"Not even that."

"Not even that," she repeated, as though hypnotized.

"No, there is nothing left ... for us...."

The door opened suddenly: they started.

"Mamma, are you there?"

It was Addie.

"Yes, my boy...."

"I can't see you. It is quite dark."

"And here is Mr. Brauws."

"I can see nothing and n.o.body. May I light one of the lamps?"

"Yes, do."

He bustled through the room, hunted for matches, lit a lamp in the corner:

"That's it. Now at least I can see you."

He came nearer: a young, handsome, bright boy, with his good-looking, healthy face and his serious, blue eyes; broad and strong, shedding a note of joy in the melancholy room, which lit up softly with the glow of its one lamp, behind Constance. She smiled at him, drew him down beside her, put her arms round him while he kissed her:

"He is left!" she said, softly, with a glance at Brauws, referring to the last words which he had spoken.

He understood:

"Yes," he answered--and his gloom seemed suddenly to brighten into a sort of rueful gladness, a yearning hope that all was not yet lost, that his dreams might be realized not by myself, but by another, by Addie--and he repeated her own, radiant words, "Yes, yes, he is left!"

The boy did not understand, looked at them both by turns and smiled enquiringly, receiving only their smiles in answer....

CHAPTER XX

For a long time, Constance had not been to Mamma van Lowe's Sunday-evenings; and at first Mamma had not insisted. Now, however, one afternoon, she said, gently:

"Are you never coming again on a Sunday, Constance?"

She saw that her mother had suddenly become very nervous and she was sorry that she had not made an effort and overcome her reluctance to attend the family-gatherings after that terrible evening.

"Yes, Mamma," she said, without hesitation, "I will come. This is Sat.u.r.day: I will come to-morrow."

The old woman leant back wearily in her chair, nodded her head up and down, as though she knew all sorts of sad things:

"It is so sad ... about Van Naghel," she said. "Bertha is going through a lot of trouble."

It seemed as if Mamma wished to talk about it; but Constance, with an affected indifference to her relations' affairs, asked no questions.

The next evening, Constance and Addie were ready to start for the Alexanderstraat.

"Aren't you coming?" she asked Van der Welcke.

He hesitated. He would rather not go, feeling unfriendly towards the whole family, but he would have liked to see Marianne. Still he said:

"No, I think not."

He was afraid that his refusal would cause a scene; but latterly, even though anger welled up inside her, she had shown a forbearance which surprised him; and she merely said:

"Mamma would like us all to come again."

He was really fond of the old lady: she had always been kind to him.

"Who will be there?" he asked.

"Why, all of them!" she said. "As usual."

"Surely not Bertha ... and her children...?"

"I think so," she said, gently, feeling that he was sounding her to see if Marianne would be there. "Why shouldn't they go, though they are in mourning? It's not a party: there will be no one but the family."

"Perhaps I'll come on later," he said, still hesitating.

She did not insist, went off on foot with Addie. It was curious, but now, whenever she went to her mother's house, nice though her mother always was to her, she felt as if she were going there as a stranger, not as a daughter. It was because of the others that she felt like a stranger, because of Bertha, Adolphine, Karel, Cateau and Dorine. Gerrit and Paul were the only ones whom she still looked upon as brothers; and she was very fond of Adeline.

This evening again, as she entered the room, she felt like that, like a stranger. The old aunts were sitting in their usual places, doing their crochet-work mechanically. Mamma, as Constance knew, had had an angry scene with the two old things, to explain to them that they mustn't talk scandal and, above all, that they mustn't do so out loud, a scene which had thoroughly upset Mamma herself and which the old aunts had not even seemed to understand, for they merely nodded a vague consent, nodded yes, yes, no doubt Marie was right. Yet Constance suspected that Auntie Rine had understood at least something of it, for she was now looking at Constance askance, with a frightened look. Constance could not bring herself to speak to the old aunts: she walked past them; and Auntie Tine whispered to Auntie Rine:

"There she is again!"

"Who?" screamed Auntie Rine, aloud.

But Auntie Tine dared not whisper anything more, because of their sister Marie, who had flown into such a pa.s.sion; and she pinched Auntie Rine's withered hand, whereupon Auntie Rine glared at her angrily. Then they cackled together for a moment, bad-temperedly. The three young Saetzemas, playing their cards in a corner of the conservatory, sat bursting with laughter at the bickering of the two old aunts.

Constance sat down quietly by Mamma. And she felt, now that Addie spoke to Marietje--Adolphine's Marietje--but did not go to the boys in the conservatory, that there was no harmony among them all and that they only met for the sake of Mamma, of Grandmamma. Poor Mamma! And yet she did not seem to notice it, was glad that the children and grandchildren came to her Sundays, to her "family-group."

Adolphine and Cateau sat talking in a corner; and Constance caught what they said:

"So Ber-tha is not ... keep-ing on the house?"

"I should think not, indeed! They have nothing but debts."

"Is it their bro-ther-in-law who is see-ing to things and ad-min-istering the es-tate?"