“Oh no, for my own,” exclaimed Otto, and broke away from her.
She came back to the dog, completely unconscious of all complications except the old quarrel between her husband and his brother.
It weighed upon her; she regretfully felt that she, in her innocence, was chiefly to blame for it. Gerard had deeply resented, and still continued to resent, the marriage of the head of the house to the parson’s daughter. Compared to this, the quarrel about the horse was only a passing cloud, and even that would not have arisen but for her. Men of the world, she felt bitterly, could desert Adelines, but they could not marry Ursulas. It is true; more than that—only she did not know it—men of the world can offer to marry Adeline, and never forgive their brother for marrying Ursula. We can do all that, we men. It is our privilege, because we are thinking creatures.
Just now, Ursula felt that her only duty in the great house was to comfort the dog. Monk was an institution at the Manor; he had been that ever since the old Baron had brought him back from the desolate monastery which is all sunshine within, and all snow without. By this time surely he had forgotten his native Alpine frosts—if dogs ever forget—among the mists of Holland. He had basked for years in the master’s smile, unassuming, as no man would ever have remained, under the dignified repose of his assured position. All the household had honored Monk; many with time-service only. This he had understood; he had loved his master alone. He knew that the Baroness endured him; perhaps there was a little jealousy between the two. And on the day of the old man’s death he had wandered about, disconsolate, gradually beginning to realize a change. Ursula found him a forsaken favorite, not mourning his fall—again, how unhuman!—but his friend. She looked into his big soft eyes, and the hunger died out of them. Immediately the two understood each other, forever. “I accept of you in my empty heart,” said Monk.
In the old Baroness’s boudoir the fat ball of white silk on its crimson cushion opened one eye with lazy discontent and scowled across at its mistress. It was disgusted with the selfish irregularity of its meals. The little old woman in the easy-chair near the autumn fire did not even notice it, in spite of the oft-repeated sighs by which it strove to attract attention. Occasionally slow tears would now roll down the widow’s sunken pink-and-white cheeks, and glitter amid the jewels of her folded hands. She had reached that milder stage when we begin to feel our sorrow. Oh, God, that in this world of agony, men should find cause to be thankful for consciousness of pain!
“Plush” considered the state of affairs most disgracefully disagreeable.
CHAPTER XXIII
TOPSY REXELAER