# Small Souls/Chapter VIII

Two days later, Addie went to meet his father at the station.
“Daddy, Daddy!” he shouted, as Van der Welcke stepped from the train.
They embraced; Van der Welcke was much moved, because it was fifteen years since he had been in Holland. Addie helped Papa with his luggage, like a man; and they drove away in a cab.
“My boy, it’s ten days since I saw you!”
“What kept you so long, Daddy?”
“Everything’s settled now.”
“And are we going to hunt for a house?”
“Yes.”
He looked at his child with a laugh of delight, threw his arm over Addie’s shoulder, drew him to him, full of a strange, oppressive sadness and content, because he was back, in Holland.
They pulled up at the hotel. Constance was waiting for them in her room.
“How are you, Constance?”
“How are you, Henri?”
“I’ve done everything.”
“That’s good. Your room is through here.”
“Capital.”
He rang, ordered coffee.
Her face at once became stiff and drawn. Addie poured out the coffee: ​“Here you are, Dad.”
“Thank you, my boy. And how do you like your Dutch country, my lad? How do you like all the little cousins?”
“Oh, I haven’t seen much of them yet, but I’m going to Uncle Gerrit and Aunt Adeline’s on Thursday.”
“How many children have they?”
“Seven.”
“By Jove! Is Mamma well, Constance?”
“Yes, very well.”
“I’ve . . . I’ve had a letter from Papa,” he stammered. “They want us to come and see them soon at Driebergen. . . .”
He was at last bringing her the long-expected reconciliation. She looked at him without a word.
“Here’s the letter!” he said, handing it to her.
She read the letter. It was couched in the groping words of an old and old-fashioned man, who wrote seldom; an attempt at forgiving, at forgetting, at welcoming: laboured, but not insincere. The letter ended by saying that Henri’s parents hoped soon to see him and Constance and Addie at Driebergen.
Her heart beat:
“So they are condescending to take me into favour!” she thought, bitterly. “Why only now? Why only now? My boy is thirteen; and they have never asked to see their only grandson. They are hard people! Why only now? I don’t like them. . . .”
But all she said was: ​“It is very kind of your parents.”
She had learnt that in Rome, to say one thing and mean another.
“And when do you want to go to Driebergen?” she asked.
“To-morrow.”
“We were to have gone to tea, after dinner, at the Van Saetzemas’: Adolphine and her husband.”
“I am longing to see my father and mother.”
“Very well; offend my family for the sake of yours and write and refuse the Van Saetzemas.”
“There is no question of offending anybody. I am longing to see my parents; and we must show them that we appreciate their letter.”
“Appreciate?” she asked, bitterly. “What am I to appreciate? That it took them thirteen years to say they would like to see their grandchild?”
“Your family weren’t pining to see you either, all those years.”
“That’s not true. Mamma came to see us at Brussels.”
He laughed, scornfully:
“In thirteen years, twice, for two days each time!”
She stamped her foot:
“Mamma is an old woman; she never travels.”
“My parents also are old; and they have had a hard struggle with their principles and convictions.”
“So I am to be grateful to them?”
He looked at her fixedly: ​“Grateful?” he echoed. “You’ve never been that. Not to them nor to me. . . .”
She clenched her fists:
“Again!” she screamed. “Always again and again! Nothing but reproaches for ruining your career, for . . . for . . .”
She sobbed aloud.
“Mamma!” said Addie.
The boy was between them. He was everything to both of them. He never understood the cause of those quarrels, the ground of those reproaches: and, until now, he had never reflected how strange it was that his father’s relations and his mother’s were always so far away, so inaccessible. But he did not ask, even if he did not understand; and yet, though he did not understand this particular thing, he was no longer a child. He was a little man by now; and his heart was all the heavier because he did not know and did not understand. But he shouldered his burden like a hero.
She kissed the boy:
“Ah!” she wept. “You like him better than me, Addie: go to him, go to him!”
“Mamma,” he said, “I love you both the same. Don’t cry, Mamma; don’t be so quick, so impatient. . . .”
Van der Welcke drank his coffee.
She clasped the child to her, kissed him fiercely:
“I’m going out, Addie. You’re very good, but I’m going out: I want air.”
“Shall I go with you?” ​“No, stay with Papa. . . .”
She could not bear to see them together at this first moment of his return; after the past ten days, she must harden herself again to seeing him caress the child; and now, now she was running away, so that she might not see it. She put on her hat; kissed Addie once more, to show that she was not angry with him, was never angry with him; and went out.
“Papa,” said Addie.
Van der Welcke looked gloomy, apprehensive.
“Why do you say those things to her, Papa?”
“My boy!” He drew a deep breath, embraced his son. “Addie,” he said, “you’ve grown bigger than ever. How broad you’re getting! You’re quite a big chap, Addie; almost too big for your father to kiss and take on his knee.”
“No, Daddy; I’m your own boy.”
He sat down on Van der Welcke’s knees, flung his arms about his father’s neck, laid his soft, childish face against his father’s close-shaven cheek.
“My little chap!”
Van der Welcke pressed the boy to him, felt calmer now, with that soft cheek against his.
“What do you start quarrelling at once for?”
“It’s Mamma.”
“And you answer her. Mamma’s nerves are all on edge. Then don’t answer her.”
“What are Mamma’s people like?”
“I think they’re rather nice. Granny is very kind; and so are Aunt Bertha and Uncle Gerrit and ​Aunt Adeline. Mamma is very glad to see them all again. Are you glad to be in Holland and to be seeing Grandpapa and Grandmamma soon?”
“Yes, my boy.”
“Then let us arrange when we shall go to Driebergen. Not to-morrow, for then you and Mamma are going to Uncle and Aunt van Saetzema’s. Thursday, I promised to go to Uncle Gerrit’s; but I can see the children any day. So let us go down on Thursday. And then to-morrow you can begin to look for a house.”
“Very well, my boy, that will do.”
“Shall I tell Mamma it’s settled?”
“Yes.” He clasped the child to him. “My Addie, my boy, my darling, my darling!”
“Silly old Father!”
He remained on Van der Welcke’s knee, cheek to cheek. Outside, in the Voorhout, the rain pelted on the bare March trees; and grey mists loomed out of the distance, pale and shapeless, while the damp evening fell. . . .