“Can’t you miss one of your father’s discourses? I should have thought Sunday was the one day you’d like to stay away. But I don’t see what you go out into society for, Ursula. At Batavia I danced with the Governor-General’s lady.”
“Always?” asked Harriet—her invariable question at this stage of the story.
“No, not always. I remember, just as I led her up, I saw there was a huge snake coiled round her arm.”
“How dreadful!” said Ursula, stolidly. She had heard the dénouement on former occasions, but forgotten it.
“A gold snake! Ha!-ha!-ha! Somebody snatched it off a few months afterwards. A brave man. Ha!-ha!-ha! And your aunt used to dance too. Do you remember, wife? You were really quite pretty in those days. We’ll dance to-night,” he added, “and teach Ursula. You dance, Harriet, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, to any one’s pipes,”[G] replied Harriet.
Nevertheless, it was decided, after some wrangling, that Ursula should return to Horstwyk, as she wished, for the present. Mynheer Mopius chose to be offended.
The girl was consumed by a feverish longing to get away out of this hot-house atmosphere into the pure repose of her country home. All morning she hid away in her room, afraid to look out on the little town, over which, to her excited fancy, an ominous thunder-cloud seemed to hang. What would happen next? How would Helena act? How Gerard? In her heart she hoped that justice would be done to the injured shop-girl, and yet dared not measure the result.
Just before luncheon a note was brought her. She sat down before opening it. Harriet laughed. “With due preparation,” said Harriet. “What is it? Another invitation to a dance?”