TRIUMPHANT
The day after the attack on the Manor-house Ursula came down to
breakfast as usual.
“Has Monk not been found yet?” she asked.
In the servant’s face she read disaster. She had not missed any
of the menials in the hour of danger, presuming them to be hidden
away under bedsteads up-stairs, but she had been astonished by the
prolonged absence of the dog.
“Yes, Monk had been found,” said the servant, uneasily.
She cast a quick glance at his shifty eyes; then, without further
question, she went down to the basement, straight to the mat where
the St. Bernard slept. Monk was lying there, in a great huddled
mass of brown and white wool, motionless. Before she had come near
she knew he was dead. She stood for a moment by his side. Already
the limbs were stiffened, the eyes rolled back. She understood that
he had been decoyed the day before, and poisoned.
She knelt down and kissed the soft, white head.
“I used to think I was alone,” she said, as she rose.
A maid came towards her.
“Yes, it’s a pity, Mevrouw, is it not?” said the maid. “The old
Mevrouw sent me to ask you to go to her in her boudoir.”
Ursula obeyed the summons. As she entered, the Dowager rose to meet
her.
“My dear,” said the old lady, trembling very much, “you saved the
house last night. I’m afraid I have not always been fair to you.
I am old, Ursula; you must forgive an old woman’s prejudices. But
you are worthy to be a Van Helmont. Your father-in-law would have
appreciated your conduct, my dear.”
Henceforth there was one recent event on which the Dowager’s mind
remained perfectly clear. Its fierce terror seemed to have burned
it in. Much that had happened since the old Baron’s death was a
blank or a muddle, but she was always ready to talk of the attack.
And she spoke, therefore, with far greater kindness of the heroine.
“Yes, Ursula is strong,” assented Tante Louisa.
* * * * *
Presently came the tidings of Uncle Mopius’s death, and very soon
after that a letter from Harriet. She told Ursula quite frankly
that she intended to marry again, as soon as her period of mourning
was over, so that there would be no use in first pretending to
ignore the fact. “Therefore,” she wrote, “I can only lay claim to
the ten thousand[M] a year of my marriage settlements, and, barring
a handsome legacy to Josine, you are your uncle’s heiress.”
Ursula dropped the letter on her writing-table and sat thinking,
till disturbed by one of Theodore’s frequent business calls. These
unavoidable discussions were rarely agreeable.
“First, I can tell you,” he began, “that Juffers has been
dismissed.”
“Good,” replied Ursula. “That is only right. It would be foolish to
pity him.”
“Secondly, nothing will result, I fear, from the judicial inquiry
as regards either the attack on the house or the murder of the dog.”
“That, too, is natural. It was a drunken outburst. Still, somebody
must have been the deliberate instigator, or the dog would not have
lost his life. I am sorry they can’t find out who did that.”
“I think I know. That new clerk of Noks’s has some grudge against
you. Would you like Monk’s murderer punished, Ursula?”
A responsive flame shot into her eyes. They met Theodore’s.
“Oh no,” she said, quickly. “No, no. Leave the man alone,
Theodore.”
“Thirdly--the usual worries. The old refrain, ‘Money! money!’ Money
wanted for the expenses of Gerard’s reception. Money wanted for
the completion of the cottages. Money wanted for a new roof on the
Red-dyke Farm. If only we had more money, Ursula, all would be
well. As it is--”
She interrupted him. “There is money,” she said. “I am a rich
woman, Theodore.”
He smiled an annoyed little smile. “Very funny,” he said, “if
only--”
“It is quite true.”
“Oh,” he exclaimed, suddenly understanding. “Has that precious
uncle of yours disinherited his wife?”
She colored angrily. “My uncle’s wife is quite able to manage her
own affairs,” she said. “Be thankful, you, that henceforth there
will be money enough and to spare.”
“How much do you think?” he questioned, with a man’s curiosity to
know the figure.
“Some twenty-five to thirty thousand florins a year, Theodore.
