“And even if I could,” he said, slowly, “my wife could not—Ursula could not.”
The Dominé’s eyes sought his in long inquiry.
“With Gerard,” said Otto at last.
“Ah!”
Then the Dominé cried, “Stuff and nonsense! stuff and nonsense! I don’t believe a word of it. Nor do you.”
“I leave the decision in your hands,” repeated Otto. “Some employment of some kind in some Dutch town, if you so wish.”
The Dominé leaned up against a tree; he closed his eyes; his bronzed face was quite white. The wood seemed to hold its breath under the sneering sky.
“When a father loves his child,” began the Dominé; then his voice broke. “My Ursula,” he said. “God have mercy on me! The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.” He stopped.
Otto, thoughtfully wending his way homeward, reached a spot where the Manor-house burst into view all at once through the park. Unconsciously he stood still. The moments passed by; he remained without moving; a yellow butterfly came foolishly hovering among the bushes; he did not see it.
Suddenly a single tear lay heavy on his cheek.