And then, for the twentieth time, Ursula resolutely enjoyed these anticipated glories of the Indies, for the soreness and the separation were in her own soul, deep down.
Had Otto been more of a Mopius, he would never have guessed at their existence. Hearts like Ursula’s understand that a woman weds her husband’s life.
Nor can it be denied that the novelty of the prospect, by its very terror, attracted and pleasantly excited her. Still, unfortunately, by nature she was stay-at-home and cat-like. Besides, she had not left her father to himself, but to Aunt Josine.
So while she was telling herself how unearthly must be a scene that was even more beautiful than this stage effect of palm-trees and white buildings against the blue Mediterranean flare, even while she was schooling herself to this idea, her whole life suddenly changed with the fall of a curtain. The play stopped at the very opening, and the audience went home again. All the worry and the expectation and the screwing-up had been superfluous. How many of us discover that, even when the lights go out at the conclusion of the fifth act, instead of in the middle of the first.
“Poor people are not poor in India; that is one great advantage,” Otto was saying. “There is always plenty of space about one, in house and garden, and even the mendicant, if a white, drives a trap. But I don’t suppose there really are any white beggars. You will see how comfortable we shall be in the great veranda of evenings, with all the pretty things around us, while I sit telling you how sugar prices are going up. Ursula, it will be delightful to think we are working for the dear old place at home, which is yours too now, and must never belong to any one but a Helmont.” His face grew square as he sat staring at the black ridge of distant mountains, and then, suddenly, with a man’s embarrassment, “There’s the little steamer,” he said, lightly, “coming back from the Lérins.”
The hotel concierge was going his round on the terrace, leisurely seeking out an occasional lounger in the still, perfume-laden sunset, and distributing a bundle of letters. They watched him coming towards them, from their seat by the balustrade, between two bowls of geranium.
“C’est tout,” he said, holding out one letter.
“It’s too bad of them not to write!” exclaimed Ursula, as everybody always does on the useless, idle Riviera.
Otto was looking at the envelope, holding it across his outstretched palm, between middle finger and thumb. It was addressed in his Aunt Louisa’s handwriting to “Otto, Baron van Helmont.”
“Well?” said Ursula, with the impatience of the non-recipient.