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[9] A diminutive of kabaai, a native jacket with sleeves.
CHAPTER VIII
Two days later, Addie went to meet his father at the station.
"Daddy, Daddy!" he shouted, as Van der Welcke stepped from the train.
They embraced; Van der Welcke was much moved, because it was fifteen years since he had been in Holland. Addie helped Papa with his luggage, like a man; and they drove away in a cab.
"My boy, it's ten days since I saw you!"
"What kept you so long, Daddy?"
"Everything's settled now."
"And are we going to hunt for a house?"
"Yes."
He looked at his child with a laugh of delight, threw his arm over Addie's shoulder, drew him to him, full of a strange, oppressive sadness and content, because he was back, in Holland.
They pulled up at the hotel. Constance was waiting for them in her room.
"How are you, Constance?"
"How are you, Henri?"
"I've done everything."
"That's good. Your room is through here."
"Capital."
He rang, ordered coffee.
Her face at once became stiff and drawn. Addie poured out the coffee:
"Here you are, Dad."
"Thank you, my boy. And how do you like your Dutch country, my lad? How do you like all the little cousins?"
"Oh, I haven't seen much of them yet, but I'm going to Uncle Gerrit and Aunt Adeline's on Thursday."
"How many children have they?"
"Seven."
"By Jove! Is Mamma well, Constance?"
"Yes, very well."
"I've ... I've had a letter from Papa," he stammered. "They want us to come and see them soon at Driebergen...."
He was at last bringing her the long-expected reconciliation. She looked at him without a word.
"Here's the letter!" he said, handing it to her.
She read the letter. It was couched in the groping words of an old and old-fas.h.i.+oned man, who wrote seldom; an attempt at forgiving, at forgetting, at welcoming: laboured, but not insincere. The letter ended by saying that Henri's parents hoped soon to see him and Constance and Addie at Driebergen.
Her heart beat:
"So they are condescending to take me into favour!" she thought, bitterly. "Why only now? Why only now? My boy is thirteen; and they have never asked to see their only grandson. They are hard people! Why only now? I don't like them...."
But all she said was:
"It is very kind of your parents."
She had learnt that in Rome, to say one thing and mean another.
"And when do you want to go to Driebergen?" she asked.
"To-morrow."
"We were to have gone to tea, after dinner, at the Van Saetzemas': Adolphine and her husband."
"I am longing to see my father and mother."
"Very well; offend my family for the sake of yours and write and refuse the Van Saetzemas."
"There is no question of offending anybody. I am longing to see my parents; and we must show them that we appreciate their letter."
"Appreciate?" she asked, bitterly. "What am I to appreciate? That it took them thirteen years to say they would like to see their grandchild?"
"Your family weren't pining to see you either, all those years."
"That's not true. Mamma came to see us at Brussels."
He laughed, scornfully:
"In thirteen years, twice, for two days each time!"
She stamped her foot:
"Mamma is an old woman; she never travels."