We shall be able to carry out all your improvements--all Otto’s
improvements--all that he used to say he would do if he could--all
he could have done if he had married his cousin Helena. And I
shall have a chance of trying my charity schemes. We must build an
Institute. You must help me, Theodore; there will be heaps to do.
We must do it all--all!” She spoke hurriedly, feverishly, as one
who crushes down a tumult in her heart.
Theodore stood looking at her, his face puckered and puzzled. “All
the fun of the thing is gone,” he said.
“The fun?”
“Yes, the fun. Can’t you understand? I can’t explain. There’s
nothing more for to-day. Good-morning.”
“Theodore, I wonder whether thirty thousand florins will suffice to
purchase their affection?” She paused. “Their armed neutrality,”
she slowly said.
* * * * *
But when left alone her manner changed. She sank down by the
window--looking out, looking out. The other day in her supreme
appeal she would have abandoned everything to Gerard on his coming
home; she had hoped against hope. And what had been his reply? “I
am glad you have it, if you like it. I would not have exchanged my
struggle for yours.” The words came to her now with superficial
meaning; long afterwards she learned to fathom their sorrowful
compassion.
“It is God’s doing,” she pleaded, still gazing away upon the
landscape, “God’s answer. He confided these hundreds of human
beings to my care, and now gives me the means to help them. I dare
not abandon them to Gerard--to ruin. Right is an abstract idea. It
were wrong to do right.”
* * * * *
The next two days brought Ursula a strange medley of emotions.
Gerard had telegraphed immediately after the riot, offering his
services; but she begged him not to come over just yet. She dreaded
all contact with him. She dreaded his pale face.
He, on his part, gladly held aloof. He was looking for a small
house at the Hague, where he expected his mother to come and live
with him. The Dowager meanwhile waited patiently. Gerard had only
been back a fortnight. To her it seemed one brief yesterday.
Meanwhile the news of Ursula’s accession to wealth filled the
province. In one moment the tide turned completely, and the waters
of adulation came running from all sides to her feet. Tenants
and tradespeople vied with each other in denouncing those who
had wronged her. Demands for improvements and repairs poured in
hourly; petitioners of all kinds jostled accredited beggars on the
Manor-house steps. A rumor had gone forth that the young Baroness
really intended to spend her wealth on the property, and when early
requests received a hearing, and vague projects got bruited, then
enthusiasm knew no bounds. Not more than a week after the attack
on the Manor-house Ursula was compelled to exert herself, amid a
storm of delation, to prevent both a criminal trial and a lynching
of scape-goats by lesser offenders. She would have extended small
mercy to the poisoner of her dog had not a story recently reached
her ears, after going the round of the neighborhood, to the effect
that the notary’s new clerk had been found one evening, not far
from his home, lying in the road unconscious, with the coat
thrashed off his back.
Ursula, a little dazed amid this sudden revulsion, could even smile
at the faces that beamed upon her and serenely decline the honors
of a swift counter-demonstration after the manner of Gerard’s
reception. She could make every excuse for the fawning of those
whose daily bread lies in a master’s hand, but what hurt her to
the quick was the sudden melting of the “cousins,” who poured down
upon her like icicles suddenly struck by the beams of a belated
sun. They could not understand her shivering in the bath of their
congratulatory condolence. Ursula pushed the Barons and Baronesses
aside.
But the rush of popularity was pleasing, even when correctly
estimated; the importance was pleasing; and the possibility of
fulfilment--the sudden nearness of life-long ideals--was most
pleasing of all. It was all so sudden, so unexpected. Ursula,
triumphant, gasped for breath.
* * * * *
One morning, three days after the news reached her, Ursula rang the
bell and sent for Tante Louisa’s maid.
“Hephzibah,” she said, “if you are so wretched in this house--and
your face proves it--why do you remain?”
Hephzibah began to whimper.
“Klomp won’t have me,” she said; “not unless I bring him enough
money to support me. He can’t but just support himself, he says.
And Pietje and her child would have to be boarded out.”
“You shall have the money. You can go and tell him so--that is
settled.”
But Hephzibah lingered with her apron to her face.
