Her irritated hesitancy filled her lover with dismay, for it strengthened all his doubts of Gerard. An honest maiden’s accepted lover does not ask her if she loves another man. Indignantly Otto wiped the momentary film from the pure reflection he bore in his heart. But there are actions we barely commit, yet remember a lifetime.
It was the Dominé, after all, who married Ursula to Otto, with deep commiseration for himself. His dear child’s filial loyalty, while it wakened all his pride, showed him his own path the more clearly. “A woman shall leave father and mother and shall cleave unto her husband,” he said. “Never shall I allow you to desert Otto for my sake. You do not know your own heart, child. Your magnanimity leads you astray.” Ultimately Ursula almost believed this. But she conditioned for a two years’ absence only.
“I, had such been my lofty mission, would have proved myself faithful unto death,” said Miss Mopius, to whom came outer echoes of the struggle. “A great love, like blazing sunlight, hides the whole world in its own bright mist. Van Helmont has dropped a diamond to play with a pebble. So like a man.” Miss Mopius, since her disappointment, had grown very romantic in her talk. According to the advertisements it was the Sympathetico Lob; according to her own account it was her mighty sorrow. “Ah, my dear, do not let us speak of it. Every woman’s heart is a sanctuary with a crypt.”
She snorted at Ursula’s heavy eyes. “Every man gets the wife he deserves,” she said. “With women that is not the case, their choice being limited.” Ursula was incapable of small, spiteful retorts; she made up her mind that she would prove to Aunt Josine and the world how worthily Otto had chosen.
So she set to work on her trousseau, and was very affectionate to her father. There was something exceedingly painful in this latter-day softness between two hitherto undemonstrative characters. When Ursula laid down a neglected needle to look across at the Dominé, the old man would jump up with swift repression, and angrily bid her go on. The days shortened: perhaps that made them seem to pass so swiftly, and the appointed wedding-morn drew near.
Meanwhile another wedding was also announced as imminent, and various members of the Helmont family gnashed their teeth over the prospect. The whole of Drum, however, jabbered fairly good-natured approval, which is surely saying a good deal, and more than most young couples can hope for.
“Yes, Gerard, it is quite true,” said Helena van Trossart, stopping, in a crowded ballroom, a white vision among the glitter and hum. “You could have assured yourself it was true without insulting me by the question.” Her clear eyes flashed. “I am going to marry Willie van Troyen.”
Gerard was very hot—the room was hot. “No,” he said, thickly, “I should never have believed it, unless I had heard it from your own lips.” He drew a little aside, almost secure, yet not quite, among the restless throng.
“I cannot make you out at all,” he went on, in great agitation; “I—I don’t want to say anything, but—” He checked himself; his eyebrows twitched; his whole face grew troubled with suppressed meaning.
She understood him perfectly. For a few moments—perhaps half a minute—she remained quite silent, with eyes downcast, her bosom heaving, her graceful figure a-tremble, like her lips. At last, amid the rhythmic flow of gayety around, she lifted her solemn gaze to his, and spoke with slow distinctness. “I know what you would taunt me with,” she said. “You think me inconsistent. But in his case it doesn’t matter. I do not love him.”