“Dear mamma, we will not sell it,” pleaded Ursula, though she knew how uselessly. “You see, Gerard says again he would have done so. Let us be glad, then, that he has not got it yet. Perhaps, some day, when he thinks differently—meanwhile—in—trust—”
She stopped, not daring, nor caring, to proceed. But the Dowager had only caught at one sentence.
“No, we will not sell it,” she repeated: “no, indeed. Attempt such a thing and I appeal to the police! You sell what belongs to another! You! Listen, Ursula. I am not as strong as I was. I forget things. I dare say you imagine I am growing childish. But be sure of this: that however stupid I may seem to become, I shall always know about the Horst. I shall watch over it for Gerard. I have written to him to come back, and he will come. You alter nothing—do you understand? Nothing. Oh, my God, I am a poor defenceless old woman! Have pity upon me, and make my head keep strong! Oh, if Theodore had only not died—not died! Oh, my God, my God!”
She shrank together, like a lace shawl thrown aside, and the tears trickled down among the trinkets of her watch-chain.
Ursula rose and went out into the deserted corridor. From one of the stands by the distant hall-door a brown-tinged “Maréchal Niel” fell to pieces with a heavy thud on the marble pavement.
“Monk!” cried the mistress of the mansion. “Monk!”
With great yelps of greeting the St. Bernard came bounding towards her.