"I am so glad to have my child back with me," said Mrs. van Lowe.
There was very much to be said between them, but they spoke only simple words, doubtless feeling all the unuttered rest. Their thoughts went back, many years back: how hostile they had then felt towards each other's children, who had disgraced each other and their two families; if they had met each other then by chance, as now, they could not possibly have looked at each other gently, as now.... But the years had toned down the pain and the cruelty; and now it was possible and even agreeable for these two, mother and mother, to press each other's hands and to exchange glances that asked for forgiveness.
"I also came to wish Henri many happy returns. He is sure to be back with Addie for lunch," said Mrs. van Lowe.
But Constance returned; and now, in her own house, in her own drawing-room, she felt shy and quite different from what she felt when, offended and slighted, she had stood before Henri's parents, at Driebergen, on that first and only visit. It was as though the combined presence of those two mothers made her like to a child that had done wrong. She felt as she had never felt before, felt small and childlike; and, when, as was often her habit, she went to sit close by Mrs. van Lowe, she took her mother's hand and laid her head upon her mother's breast and no longer controlled herself, but wept.
And Mrs. van Lowe again looked at Henri's mother, as though she wished to say:
"If it can be, do not condemn my child too severely, even as I do not judge Henri too severely."
And, because there now flowed through her soul a gentle happiness that had its source in contentment, Constance felt the poignancy of that moment of Henri's home-coming when, tired after his ride, he walked in with Addie and found his mother there, his mother, who never left her house, sitting there in his house, between Constance and Mrs. van Lowe....
Had some bond really been established at last, after long years? Had those who could find no point of union that other morning, at Driebergen, at last come closer? Was there really some sort of tie? And was it just that it took a very long time—years and years and then months after that—for things to become more or less easy and pleasant?... In this mood, Constance' voice instinctively had a softer note; and she felt at the same time a child to those two mothers and very old to herself, very old in this lulling of passion and anger and nerves. Would it be like this with her now, would her life just go on in a succession of more and more placid years, would she just live for her son? She asked herself this, deep down in her soul, almost unconsciously; and a shadowy melancholy floated over her, because of those two old mothers, because of Henri, because of herself. Was that how old age approached, like this, with these gentler years? She was forty-two, she was not old, but, still, was old age approaching in this way, so softly? And, while she asked herself this, in a passive, melancholy mood, devoid of anger and passion, there hovered about her a vague feeling that she would now grow old and that she had never lived.... Never lived.... Never lived.... It hovered, that shadowy discontent, in the midst of her gentle content.... Never lived.... She did not know why, but she thought for just one moment—a ghost of a thought—of Gerrit, of Buitenzorg, how they two, the little brother and sister, used to play in the river.... It was as if it had not been she, that little girl with the red flowers, as if it had been another little girl.... Never lived.... But what ought she to have done to feel that she had lived, now that she was growing old? Vanity, balls, her marriage, Rome, her love-affair, the scandal: was that living? Or was it all a mistake, mistake upon mistake, fuss and excitement about nothing?... Now, now it was over. Existence was becoming placid, less bitter, more kindly; but, still, she felt it, she had never lived....
But she did not know what she ought to have done to make her now feel that she had lived; and she let the strange feeling be lulled to rest in the soft melancholy that filled her, because of this gentle kindliness that had come now, with the years, the grey haze of years. She sighed the strange thought away and she thought that it had to happen and that it could not have been otherwise and that even so she would never have known anything different.... Never lived.... But, then, had hundreds of men and women around her ever lived?... And she now shook herself free of this strange mood; and, laughing softly, happy in spite of her melancholy, she saw that the table was laid and asked the two mothers to come in to lunch.
Was it the grey haze of years then?... Was she growing old and were things becoming easier and more pleasant?... And had she never lived?...