“Forgive me, Mevrouw,” she said; “I never meant no harm to you--but
we’re all poor, guilty sinners; and that woman Skiff, the insolent
liar, pretending to be wife to honest folks, and then bringing
along another husband of her own!”
“You have done me no wrong that I know of,” replied Ursula, calmly;
“but I see you are uncomfortable here, and I am willing to help
you. Do you hear your foolish voices still?”
Hephzibah shuddered; then she said, enigmatically,
“No, I don’t. Not _after_--Nevertheless, repentance comes too late.
I’m not as bad as other people, but I’m doomed to be unhappy;
privileged, I should say.”
“You can go,” said Ursula.
Hephzibah turned by the door.
“Why don’t you marry the Jonker?” she began, suddenly; “I know he
loves you. He loved you when he didn’t ought to, and I know he
loves you still.”
“Peace, woman!” exclaimed Ursula, rising fiercely. “The Jonker does
not love me, nor I him. Go you, and marry your clod.”
A few hours later, as Ursula was sitting alone, thinking--“Why,”
asks Freule Louisa, “does Ursula always sit thinking, since her
inheritance came? Is she counting up her money? Oh, fie!”--as
Ursula sat alone thinking, a stone flew suddenly through her open
window, alighting almost at her feet. It had a paper attached to
it, and the paper bore these words:
“Beware of Adeline Skiff and her husband. They will work your
downfall, if they can.”
She turned the paper over and over. She had no doubt that it came
from Hephzibah, whom she--and the world generally--believed to be
mildly crazy. She knew that Hephzibah had suspicions regarding many
things, but she also had always known these to be harmless. Nobody
would attach any importance to Hephzibah’s mutterings.
Ursula smiled sadly.
The paper lay in her lap. And now, unexpectedly, as she gazed down,
a great fear fell upon her, she could not have told whence. For the
first time she was frightened, afraid of a secret enemy, afraid of
discovery, exposure. Who was this man Skiff, the notary’s clerk?
What did he know? What could he do? She started up.
To be forced, against her own will, to surrender! To be compelled
to do what she would so gladly have done of her own accord, if she
had but known how! She set her teeth tight.
An hour later, in the early fall of the slow August evening, Ursula
knocked at Skiff’s humble door. Adeline opened it, and immediately
tossed her head. “And what may you please to want of me?” she
asked.
“I wish to speak to your husband,” replied Ursula.
“Find him, then,” said Adeline, and banged the door.
The insult did Ursula good in this hour of universal adulation. It
braced her.
She took a few steps down the lonely lane, reflectively, and then
remembered the public-house at the end. She wondered she had not
thought of it before. She called to a child at play, gave it a
penny, and bade it tell Skiff he was wanted at home immediately.
“Wanted at home, you hear!” she cried after it, as she hastily
retreated.
The urchin scampered off and burst into the bar-room. “My lady
Baroness wants Mynheer Skiff!” he screamed. “She’s waiting in the
middle of the road.”
This bomb-shell, at least, had its desired effect, which a quieter
summons from Adeline might easily have missed. Amid general but
silent astonishment, and much arching of eyebrows, Skiff started up
and stumbled out.
“I wonder he ain’t afraid of another beating,” said one of the
topers.
“He gets drunk so as not to be afraid,” replied another.
Ursula’s heart almost failed her when she saw the miserable little
creature come lurching down the lane. Oh, the humiliation of
condescending to such a low hound as this! At this moment, standing
awaiting his approach, she touched the lowest depth in all her long
descent of suffering.
She had not made up her mind what to do. She had no plan. Only she
was resolved, in accordance with her character, immediately to face
uncertainty.
He slouched up and jerked his hat, “And what can I do for you,
ma’am?” he said.
She sickened at his manner, feeling as if a snail were creeping
across her hand. “Answer a simple question,” she replied. “What do
you want of me?”
He swayed to and fro, passing his hand across his eyes. “I’m a poor
man,” he said, “a very poor man. A little money never comes amiss.”
