CHAPTER XXXII
THE GREAT PEACE
The Christmas party at the Manor-house broke up not over-pleasantly. Everybody seemed to realize the vague clouds that hung over the dark end of the year. Some particulars regarding the German visitor’s sudden indisposition had, of course, oozed forth into the half-light, bewilderingly indistinct. Helena departed in high dudgeon, frequently repeating to her husband that whatever had happened—and she didn’t want to know—was undoubtedly Ursula’s fault. Mynheer Mopius said that “the higher classes of this country were hopelessly depraved.”
Count Frechenfels slipped away to his native land in silence, and the military authorities took no cognizance of the affray. Of his own free will, therefore, Gerard asked to be transferred to a fighting regiment in the Indies, and very quietly and quickly he got ready to embark. He was eager to go, to escape from duns and the narrowness of his present hampered existence. And also to fly from a vague new sensation which, whenever he turned to it, caused his heart to leap up with dismay.
“I cannot understand why,” said the poor Dowager, feebly; “but, somehow, I seem not to be able to understand anything any more. It all used to be so different. Gerard, the whole world cannot have altered because your father died?” She gazed at him as if half expecting to hear that it had. “And I wanted you to help me with the Memoir,” she continued. “You remember about the old, bright days. Otto doesn’t know. And now you also are going away.”
She began to cry, looking so white and fragile, with the snoring dog upon her lap.
“I couldn’t sell your father’s collections, Gerard, could I?” she complained. “He wanted me not to. Still”—a long pause; her face lighted up—“if that would keep you from going to that horrible place, I—I think I could venture. I think he would understand if I explained, when we meet again.”