A Dear Fellow

The Dilemma of a Gentleman With Two Loyalties and Its Comfortable Though So Sad Solution

MADDY VEGTEL

BARON DE LOE sat down at writing table and wrote the following note to his son:

My dear Nino:—

Your letter arrived yesterday and I am glad to hear you are feeling better. Take good care of yourself! I enclose ten (10) gulden, in case you should want to huy some little thing. The books you asked for will he sent to you in a couple of days.

Not much news here. The weather is exceptionally fine and there are still a few roses in the garden.

Good-bye, dear hoy.

Affectionately your father,

Jan de Loe

He addressed this note to: Nino, Baron de Loe, c/o The Dutch Tubercular Sanatorium, Davos, Switzerland.

It was five o'clock in the afternoon. As he was due at Mrs. Storm's for dinner at six, he rose, put on his hat, his gloves, took a coat and stick and left his villa. He walked down the wide pleasant street, greeting the milkman who came strolling along behind his cart, greeting a lady here, a gentleman there, turned to the right and walked down the Scheveningscheweg, at the end of which lived Mrs. Storm and her daughter Dora.

AS he walked down this avenue in the September twilight Baron de Loe's thoughts went (as they invariably did ) to his son. Dear, dear Nino! How he would love to see him. But it was utterly impossible just now with his own marriage to Dora Storm only a couple of weeks off. And after the marriage? Of course, if Dora knew . . . But Dora did not know. Almost no one in The Hague knew of Nino's existence except a few friends, men who had been out in Java with him at the time of the boy's birth. And even they did not know that he, his father, had adopted him, had taken him from his Malay mother and had sent him to the Netherlands. These friends would not have been likely to meet him in Friesland where be had gone to school. He himself had settled down in The Hague only a year ago and at that time he had thought of taking the hoy to live with him. He enjoyed the thought of that until . . . until he met Dora. No longer did it: seem desirable to introduce the boy as his son, for no longer did he see him only as his son hut as the son of a Malay woman as well. And then (and it had seemed a relief, for a while at least ) Nino had been ordered to Davos.

Nino in Davos! As Baron de Loe had never visited that resort of tbe doomed he could let his imagination run wild. He saw his son leaping in the air on skis, lie saw him turning down hair-raising corners on a bob-sled, he saw him twirling intricate circles on the skating-rink. And always this son was a slight, dark silhouette against a background of pure blue-white snow; fields, bills, mountains of white, white snow. Oh! if he could only see him, if he could only be with him! He was such a dear fellow, never giving any trouble, always content, a dear, dear fellow!

If he could only tell Dora, if he could only say to her: I have a son who is ill in Davos. Walking with her in Scheveningscheweg, riding with her side by side in the dunes, drinking tea in her boudoir, dining with her at a restaurant, always he wanted to tell her. But what if she did not say, "But Jan, why didn't you tell me before, of course, you must go and see him," did not say, "Let's go together after the wedding and take care of him." Oh, surely she would, and yet there seemed always one more reason why he should not.

"Heh!" someone cried. Baron de Loe looked up. He had bumped into a circle of fishergirls. As he walked on re-adjusting bis hat, he was conscious of them looking back at him and laughing.

II

Dear Father:—

I got the books, thank you very much. I have been ill all week, the Doctor says I mayn't do anything, I must he in bed all the time. Much love.

From,

Nino

And a few days later:

Dear Mr. de Loe:—

It is my unfortunate duty to have to inform you that the condition of your son has suffered a sudden change for the worse. I would advise your immediate presence . . .

They had gone for a morning walk at Scheveningen and now were seated in a cafe, side by side in wicker chairs drinking chocolate. Through a large bare window they saw first the boulevard and beyond that a stormy but blue sea. As the sun was shining and as there are no trees at Scheveningen it did not seem like Autumn, for there were no leaves.

Except for two officers who in a far away corner were playing chess, and a waiter lolling against the bar, they were alone. Now, now was the time to tell her, thought Baron de Loe, now was the time to say: Dora, I am leaving for Davos tonight, I have a son there who is very ill and I am going to stay with him until he recovers; our marriage will have to be postponed . . . "Jan," said Dora, "I want another cup of chocolate." He called the waiter. The waiter took the order, departed. Now, now . . .

He looked up into her face, that face he knew so well, loved so well. How young it was, how happy! How he loved her! He suddenly covered both her hands with his. No, no, he could not risk losing her.

III

HE returned home from town late that after-noon loaded with parcels (for Nino liked Turkish Delight, liked taffy and nuts and dates and ginger). He left the tram and walked past villa after villa toward his home. It was raining and almost dark but, like those who are essentially home-loving people, Baron de Loe enjoyed the rain, conscious that it enhanced the charms of the home.

He walked very slowly and repeated in his mind over and over again certain phrases of the letter he was going to write Dora before leaving that night. At the time she received it he would he gone, far away, and only a written reply could reach him. When the thought of writing her had struck him, it had seemed the very thing, the easiest way out. Now, intent on formulating it, he found it incredibly difficult.

As he entered his home, entered the dimly lit hall, he saw immediately a telegram lying on the hall table. And he knew, immediately, what it said. And after he had opened it, read it once, twice, three times he sat down on the nearest chair, the paper still in his hand.

But suddenly with a jerk he got up and went up the stairs. He had no time for sitting thus, idly. There was too much to he done. For he was still going on a journey, even though it would now be a considerably shorter one and he would he hack in four or five days. There was yet the same to he done; clothes to be packed, orders given to the servants, a message written to his hanker. Except the letter to Dora. The letter to Dora did not have to be written! Abruptly he stood still, his hand resting on the banister. The letter did not have to be written! The full meaning' of that suddenly dawned on him. He did not have to write that letter because there was no longer anything to write. He was now— no, would he in a few days—entirely, only Dora's. His son was dead.

Baron de Loe resumed his walk upstairs. His eyes were filled with tears and he nervously bit his lips. Poor dear Nino, he thought, lie was, he had always been such a dear good fellow. Never giving any trouble . . .