“Money?” she echoed. “What should I give you money for? Drink? You
will get no black-mail out of me!” Her gorge rose; she felt her
pulse grow steady again.
“Now, ma’am, best be civil,” remonstrated Skiff, with tipsy
ferocity. “Black-mail isn’t the word, yet there’s stories enough
about you to make a little hush-money worth your while. You’d
better pay up, my lady; you’d better pay up!”
“Threats! And to me!” exclaimed Ursula, scornfully. But at this
moment the cottage door was thrown open and Adeline came running
out.
“Don’t let her off too easy!” cried Adeline. “Skiff, you fool,
how much did you say? It shall be five thousand florins if it’s
a penny, my lady. Or we’ll show you up, Baroness Helmont of the
Horst!”
With Gerard’s return Adeline had grown utterly reckless in her
fierce hatred of Ursula.
“I am glad you speak so plainly,” said Ursula, coldly. “In this
manner you will certainly never get a penny out of _me_.”
For only answer Adeline poured out a flood of accusation, sprinkled
with foul language, from which Ursula gathered for the first time
what tales had been circulated against her in the village.
She stood frozen to marble--to marble splashed with mud that no
current of years would ever again remove. “That is all?” she said
at length, when Adeline paused for breath.
“All!” shrieked the woman. “Skiff, d’ye hear my lady? She don’t
think it’s enough! I wonder what your two lovers’ll say, madam,
Theodore and Gerard!”
“Hold your tongue,” growled the man, shamefacedly, “or I’ll make
you. She has such a temper, my lady, she goes off her head at
times. I hope your nobleness’ll forgive her and remember I’m a poor
man.”
Ursula had understood, as the torrent swept down upon her, that
these people knew nothing--absolutely nothing. They could not
hurt her, except by such vague slander as any man may speak. Her
secret was still her own, entirely her own, shared by none but a
half-crazy creature, whose tardy story, if told, would never carry
conviction. And now her set face grew gentle, and the floodgates of
her charity opened.
[Illustration: “‘IT SHALL BE FIVE THOUSAND FLORINS IF IT’S A
PENNY, MY LADY’”]
“I will arrange for your emigrating to Canada,” she said, “if you
promise to sign the pledge.”
“Oh, I’ll sign it, and willingly,” answered Skiff. “If I may make
so bold, how much would you make it, my lady?”
“That will depend on many things,” replied Ursula, and turned to
go. “I will have no money wasted.”
Adeline stood in the path, looking as if she would fain have struck
her successful rival.
Ursula paused.
“You poor thing,” she said, “I cannot understand what you have
against me. I am in no way responsible for your ruin. Believe me, I
did all in my power to persuade Baron van Helmont to make you his
wife.”
No other words the Baroness could have uttered would have enraged
Adeline more than these. The woman stood foaming at the mouth with
the hysterical passion of her class.
“You! You!” she sobbed out. “_He asked_ me to marry him, do you
hear, like the true-hearted gentleman he was! And I threw him over
for Skiff! What I said later was a lie, as you know; but I’d have
kept up the game if the child hadn’t died, as it did last year,
more’s the pity! And I _could_ have been Baroness van Helmont, if
I’d chosen. So there! You can take my leavings, madame.”
Ursula came a step closer; her face seemed to alter suddenly.
“Answer before God,” she said; “did Gerard van Helmont offer you
marriage before your child was born?”
“Yes, I tell you--yes!” laughed back Adeline, impudently. “There;
you didn’t expect that, did you? There’s pleasant news for my lady
so proud! Take Miss Adeline’s leavings, do!”
The man, who had stood watching them, stumbled forward.
“Go in, d’ye hear?” he said, roughly, “or I’ll give you another
taste of yesterday’s dinner.” He turned to Ursula with a leer
he intended for a smile. “You must forgive her, Mevrouw,” he
said, bowing. “She’s a bit fantastical, as I said, but I know
how to manage her. I hope that Mevrouw will kindly remember the
arrangement she has just made with myself.”
FOOTNOTE:
[M] $4100.