The ill-feeling which she had cherished for months past was gone. None of it remained in her soul, in her heart, as though she had passed out of the depths of that atmosphere to purer heights of understanding and feeling. Only for a moment did she still remember that evening when she herself, in this same room, had implored Bertha and Van Naghel to help her “rehabilitate” herself in the eyes of their friends and of the Hague. It seemed long ago, years ago. She could hardly understand herself: that she could have begged so earnestly for something that was so small, of such little importance to her soul, to the world. She could not have done it now.... She did not understand how she could so long have cherished a grudge against Van Naghel, against Bertha ... because they did not ask her to their official dinners, when the invitation would have given her the rehabilitation which she sought. At the present moment, she did not even desire that rehabilitation, did not care about it, treated it as something that had become of no value: an idea which had withered and shrivelled within her and which blew away like a dead leaf to far-off spacious skies.... Addie? He did not need his mother’s rehabilitation in the eyes of the Hague. The boy would make his own way in life.... Oh, how small she had been, to beg for it; to go on bearing a grudge, months on end, for something so little, so infinitesimal ... so absolutely non-existent!... She felt that something had grown up inside her and was looking down upon all that earlier business.... No, there was no bitterness left. She felt a deep pity and a sisterly affection for this poor, old woman, Bertha, who now lay feebly and impotently in her arms, begging ... for what? She collected her thoughts: what could she do, how could she help Bertha? Her thoughts crowded upon one another rapidly; she thought vaguely of Van der Welcke, of Addie: what could they do, how could they help Bertha, how get upon the track of Emilie and Henri? And in the end she could think of nothing to say but:
“Yes, Bertha, the best thing will be to pretend that Emilie has gone for a trip with her brother. We will put it like that, if necessary. What does Van Raven want to do?”
“He won’t consent to a divorce.... And it would be an awful thing, you know.... Oh, Constance, they have not been married ten months!”
A weariness suddenly came over her, like the abrupt extinction of all the little mundane interests that had always meant so much to her.
“But,” she murmured, “if he beats her ... perhaps it is better that they should be divorced.... I don’t know.... We are going to Baarn: there is a small villa to let there. I should prefer to take it at once and go down there with Louise and Marianne.... Karel gives me a lot of trouble: he doesn’t behave well, no, he doesn’t behave well. And he is still so young. Perhaps he will go to live with Adolph, his guardian, who will be very strict with him. I don’t know what to do, I can do nothing.... I used to do everything with Van Naghel, he and I together. He was really good and kind. We were always thinking of the children, both of us. He was tired ... of being in the Cabinet; but he went on, for the children’s sake....”
Her unconscious simplicity, in implying that Van Naghel was in the Cabinet for the sake of his children and not of his country, seemed to strike Constance for the first time: she almost smiled, held Bertha closer to her.
“He couldn’t very well resign ... and he didn’t want to,” Bertha continued, feebly. “And now I don’t know what to do. I feel so very much alone; and yet I was once a capable woman, wasn’t I, Constance? Now I no longer feel capable. Perhaps that life was too crowded. And, Constance, what was the use of it all? My children, our children, for whom we lived, are none of them happy. I have grown weary and old ... for nothing. I wish that we were at Baarn now. I want to live there quietly, with the two girls. Louise is nice, so is Marianne. They neither of them want to go about any more. They’re not happy, no, they are not happy. Oh, my poor, poor children!... You must never tell Mamma, Constance. Mamma doesn’t know: dear Mamma! There is no need for her to know, poor dear! Better leave her under the impression that all is well with us, even though Van Naghel is gone....”
And she sobbed at the thought that she was alone. Then, suddenly, she drew herself up a little, made Constance take a chair, sat down beside her and asked, peering anxiously through her tears into Constance’ face:
“Constance, tell me ... Marianne?”
“Yes, Bertha?”