in and threw herself on her knees beside Constance, almost with a scream:
"I am so glad, I am so glad!" she cried.
"Why?"
"That Uncle wrote to Papa . . . that Papa and Mamma have been here . . . that everything is all right again . . . It was so dreadful; it kept me from sleeping. I kept on thinking about it. It ​was a sort of nightmare, an obsession. Auntie, dear Auntie, is everything all right now?"
"Yes, certainly, child."
"Really all right? . . . Are you coming to us again . . . and may I come and see you . . . and will you ask me to dinner again soon? Is everything all right, really all right?"
She snuggled up to her aunt like a child, putting her head against Constance' knees, stroking her hands:
"You will ask me again soon, Auntie, won't you? I love coming to you, I simply love it. I should have missed it so, I can't tell you how much . . ."
Her voice broke, as she knelt by Constance' side, and she suddenly burst into tears, sobbing out her words so excitedly that Constance was startled, thinking it almost unnatural, absurd:
"I was nearly coming to you before Papa and Mamma had been . . . But I didn't dare . . . I was afraid Papa would be angry . . . But I can come now, it's all right now . . ."
"Yes, it's all right now . . ."
She kissed Marianne. But the door opened and Van der Welcke entered.
"How do you do, Uncle?"
He always thought it odd when Marianne called him uncle, just like that:
"Is it you, Marianne? . . . Constance, did I leave my Figaro down here?"
​"The Figaro? No . . ."
He hunted for his paper and then sat down.
"Uncle," said Marianne, "I've just been telling Auntie, I'm so glad, I'm so glad that everything's settled."
"So am I, Marianne."
Outside, the rain came pelting down, lashed by the howling wind. Inside, all was cosiness, with Constance pouring out the tea and telling them about Nice, while Marianne talked about Emilie and Van Raven and how they were not getting on very well together and how Otto and Frances were also beginning to squabble and how Mamma took it all to heart and allowed it to depress her:
"I sha'n't get married," she said. "I see nothing but unhappy marriages around me. I sha'n't get married."
Then she started. She had a knack of behaving awkwardly and tactlessly, of saying things which she ought not to say. Van der Welcke looked at her, smiling. To make up for her indiscretion, she was more demonstrative than ever, profuse in exclamations of delight:
"Oh, Auntie, how glad I am to be with you once more! . . . I must be off presently in the rain . . . I wish I could stay . . ."
"But stay and dine," said Van der Welcke.
Constance hesitated: she saw that Marianne would like to stop on and she did not know what to ​do, did not wish to seem ungracious; and yet . . .
"Will you stay to dinner?" she asked.
Marianne beamed with joy:
"Oh, I should love to, Auntie! Mamma knows I'm here; she'll understand . . ."
Constance was sorry that she had asked her; her nerves were feeling the strain of it all; but she was determined to control herself, to behave naturally and ordinarily. She could see it plainly: they were too fond of each other!
They were in love! Long before, she had seemed to guess it, when she saw them together, at her little dinners. The veriest trifle—an intonation of voice, a laughing phrase, the passing of a dish of fruit—had made her seem to guess it. Then the vague thought that went through her mind, like a little cloud, would vanish at once, leaving not even a shadow behind it. But the cloud had come drifting again and again, brought by a gesture, a glance, a how-do-you-do or good-bye, an appointment for a bicycle ride. On such occasions, the brothers had always gone too—so had Addie—and there had never been anything that was in the least incorrect; and at the little dinners there was never a joke that went too far, nor an attempt at flirtation, nor the very least resemblance to lovemaking. And therefore those vague thoughts had always drifted away again, like clouds; and Constance would think:
​"There is nothing, there is nothing. I am mistaken. I am imagining something that doesn't exist."
She had not seen them together for two months; and she knew, had understood from a word dropped here and there, that Van der Welcke had not seen Marianne during those two months which had passed since that Sunday evening. And now, suddenly, she was struck by it: the shy, almost glad hesitation while the girl was standing at the door of Constance' drawing-room; her unconcealed delight at being able to come back to this house; the almost unnatural joy with which she had sobbed at Constance' knee . . . until Van der Welcke came in, after doubtless recognizing the sound of her voice in his little smoking-room, as transparent as a child, with his clumsy excuse of searching for a newspaper. And now at once she was struck by it: the almost insuppressible affection with which they had greeted each other, with a certain smiling radiance that beamed from them, involuntarily, irresistibly, unconsciously . . . But still Constance thought:
"I am mistaken, there is nothing; and I am imagining something that doesn't exist."
