# The Twilight of the Souls/Chapter XXII

Next morning, in a mist, a drizzly mist, the relations met at the railway-station: Otto van Naghel; Karel; Van Saetzema; Uncle Ruyvenaer just back from India; Paul; Addie. They moved about, in the waiting-room, on the platform, with gloomy faces and upturned coat-collars, waiting for the train, which was late, which would not arrive for another quarter of an hour or twenty minutes.
"Does Grandmamma know about it yet?" Uncle Ruyvenaer asked Addie.
"No, Uncle. No one liked to tell her. I believe the uncles and aunts would really prefer to keep it from her altogether."
"That's impossible."
"I think it would be very difficult, Uncle. Grandmamma might hear it from an outsider. . . . She has friends who call to see her."
"Is Emilie coming?"
"Yes, Uncle. She'll stay with us."
"Is Uncle Gerrit very ill?"
"Yes, Uncle, very ill indeed."
"Does Grandmamma know he's ill?"
"No."
​"The children are now all out of the house, aren't they? We've got Alex and Guy with us."
"And we have Adèletje, Gerdy and Constance. The three little ones are at Otto's: Louise came and fetched them. Marietje is with Aunt Adolphine."
"Has Aunt Adeline any one to help her?"
"There are two male nurses, Uncle. Uncle Gerrit is very violent in his delirium."
"Oughtn't the train to be here soon?"
"It's overdue now."
"It's a very sad affair. And how people will talk! Yes, how people will talk! Lord, Lord, how they're going to talk!"
"Here comes the train, Uncle."
The train steamed slowly into the station, like a grey ghost of a train through the ghostly, drizzling mist; and the waiting relations saw Constance, Van der Welcke and Emilie get out, Emilie leaning heavily upon Constance. Then came the dreary, dreary task of taking possession of the coffin. The hearse was waiting outside. And it all went as in a dream, in the ghostly, drizzling mist. . . .
"How people will talk!" Uncle Ruyvenaer whispered to Karel and Van Saetzema, with whom he was sitting in the second coach.
"Yes, it's a damned rotten business."
"It's not over-respectable . . ."
"Having a nephew who becomes a clown . . ."
​"And then, it seems, goes and gets murdered in Paris . . ."
"For a girl?"
"Yes . . . some obscure story about a girl . . . in Paris."
"I thought he had committed suicide?"
"We really don't know anything. Constance wrote no particulars."
"In any case, it's not over-respectable."
"I call it a damned rotten business."
"Constance has gone on ahead with Emilie."
"Yes. What a sight Emilie looked!"
"Very odd, that sister and brother."
"Yes, it was because of him that she left her husband. And now—no doubt through his own imprudence—stabbed, I suppose . . . ?"
"Unless he committed suicide."
"Van Raven, after all, was a decent fellow."
"Van Raven? I believe you! Van Raven was a very decent fellow."
"Those young Van Naghels never had a sensible bringing-up. . . ."
"No, I bring my boys up very differently."
"Ah, but then they're fine boys!"
"Is Van der Welcke in the first coach?"
"Yes, with Otto, Paul and Addie."
"Then why did they put us in the second coach?"
"Perhaps it was a mistake."
​"I daresay, but it's not the thing. Uncle ought to be in the first coach."
"Yes; and you too, Karel."
"Yes; and you too, Saetzema, of course."
"Well . . . I daresay it's a mistake. The thing wasn't arranged. . . ."
"No; but when Van der Welcke has to arrange a thing . . . !"
"It was that young bounder who arranged things."
"Addie?"
"Of course."
"Oh, so that young bounder arranged things!"
"Look here, what are we to say to Mamma?"
"Well, I don't intend to mention it. For that matter, I know nothing."
"Nor I. The women had better do it."
"But they're too much upset."
"The best thing will be not to say anything."
"Yes, it's best not to say anything to Mamma."
"Lord, what a day! . . . And to have to ride for an hour in this weather at a foot's pace . . . behind the body of an undergraduate who has been sent down from Leiden and must needs run away to Paris with his sister and become a circus-clown . . ."
"And go getting murdered into the bargain! But we mustn't tell anybody that. No, no, we won't speak about it. We'll merely say that he was ​taken ill. After all, it's a rotten incident . . . for us."
"Yes, it's very rotten for us."
"Lord, Lord, how people will jabber!"
"Of course they will."
"Of course they will."
