Gerard laughed, Ursula laughed also; she was happy in the possession of her husband, of her little son, all the warmth of a woman’s home.
In another moment Gerard’s face had clouded over. “Ursula,” he said, with a violent effort, “there’s one thing I must ask you. I ought to have asked it a year ago. It’s wickedness letting these things rankle. Why did you make trouble between Helena and me?”
A flood of scarlet poured over her drooping face. She tried to speak, but, for only answer, fresh waves came sweeping up across the dusky damask of her cheeks. She sank down beside the cradle, hiding away from him.
“Can you not guess?” she whispered—into the baby clothes.
No; he could not guess. He had already sufficiently wronged Otto with regard to the Adeline business; all through the year he had striven to convince himself that Mademoiselle Papotier must have been mistaken. Spoiled darling of many women as he undoubtedly was, he had not enough of the coxcomb in him honestly to believe that this woman had acted solely from pique. Nor could he have uttered that explanation, though it still hovered round him.
“Gerard, I knew,” said Ursula, so low that he had to bend over her half-hidden head. “I knew. Oh, Gerard, if only you had married the other one.”
Then a long silence arose between them, for Gerard had understood. In the strange bluntness of our world-wide morality it had never entered into this honorable gentleman’s head that any one could deem Adeline’s claim on him an obstacle to his proper settlement. And now that strange “cussedness,” partly chivalric and modest, which always caused him to blow out the lights on his brighter side, checked the easy vindication that he had actually offered marriage to the foolish little dress-maker. He stood silent and ashamed. Ursula did not lift her face from the sheltering coverlet.
When at last he spoke it was to say: “In one thing I have long misjudged you, Ursula. I should like to confess that just now. I didn’t believe you about that stupid rendezvous. I have admitted to myself since then that you went, as you said, for another’s sake.” He understood that Ursula had somehow constituted herself Adeline’s protectress. “I want to confess that just now,” he repeated, contritely.
She did not thank him for telling her he no longer thought her a liar, and worse. “So you believe now,” she simply said, lifting her head at last. “You believe in my honest acceptance of Otto.” Then she rose from the floor, flushed and troubled, but with a proud curve of her neck.
“Ursula,” said the young officer, as much troubled as herself, “I thank God for the lesson you have taught me. I—if more women thought as you do, we men would be better than we are.” His young face was very solemn, he looked straight towards her. Unconsciously she laid one hand on the breast of her little sleeping child, and, with an upward flutter of her strong brave eyes, held out the other. He took it, hesitated, and then, stooping, touched it with his lips.