s; and she
had brought up Henri also, long ago, to obey his parents' wishes. And
Henri had obediently given up his life, given up himself, at their
command, to that woman. Which of the two was more to blame, whether he
had been the tempter or she the temptress, they did not know, they did
not wish to know, because all temptation sprang from the evil one; but
Henri was a man; and so the responsibility fell upon him. He being
responsible, they had commanded him to sacrifice himself and thus to
atone for his sin, in the face of God and man. That was how they had
seen it at the time, how they had commanded, how it had come to pass.
But he, the father, had lost his son through that command; and the loss
always rankled....

"Henri and Adriaan alone," the old man repeated.

Now that he was repeating his few words, she knew that his will was
irrevocable. She was sorry for it: the voices which spoke to her now and
then, on nights when the wind blew, had gradually brought her to a
gentler mood, as though they had been soothing music to her listening
soul. Those voices had told her to go to the Hague; and there she had
for the second time seen that woman, the bane of their life as parents,
and met that woman's mother; and it was as though that meeting between
mother and mother had been a gentle balm, as gentle and healing as the
magic music of the voices, a balm that brought about a softer mood, that
caused more to be understood, that caused much to be forgiven, in a
gradual approach towards reconciliation, after so many, many dismal
years of silent rancour and antagonism. In her, the old woman, the
rancour had as it were melted away, since she had read the strange book,
since she had heard the voices on gusty nights, since she had seen that
woman's mother and known her sadness. In the old woman it was a gentle
wish not only for reconciliation, but for some measure of friendship
with that woman, the wife of her son, the mother of her grandchild. But
she felt that there was no trace of any such wish in her husband's
heart; and, because she could only obey, she said nothing and merely
told him wordlessly that she did not think as he thought.

He heard her saying it without words, but he did not give in.

And, when they went to bed, he said:

"I shall write to Henri to-morrow."

He wrote to ask if Henri and Adriaan would come and spend a week at
Driebergen, before Adriaan's holidays were over. Van der Welcke felt in
the labour