"Daddy, I've been to Amsterdam."

"For Alex. Well, is that settled ... about the Merchants' School?"

"Yes, he can go up for his examination. But afterwards...."

"Well?"

"I went to Haarlem. Near Haarlem."

"What took you there?"

"Someone sent for me."

"A patient?"

"A dying man."

"Who?"

Suddenly, from the look in Addie's face, Van der Welcke understood. He went very pale, rose from his chair and stared in consternation into his son's sad eyes:

"Addie!" he exclaimed, in a hoa.r.s.e voice. "Addie, tell me what you mean!

I had no idea ... that you knew anyone near Haarlem! I didn't know ...

that you had a patient there!"

He seemed to be trying to deceive himself with his own words, for he already understood. And Addie knew by his father's eyes and his father's voice that he understood; and, speaking slowly, in a gentle voice, Addie explained, as though the name had already been mentioned between them:

"Six days ago ... I received a letter ... written in his own hand, a clear, firm hand.... The letter was quite short: here it is."

He felt for his pocket-book, took out the letter and handed it to his father. Van der Welcke read:

"_Dear Sir_,

"Though I have not the pleasure of your personal acquaintance, I should consider it a great privilege if I might see you and speak to you here at an early date. I hope that you will not refuse the request of a very old man, whose days are drawing to an end.

"Yours sincerely,

"_De Staffelaer_."

Addie rose, for his father was shaking all over; the letter was fluttering in his fingers.

"Daddy, pull yourself together."

"Addie, Addie, tell me, _did_ you see him?"

"Yes, I saw him. I was with him twice."

"And ... and is he dying?"

"He's dead. He died this morning."

"He's dead?"

"Yes, Daddy, he's dead."

"Did you ... did you speak to him?"

"Yes ... I spoke to him. He was very clear in his head: a clear-headed old man, for all his ninety-two years. When I arrived, he pressed my hand very kindly and nicely, made me sit beside his chair. He was sitting up, in his chair. That's how he died, in his chair, pa.s.sing away very peacefully. He told me that he had wanted to see me ... because I was the son ... of my mother.... He asked after Mamma and made me describe how you two had lived ... at Brussels. I told him about my childhood. I told him of my later life. He took a strange interest in everything ... and then ... then he asked after you, how you had been, how you were ... asked if I was attached to my parents ... asked after my prospects ... asked after my aims in life.... I was afraid of tiring him and tried to get up, but he put out his hand and made me sit down again: 'Go on, go on telling me things,' he said. I told him about the Hague, told him how we were now living at Driebergen. He knew that Uncle Gerrit's children were here. He seemed to have heard about us.... When I went away, he said, 'Doctor, may the old man give you something?' And he handed me three thousand guilders: 'You must have patients, Doctor, who can't afford things,' he said. 'You won't refuse it, will you?' I thought it right to accept the money. It was an obvious pleasure to him to give it me.... Next day--that was this morning, when I went again--he was much less lucid. He just mentioned Mamma; and, when he spoke of her, I could see that he imagined that she was still quite young. Still he understood that I was her son.... Then he gave me his hand and said, 'I am glad, Doctor, to have seen you.... Give my regards to your mother ...

the old man's regards ... and to your father too.' Then I went away; and, when I called again in an hour to enquire, the butler told me ...

that he was dead...."

Van der Welcke sat in his chair, motionless and bent, with his hands hanging between his knees. He stared in front of him and did not speak.

The past, the times of bygone days rose tempestuously before his eyes.

It was as though that which had once existed never perished, as though nothing could ever change in what had once begun.... Life slid on unbrokenly.... His eyes saw Rome, an old palace, a lofty room ...

Constance fleeing down a back stair, himself standing like a thief in the presence of the old man ... the good old man, who had been like a father to him.... Now ... now the old man was dead.... And Addie had been at his death-bed! And Van der Welcke's son was bringing the dying man's message, his last message, his forgiveness!...

Van der Welcke stared and continued to stare, motionless; and a sob welled up in his breast. His eyes, which were like a child's with their ever youthful glance, filled with great tears. Nevertheless, he controlled himself, remained calm; and all that he said, quite calmly, was:

"Addie, does Mamma.... know?"

"No, Daddy.... I wanted to tell you first ... and to bring you ... the old man's message and...."

"Yes?"

"His forgiveness...."

Van der Welcke's head drooped lower still; and the great tears fell to the floor. Addie now rose and went up to his father:

"Daddy...."

"My boy ... my boy!"

"The old man sent you this message: 'Tell your father ... that I forgive him ... and tell your mother so ... too....'"

Addie flung his arm round his father's neck; and Van der Welcke now sobbed on his son's breast. He could restrain himself no longer. He gave one great, loud sob, clutching hold of his own son, like a child.... Had it not always been like that, the child the consoler of his father? The son now his mother's consoler?

The emotion lasted but a moment, because of the calmness of older years; but it was a moment full as the whole soul and the whole life of a small being. The older man felt all his soul, saw all his small life. Was _that_ coming for him: forgiveness? Was it coming to him through his son? Because of his son, perhaps ... mysteriously, for some mysterious law and mystic reason?... He felt it ... as an enlightening surprise ...

though he merely said, after a pause:

"I'm glad, Addie ... that you went. And now you must tell ... Mamma."

"I'll tell her this very evening, Father."

"This evening?"

"Yes, I can't wait any longer. Those last words ... are lying like a weight ... on my heart: I must hand them on...."

"To Mamma also...."