Old People and the Things that Pass/Chapter XXIV
CHAPTER XXIV[edit]
THEY arrived in the evening, on the day after the funeral, Lot and Elly, tired from the journey and out of harmony amid their actual sorrow. Aunt Adèle—they were to stay in the Mauritskade—did not notice it at once; for she, after bearing up for the last two days, had thrown herself sobbing in Elly's arms, sobbing as Elly had never seen her; and, when the sobs gave themselves free scope, her nerves gave out and she fell in a faint.
"The mistress has had such a busy, upsetting time," said Door; and Keetje confirmed it; and they and Elly brought Aunt Adèle round.
"I'm better, dear, it's nothing. Come, let's go to the dining-room. I expect you two will be glad of something to eat."
She was still sobbing, overwrought, but she steadied herself with an effort. When they were seated at dinner, she noticed Lot's and Elly's lack of harmony.
"Was Grandpapa buried yesterday?" asked Elly.
"Yes, dear. Dr. Thielens dared not wait any longer."
"Then it was really superfluous for us to come home," said Lot, irritably.
His lips trembled and there was a set hardness in his usually gentle, pink-and-white face.
"We telegraphed to you to come," said Aunt Adèle, still crying, softly, "because Elly will have to go into business-matters at once ..."
"Perhaps I might have come home by myself," said Elly, "for these matters of business...."
"Steyn is the executor," said Aunt Adèle, gently, "and he thought ..."
"Steyn?" asked Elly. "Why not Lot?"
"The old man had settled it so, dear.... He's the husband of Mamma ... who comes into money too ... with you ..."
"Mamma?" asked Lot.
"Yes," said Aunt Adèle, a little embarrassed.
They understood and asked no more questions, but it was obvious that they were out of harmony; their features looked both tired and hard.
"Mamma is coming this evening to see you," said Aunt Adèle.
Elly shook her head:
"I'm dead-tired," she said. "I can't see Mamma this evening. I'm going up to bed, Auntie."
"I'll see Mamma," said Lot.
Elly rose quickly and went upstairs. Aunt Adèle followed her; and Lot went to another room to change his things. On the stairs, Elly began to cry:
"Poor old Grandpapa!" she sobbed; and her voice broke.
They reached the bedroom. Aunt Adèle helped her undress.
"Are you so tired, dear?"
Elly nodded.
"Dear, is anything the matter? You've something so hard about your face, something I've never seen there before.... Tell me, dear, you are happy, aren't you?"
Elly gave a vague smile:
"Not quite as happy perhaps as I expected, Auntie.... But, if I'm not, it's my own fault."
Aunt Adèle asked nothing more. She thought of the elated letters which had always given the old man such pleasant moments and reflected how deceptive letters could be.
Elly undressed and got into bed.
"I'll leave you to yourself, dear...."
But Elly took her hand, with a sudden tenderness for the woman who had been a mother to her:
"Stay a little longer, Auntie ... until Mamma comes."
"Dear," said Aunt Adèle, feeling her way, "you're not put out, are you, because Mamma inherits her share too. She's his daughter, you know...."
"Yes, Auntie, I know that. No, Auntie, really I'm not put out at that. I'm only tired, very tired ... because everything that we set ourselves to do ... seems useless...."
"Darling," said Aunt Adèle, only half hearing, "I also ... am tired, I am worn out. Oh, I wish I dared tell you!..."
"What?"
"No, dear, no, I daren't."
"But what is it?"
"No, dear, I daren't. Not yet, not yet, perhaps later.... Hark, there's the bell: that must be Mamma.... Yes, I hear Steyn's voice too.... I'd better go downstairs, dear...."
She left Elly, but was so much upset that downstairs she once more burst into tears....
"Elly is so tired," she said to Ottilie, "she's gone to bed: I should leave her alone to-day, if I were you...."
But she herself was quite unhinged. She felt that the terrible secret which she alone knew—so she thought—weighed too heavily on her simple soul, that she was being crushed by it, that she must tell it, that she must share it with another. And she said:
"Steyn, Steyn.... While Lot is talking to his mother, don't you know, I'd like to speak to you ... if I may...."
"Certainly," said Steyn.
They left the room.
"Upstairs?" asked Steyn.
"Yes," said Aunt Adèle, "in the old gentleman's room."
She took him there: it was cold, but she lit the gas.
"Steyn," she said, "I'm sorry for what I've done. I tidied up those papers a bit, there was such a litter. And on the ground was a ... a letter, a torn letter: the last one ... which the old gentleman meant to tear up.... I don't know how it happened, Steyn ... but, without intending to or knowing it, I ... I read that letter. ... I would give all the money in the world not to have done it. I can't keep it to myself, all to myself. It's driving me crazy ... and slowly making me frightened ... and nervous.... See, here's the letter. I don't know if I'm doing right. Perhaps I'd have done better just to tear the letter up.... After all, that was the old man's wish...."
She gave him the four pieces.
"But then it will be best," said Steyn, "for me to tear up the letter ... and not read it...."
And he made a movement as though to tear the letter. But she stopped him:
"And leave me ... to carry about with me ... all by myself ... something that I can't speak of! No, no, read it, in Heaven's name ... for my sake, Steyn ... to share it with me...., Read it...."
Steyn read the letter.
Silence filled the room: a cold, lonely, wintry, silence, with not a sound but that of the flaring gas. From the faded characters of the frayed, yellow letter, torn in part, rose hatred, passion, mad jubilation, mad agony of love and remorse for a night of blood, an Indian mountain night, clattering with torrents of rain. With all of that these two had nothing to do; they were foreign to it; and yet the Thing that was passing brushed against their bodies, their souls, their lives. It made them start, reflect, look each other shudderingly in the eyes, strangers though they were to the Thing that was passing....
"It is terrible," said Steyn. "And no one knows it? ..."
"No," said Aunt Adèle, "no one knows it except you and me...."
But Steyn was not satisfied:
"We ought not to have read that letter," he said.
"I don't know how I came to do it," said Aunt Adèle. "Something impelled me to, I don't know what. I'm not naturally inquisitive. I had the pieces in my hand to tear them up still smaller. I tore the two pieces into four...."
Mechanically, Steyn tore the four pieces into eight.
"What are you doing?" asked Aunt Adèle.
"Destroying the letter," said Steyn.
"Wouldn't you let Lot...?"
"No, no," said Steyn, "what does Lot want with it? There!..."
He tore up the letter and dropped the pieces, very small, into the paper-basket.
Before his eyes shimmered pale-red the bygone passions that were strange to him; they loomed up before him; and yet he saw the room, wintry-cold and silently abandoned by the old man, with not a sound in it save the flaring gas.
"Yes," said Aunt Adèle, "perhaps it's better that no one should know ... except ourselves. ... Oh, Steyn, it has relieved me ... that you should know, that you should know! ... Oh, how dreadful life is, for such things to happen!"
She wrung her hands, shook her head from side to side.
"Come," said Steyn; and his great frame shuddered. "Come, let's go...."
Aunt Adèle, trembling, turned out the gas.
They went downstairs.
The dark room remained wintry and silently abandoned.
The letter lay in the basket, torn up very small.