Gerard waited long before he answered. “I am glad it is yours,” he said at last, “as you seem to care. I should not care for it to be mine.”
She sprang back as if he had stung her. For the rest of the time she remained with Theodore, trying to believe that she did not observe the “county people’s” impertinences. She felt Helena’s eyes upon her constantly, and was surprised by their benignity. That woman must be a worse woman than Helena Van Troyen who can receive, immutable, a little child from God.
All through the sultry splendor of that long-drawn summer day the peasantry enjoyed themselves in their own peculiar manner. Towards five o’clock a slate-colored bank of cloud began slowly to border the far horizon, as if rising to meet the yet lofty sun. One carriage after another emerged from the stables, and the local grandees drove away. Then the people gathered for a final cheer, before melting in groups towards their respective neighborhoods to finish the evening, many of them, alas, in drink.
“THE CARRIAGE HALTED BY THE CHURCH”
“Hurrah,” cried the Burgomaster, “for the hero of Acheen! Hurrah!”
“And now,” said Gerard’s clear tones in the ensuing silence, “a cheer for the giver of this whole entertainment, the Lady of the Manor! Hurrah!”
It was a mistake, but Gerard knew nothing of Ursula’s unpopularity. His chivalrous impulse met with but feeble response. A strident voice—one of those voices you hear above the crowd—even cried out, though hesitatingly, “Down with all thieves!” A murmur of approbation from the immediate surrounders saluted the words. Ursula overheard them, and, looking up, saw a pair of villanous eyes fixed evilly on hers. “Who is that man? Do you know?” she said, turning to Theodore.
“That man,” he answered, with studied carelessness. “Oh, nobody. A writer that the notary has lately taken on. His name is Skiff.”