were both silent, their eyes looking into each other's eyes, chary of words. And quietly for a while they sat opposite each other, each at a window of the narrow drawing-room. The old, old woman sat in a twilight of crimson-rep curtains and cream-coloured lace-and-canvas blinds, in addition to a crimson-plush valance, which kept out the draught and hung with a bend along the window-frame. She had only moved just to raise her thin hand, in its black mitten, for Takma to press. Now they both sat as though waiting for something and yet pleased to be waiting together. … The old lady was ninety-seven and she knew that what she was waiting for must come before her hundredth year had dawned. … In the twilight of that curtained corner, against the sombre wall-paper, her face seemed almost like a piece of white porcelain, with wrinkles for the crackle, in that shadow into which she still withdrew, continuing a former prudent habit of not showing too much of her impaired complexion; and her wig was glossy-black, surmounted with the little black-lace cap; the loose black dress fell in easy, thin lines around her almost brittle, lean figure, but hid her so entirely in those never-varying folds of supple cashmere that she could never be really seen or known, but only suggested in that dark drapery. Besides the face, nothing else seemed alive but the frail fingers trembling in her lap, like so many tapering, luminous wands in their black mittens; the wrists were encircled in close-fitting woollen cuffs. She sat upright on her high-backed chair, as on a throne, supported by a stiff, hard cushion; another cushion was under her feet, which she never showed, as they were slightly deformed by gout. Beside her, on a little table, was some crochet-work, untouched for years, and the newspapers, which were read to her by a companion, an elderly lady who withdrew as soon as Mr. Takma arrived. The room was neat and simple, with a few framed photographs here and there as the only ornament amid the highly-polished, black, shiny furniture, the crimson sofa and chairs, with a few pieces of china gleaming in a glass cabinet. The closed folding-doors led to the bedroom: these were the only two rooms inhabited by the old woman, who took her light meal in her chair.
Golden-sunny was the late summer day; and the wind blew gaily, in a whirl of early yellow leaves, through the garden of the Sofialaan.
"A nice view, that," said Mrs. Dercksz, as she had said so often before, with her mittened hand just hinting at an angular pointing gesture.
The voice, long cracked, sounded softer than pure Dutch and was mellower, with its creole accent; and, now that she looked out of the window, the eyes also took on an eastern softness in the porcelain features and became darker. She did not clearly distinguish things outside; but yet the knowledge that there were flowers and trees over the way was dear to her dim eyes.
"Fine asters in the garden opposite," said Takma.
"Yes," Mrs. Dercksz assented, unable to see them, but now knowing about the asters.
She understood him quite well; her general deafness she concealed by never asking what was said and by replying with a smile of her thin, closed lips or a movement of her head.
After a pause, as each sat looking out of his own window, she said:
"I saw Ottilie yesterday."
The old gentleman felt bewildered for a moment:
"Ottilie?" he asked.
"Lietje … my daughter. … "
"Oh, yes! … You saw Lietje yesterday. … I thought you were speaking of yourself."
"She was crying."
"Why?"
"Because Lot is going to be married."
"She'll be very lonely, poor Lietje; yet Steyn is a decent fellow. … It's a pity. … I like Steyn. … "
"We are all of us lonely," said Mrs. Dercksz; and the cracked voice sounded sad, as though she were regretting a past full of vanished shades.
"Not all of us, Ottilie," said Takma. "You and I have each other. We have always had each other. … Our child, when Lot is married, will have no one, not even her own husband."
"Ssh!" said the old woman; and the straight, lean figure gave a shiver of terror in the twilight.
"There's no one here; we can speak at our ease."
"No, there's no one. … "
"Did you think there was some one?"
"No, not now. … Sometimes … "
"Yes?"
"Sometimes … you know … I think there is."
"There's no one."
"No, there's no one."
"Why are you afraid?"
"Afraid? Am I afraid? What should I be afraid of? I am too old … much too old … to be afraid now. … Even though he may stand over there."
"Ottilie!"
"Ssh!"
"There's no one."
"No."
"Have you … have you seen him lately?"
"No. … No. … Not for months, perhaps not … for years, for years. … But I did see him for many, many years. … You never saw him?"
"No."
"But … you used to hear him? … "
"Yes, I … I used to hear him. … My hearing was very good and always keen. … It was hallucinations. … I often heard his voice. … Don't let us talk about it. … We are both so old, so old, Ottilie. … He must have forgiven us by now. Else we should never have grown so old. Our life has passed peacefully for years: long, long, old years; nothing has ever disturbed us: he must have forgiven us. … Now we are both standing on the brink of our graves."
"Yes, it will soon come. I feel it."
But Takma brought his geniality into play:
"You, Ottilie? You'll live to be a hundred!"
His voice made an effort at bluff braggadocio and then broke into a shrill high note.
"I shall never see a hundred," said the old woman. "No. I shall die this winter."
"This winter?"
"Yes. I foresee it. I am waiting. But I am frightened."
"Of death?"
"Not of death. But … of him!"
"Do you believe … that you will see him again?"
"Yes. I believe in God, in the communion of souls. In a life hereafter. In atonement."
"I don't believe in an atonement hereafter, because we have both of us suffered so much in our lives, Ottilie!"
The old man's tone was almost one of entreaty.
"But there has been no punishment," said she.
"Our
