To-day, however, the parson rejoiced in notable compensations; these occupied his thoughts as he swung with large steps through the woodlands. After the first shock of abandonment which every parent feels in a daughter’s sudden rapture, he had settled down to complacent contemplation of an eligible son-in-law. For the Dominé, as we know, had never made a secret of his attachment to Otto. And he lacked the requisite affectation to convince himself that the secondary consideration of the young man’s social position was altogether beneath the notice of a humble clergyman like himself.
His darling Ursula would flit from the nest—that is true—but only to another close by, where he still could hear her singing. The Dominé smiled gratefully over this linked perfection of prosperity: wife to the heir of the Horst, and wife to Otto van Helmont.
“Lord God, I thank Thee,” said the Dominé, out aloud, among the fragrance of the solitary lane. His path wound in sandy whiteness beneath the heat-mist of the fir-trees; there was a buzz on all sides of a myriad nothings, invisibly swelling the morning air.
The cottage lay prone upon the ground, asleep. It had sunk as low as it could, and had pulled the ragged branches of the trees over its ears, comfortably hiding in the cool, long shadows, naked and unashamed.
The owner of the cottage lay prone upon the ground also; he had the advantage of the house in that he was consciously—and conscientiously-drowsing. “I sleep, but my heart waketh.” Klomp knew he was not awake. Man has few pleasures here below; has he any to equal that sensation?
“Good-morning, Klomp,” said the parson’s bright, brisk voice at his ear. Klomp did not start; he merely half opened one eye and answered, “Dominé,” which was his abbreviated form of salutation. “Save your breath to spare your life,” was one of his axioms.
“Klomp, I’ve come about Pietje,” continued the Dominé, with that loudness which, in him, was nervousness escaping. “I’ve heard about the place the Freule has found for her. What a splendid opportunity! And so kind of the Freule!”
Klomp nodded assent. Like most country parsons, the Dominé was very sensitive to disrespect. “You might get up, Klomp,” he said, sharply.
“Oh, if you wish it, sir, of course,” replied the man, shuffling to his feet, with an air of contempt for the other’s stupidity. He immediately lounged up against the wall, sinking both hands in his pockets. “Them’s my sentiments to a T,” he ejaculated, and jerked his head in the direction of a paper nailed against the dilapidated shutter, white on the dirty green.
The parson, advancing curiously, read the following sentences in an illiterate scrawl: