Part 39 (1/2)

”Go, go to-morrow!”

Never had a voice spoken so plainly to her, the old woman, and as it were ordered her to go, to go to-morrow. She was very old, in years, in movement and in feeling; and she never, never travelled. She lived quietly in her house beside the country-road, summer and winter alike; and sometimes she went for a little drive in the neighbourhood: Beyond that she no longer went, for she was gouty and full of aches and pains which bent her withered back. For years and years, she had not travelled, had not sat in the train which, for years, she had heard whistling at the station, sometimes even heard rumbling. And now the mysterious voice so plainly and insistently commanded:

”Go!”

Then she went back to the room, sat down and, this time, was unable to stifle her sigh. She sighed. The old man heard, but did not know how to ask her why she was sighing. For years, for long years, there had been so little said between them. Only now, this spring, when Henri's letter came, they had spoken, but not much. A couple of days after receiving the letter, the old man said:

”I will write to him.”

And that was really the only thing that had been said. But they had not lived so many years in silence, side by side, without learning to hear each other speak though both were silent. They knew, without speaking, what either said, silently in his heart. Only now, though the old man himself was thinking of Henri that night, he did not know what his wife was saying to him, silently, without words, in that one sigh; and this was because he did not read that strange book and never heard the strange voices. Therefore he sought for a word to say and found it very difficult to find a word, but at last he did speak and said, simply:

”What is it?”

He did not look up, went on reading his book as he spoke.

Then the old woman's aching feet fidgeted still more nervously on their stool; the bent shoulders s.h.i.+vered more nervously under their little black shawl; and she began to cry, softly.

”Come, what is it?”

He pretended to go on reading his book, because talking and crying were so difficult, and because it was easier to pretend to go on reading.

The old woman said, because his old voice had spoken gently:

”I should like to go to Henri, to-morrow.”

Now they were both silent; and the old man went on reading; and the old woman, waiting for his answer, ceased crying, ceased moving her feet, her shoulders. And, after a silence, the old man said:

”Take Piet with you, then, to help you.”

She nodded her head; and the tears flowed from her eyes, while she drew her book to her, inwardly pleased that he had said so much and said it so kindly. She sighed once more, this time with relief, and read on. But her eyes did not see the words, because she was thinking that to-morrow she would be going with Piet, the butler, in the train--in which she had not been for years and years--to the Hague, to see Henri.

”Go!” the voice had said. ”Go!” the voice had commanded.

And she was going. It had come at last, come so near that it would be there to-morrow: not that Henri was coming to her, but that she was going to Henri, to kiss him, to forgive him....

And she read on, did not see the strange words which told what happened to people after death, but wept softly, inaudibly, over her book, wept for still contentment and peace, because he had spoken to her and had said:

”Take Piet with you, then, to help you.”

When it was ten o'clock, he closed his book, stood up. And she would so much have liked to ask him if he too would come with her to-morrow, in the train, to Henri, because it was not so difficult and Piet could take the tickets. But she did not ask him, because she knew that it was even more difficult for him than for her to travel and go by train, that train which he also for years had heard whistling and sometimes rumbling. So she did not ask him, because he would certainly refuse. And without a doubt he heard within himself what she hesitated to ask him, for he said, gently:

”I shall not go; but give him many good wishes, from his father.”

Then, stiffly and with difficulty, he bent his tall figure and his ivory forehead, went to her and kissed her on the brow. And she took his gnarled hand and pressed it gently. Then he went upstairs and she rang the bell.

The butler entered.

”Piet,” she said, hesitatingly and shyly, and she blushed before the butler. ”I am going to-morrow to the Hague, to Mr. Henri. It's his birthday. And I should like you to take me there.”

The man looked up in surprise, smiled: