“Stay to dinner,” said Ursula. “We shall be quite a small party. Immediately afterwards Gerard goes back to Drum with the Van Trossarts. I want you to see them to the station.”
“Very well. There is a thunder-storm coming up.”
“Is there? I don’t mind thunder-storms. But this one is several hours off. You will be able to get back in time.”
It was about ten o’clock. The great curtain of deepening blue had crept steadily upward, sweeping its broad rim like a mass of cotton-wool across sun and sky, and gradually mingling with night in one unbroken heaviness. The black weight now lay low on the thick, expectant air. The summer evening was pitchy dark and threatening.
Inside the Manor-house everything was once more quiet, with the numbness that follows on a long day’s fatigue. A light glimmered here and there in the big, dim building. In the basement the servants were busy washing up. From time to time a distant yell of drunken merrymaking or sheer animal excitement came faintly ringing through the solemn denseness of the trees.
Ursula sat alone in her room, thinking of many things, especially of Gerard’s reply to her question regarding the Horst. On her side that question had assumed the importance of a supreme appeal. How coldly he had pushed it aside!
“I know not what to do,” she reflected. “I cannot advance or retreat. Merciful Heaven, how he has suffered! And the suffering has taught him nothing.”
The noise from the village beat vaguely against her ear. It was growing louder, coming nearer, but she did not remark it. She looked up as from a trance, when Hephzibah broke, unannounced, into the room.
“Mevrouw, they are coming!” shrieked the waiting-woman, her white face still whiter from terror. “Save yourself! Escape by the terrace!”