And the thought passed away, that they were really in love with each other; only this time there remained a faint wonder, a doubt, which had never been there before. And, while she talked about ​Nice, it struck her that Van der Welcke was still there . . . that he was staying on in her drawing-room, a thing which he never did except when Paul was there, or Gerrit . . . He sat on, without saying much; but that happy smile never left his lips . . . Yet she still thought:
"I am mistaken; it is only imagination; there is nothing, or at most a little mutual attraction; and what harm is there in that?"
But, be this as it might, she, who was so jealous where her son was concerned, now felt not the least shade of jealousy amid her wondering doubts. Yes, it was all gone, any love, passion, sentiment that she had ever entertained for Henri. It was quite dead . . . And, now that he smiled like that, she noticed, with a sort of surprise, how young he was:
"He is thirty-eight," she thought, "and looks even younger."
As he sat there, calmly, always with the light of a smile on his face, it struck her that he was very young, with a healthy, youthful freshness, and that he had not a wrinkle, not a grey hair in his head . . . His blue eyes were almost the eyes of a child. Even Addie's eyes, though they were like his father's, were more serious, had an older look. . . . And, at the sight of that youthfulness, she thought herself old, even though she was now showing Marianne the pretty photograph from Nice . . . Yes, she felt old; and she was hardly ​surprised—if it was so, if she was not mistaken at that youthfulness in her husband and at his possible love for that young girl . . . Marianne's youth seemed to be nearer to his own youth . . . And sometimes it was so evident that she almost ceased doubting and promised herself to be careful, not to encourage Marianne, not to invite her any more . . .
Unconscious: was it unconscious, thought Constance, on their part? Had they ever exchanged a more affectionate word, a pressure of the hand, a glance? Had they already confessed it to each other . . . and to themselves? And a delicate intuition told her:
"No, they have confessed nothing to each other; no, they have not even confessed anything to themselves."
Perhaps neither of them knew it yet; and, if so, Constance was the only one who knew. She looked at Marianne: the girl was very young, even though she had been out a year or two. She had something of Emilie's fragility, but she was more natural, franker; and that natural frankness showed in her whole attitude: she seemed not to think, but to allow herself to be dragged along by impulse, by sentiment . . . She looked out with her smile at the pelting rain, nestled deeper in her chair, luxuriously, like a kitten, then suddenly jumped up, poured out a cup of tea for Constance and herself; and, when Van der Welcke begged his wife's leave to smoke a ​cigarette, she sprang up again, struck a match, held the light to him, with a fragile grace of gesture like a little statue. Her pale-brown eyes, with a touch of gold-dust over them, were like chrysolite; and they gazed up enthusiastically and then cast their glance downwards timidly, under the shade of their lids. She was pale, with the anæmic pallor of alabaster, the pallor of our jaded society-girls; and her hands moved feverishly and restlessly, as though the fingers were constantly seeking an object for their butterfly sensitiveness . . .
Was it so? Or was it all Constance' imagination? And, amidst her wondering doubts, there came suddenly—if it really was so—a spasm of jealousy; but not jealousy of her husband's love: jealousy of his youth. She suddenly looked back fifteen years and felt herself grown old, felt him remaining young. Life, real life, for which she sometimes had a vague yearning, while she felt herself too old for it, after frittering away her days: that life he would perhaps still be able to live, if he met with it. He at least was not too old for it!
It all filled her with a passion of misery and anger; and then again she thought:
"No, there is nothing; and I am imagining all manner of things that do not exist."
Addie came home; and, with the rain pelting outside, there was a gentle cosiness indoors, at table. Constance was silent, but the others were cheerful. ​And, when, after tea had been served, the fury out of doors seemed to have subsided, Marianne stood up, almost too unwilling to go away:
"It's time for me to go, Auntie . . ."
"Shall Addie see you home?"
"No, Addie's working," said Van der Welcke. "I'll see Marianne home."
Constance said nothing.
"Oh, Auntie," said Marianne, "I am so glad that everything's settled!"
She kissed Constance passionately.
"Uncle, isn't it a nuisance for you to go all that way with me?"
"I wish I had a bicycle for you! . . ."
"Yes, if only we had our tandem here!"
"It's stopped raining; we shall be able to walk."
They went, leaving Constance alone. Her eyes were eager to follow them along the street. She could not help herself, softly opened a window, looked out into the damp winter night. She saw them go towards the Bankastraat. They were walking side by side, quite ordinarily. She watched them for a minute or two, until they turned the corner:
"No," she said, "there is nothing. Oh, it would be too dreadful!"