"If things con-tin-ue like this . . . I shall leave the Hague," said Karel. "Ca-teau said so too."
He copied his wife's voice: he always copied her voice, unconsciously, when he talked about her.
"Are we nearly there?"
"No such luck!"
"Lord, what a day! . . ."
"How people will talk! . . ."
The carriage containing Constance had driven on ahead of the procession. Emilie leant against her, feebly and listlessly, without speaking or hearing. When they approached the Kerkhoflaan, Emilie said:
"Auntie . . . it's just stupid chance. . . ."
"What, dear?"
"Is this life? My life has never been anything but stupid chance! The little pleasure I had . . . and the sorrow . . . was all stupid chance! I am now so miserable; and it's all . . . all stupid chance! . . . Oh, Auntie, I shall never be able to live . . . not now, when Henri's death will always . . . will always haunt me like an accusing ghost! . . . Auntie . . . do other people have so much ​stupid chance in their lives? . . . If I hadn't gone to Paris! . . . If Henri had not . . . oh, I can't say it, I can't say it! Auntie, we shall never know! It's too awful, what happened! I can never tell you . . . what I think!"
"My darling, I suspect it!"
"Oh, it's awful, awful! Uncle suspects it too . . . so they do at the legation. . . . It's awful, awful! . . . He's disappeared: Eduard, I mean. . . . It was a mere accident: we were walking together, Henri and I, when we . . . when we met Eduard. . . . They looked at each other. . . . They hated each other. . . . Then he walked on . . . but we met him again later. . . . Then, in the evening, when I came home . . . and found Henri . . . lying in his blood . . . !"
She flung herself back with a scream.
"Auntie, Auntie, we know nothing! . . . But the suspicion will always be with me! I shall always see it like that! Oh, Auntie, Auntie, help me . . . and keep me with you always, always! . . ."
She closed her eyes in Constance' arms, too weak to face her life, which had changed from fantastic humour into tragedy. . . . The carriage suddenly stopped, in the Kerkhoflaan; Truitje opened the door; Constance made a sign to her to ask no questions. She herself, on the other hand, asked:
"How is Mr. Gerrit doing?"
​"Not at all well, ma'am."
"Where are the children?"
"They're in the dining-room, ma'am, playing: it's easier there for me to keep an eye on them."
Constance opened the door of the dining-room, with her arm round Emilie. She saw Gerdy and Constant; but, just as in the drawing-room at home, they had hidden behind a sofa standing aslant, where they were quietly playing at father and mother, worshipping each other like a little husband and wife, two small birds in a little nest.
"Peek-a-boo!" said Constance, mechanically.
They were quiet at first and then burst into chuckles, crept out, kissed Auntie and Emilie:
"Auntie," asked Gerdy, "is Papa ill?"
"Yes, darling."
"Will Papa get better very soon?"
"Oh, yes, dear!"
"Are we staying with you long?"
"No, not very long, darling."
And Constance did not know why, but she suddenly saw the children staying on; and this vision was mingled with a vague impression of the gloomy house at Driebergen. She thought that her brain must be very tired in her head, that she was sleeping while awake, dreaming as she moved about. Everything before her was confused: that terrible day in Paris; Henri's body; the mystery about the whole affair, with the dark, half-uttered suspicions; the ​formalities; the legation; the journey back: oh, she was dead-tired, dead-tired! . . . Oh, that coffin, that coffin ! . . . And in the middle of it all a letter from Addie: Uncle Gerrit seriously ill; the children ordered out of the house; he was taking Gerdy and Constant and giving them his room: he was sure Mamma would approve. . . . Oh, how dead-tired, how dead-tired she was! . . .
"Auntie," said Constant, "Truitje has been so kind: she made us a lovely rice-pudding. . . ."
"But we'd rather be at home!" said Gerdy.
And the children suddenly began to cry. Constance took them in her arms, pressed them to her:
"You would be just a little in Mamma's way," she said, with a dead voice. "Mamma must look after Papa. . . ."
And she dropped almost fainting into a chair.
"Aunt Constance!" Emilie sobbed. "Aunt Constance, let me . . . let me . . . stay with you! . . . Let me stay with you! . . . Where . . . where could I go?"
She sobbed wildly, huddled on the floor against Constance' knees. The children were also crying. Constance had put one arm round Emilie and held the children in the other. It was very gloomy out of doors. Indoors, life's tragedy lay heavy upon them.