THE NEW BAILIFF

As ill-luck would have it, Helena wrote to announce her visit for the last evening of Theodore’s stay at the Manor-house. She arrived before dinner, bringing the unwilling Willie along with her.

An almost oppressive quiet had reigned in the mansion, only rarely disturbed by the deep voice of Monk. The guest had spent most of his time out-of-doors, returning occasionally to closet himself with great memoranda and account books. Tante Louisa complained bitterly that she got next to nothing of his interesting conversation; Ursula anxiously fought shy of him; the Dowager, unexpectedly meeting him in the hall, asked her confidante, the cook, who he was.

“I shall stir them all up a bit,” said Helena to her husband in the carriage. “I have seen them already once or twice since the event, and you can’t go on looking lugubrious forever. Besides, I don’t believe Ursula is inconsolable. I shall ask her.”

“No, you won’t,” said Willie.

“Willie, don’t put my back up, or you’ll make me do an unlady-like thing.”

“You won’t ask her, because you can’t. I’d bet you a gold piece that you wouldn’t dare.”

“You wouldn’t like me to dare.” Helena’s eyes strayed away through the carriage window.

“Indeed I should. I like pluck of any kind. In a horse, or a woman, or a dog.”

“Only not in a man!” exclaimed Helena, a little bitterly.

“In a man it goes without saying. By-the-bye, what atrocious brutes these horses of Ursula’s are. I’ve an idea, Nellie, that she’s very badly off.”

“All the more reason for her to console herself. A poor widow remarries much sooner than a rich one, and with far less opportunity.”

“’Tisn’t said that she’d better herself. If she marries she ought to marry Gerard. It would be her bounden duty.”

“Thank you, for Gerard’s sake,” retorted Helena, now very bitterly indeed. And they lapsed into silence. Was there really any prospect of Ursula’s marrying Gerard? It was this question which had long held Nellie van Troyen’s heart as in a vise, pinching it and torturing it, and refusing to let it rest. It was this question which now hunted her to the Horst. She was determined to see with her own eyes how matters stood. “I shall find out,” she told herself. “I must, even if I have to ask her. To think of Willie’s trumpery gold piece! It is horrible, all the suffering. But my life is a beautiful romance.” She smiled, and reflectively arranged her dress. “You like me, you know, Willie,” she said, “in pink.”

“Yes,” he replied, “though I don’t know why. Blue suits your fair complexion better. But, somehow, I can’t bear to see you in blue.”

“I know why. Shall I tell you? It is because you have some delightful memories connected with a creature in blue.”

“You are wrong,” he said, quite coolly. “It is because I have some detestable memories connected with a creature in blue.”

“Oh, ‘delightful,’ ‘detestable,’ that is all one in such cases. So you see, I was right. Here we are.”

“Well, shall we wager?” he asked, as he helped her to alight.

“If you like. But you are pretty sure of your gold piece, for I certainly shall not trouble her unless she drives me to it.”

“So much the better. Don’t dare, and pay me.”

“Willie, I believe you would sell your soul for money,” she cried.

He laughed.

“No, no, not his soul,” she said to herself, half aloud, as she climbed the great stone steps. “Only his body—only all he’s got to sell!”

The Dowager came forward to meet her niece, who had always been a favorite with the old lady, and the only possible successor she could consider with equanimity. “My dear, I am so glad you are come,” she said, with a return of her vanished sprightliness. “Your visits are like those of the angels. And the house is so dull. Though certainly, at this moment, we have a guest.”

“A guest?”

“Oh, he is Ursula’s guest. One of the—the other Helmonts, that nobody ever used to see. But these are the days of the bend sinister. We have fallen on evil times.”

Helena stood taking off her wraps, the little old lady helping her. “My dear,” began the latter, somewhat tremulously, “I wish you would do me a kindness. I want you to come and stay with us for a few days, and I will read you what I have written about the good old past. I read it to Ursula, but she does not know what it is all about. She is not one of us; it will interest you. There is a great deal in it about your mother.”

“Yes?” said Helena. “Is it ready, aunt?”

“Ready, my dear? Oh dear no; how could it be ready? But I can show you what I have done. Do you know, I begin to fear it will never be ready!”—the Dowager’s voice nearly failed her. “To give me plenty of time to write the memoir, your uncle ought to have died a great many years ago.” Then, vaguely realizing that she had incorrectly expressed her meaning, she began to cry with unmistakable persistence.

“Hush, hush!” exclaimed Helena, in her most impulsive tones. “Auntie, I shall be delighted to come; we will talk over the old days, as you say, and all the fun I used to have with Gerard. But would you not rather pay us a visit?” She drew the little lady’s arm through her own. “I am so sorry. This is very hard for you—and for Gerard—this about Ursula.”

“My dear, I thank you, but I cannot.”

The Dowager nestled confidentially against the silver-pink sleeve of the fair creature beside her. They cooed over each other like a pair of high-bred doves. “I dare not leave the house for a single night. I have an idea that something would happen if I did. I am the last of us all, and I am set here to watch. When Gerard comes back—Helena, you do not think, do you, that they will really leave it to her forever?”

“Poor auntie!” said Helena, softly stroking the transparent cheek. “Poor auntie!”

“What I cannot understand is that he doesn’t come and take it away from her!” cried the Dowager, with sudden energy. “I wrote to him to do so. Gerard never was a coward. But I fear that Louisa’s explanation is correct.”

“What is Freule Louisa’s explanation?” questioned Helena, quickly.

“She says that Gerard is in love with Ursula, and always has been. She says that that is why he went to India. If what she says is true, then Ursula has robbed me of both my sons.” And again the poor, forlorn old woman began gently to whimper.

“Perhaps it is not true,” replied Helena, pensively. “Come, auntie, let us sit in the window-seat and talk of Gerard. I suppose he will be coming back before long.”

“I don’t know. I forget. Oh, Nellie, you don’t know how dreadful it is to grow old and forget. I can’t find my words sometimes, though I take care that nobody notices it. I feel that it would never do for Ursula to discover that I have not all my wits about me. Who knows what she might not do? Sell the place, perhaps!”—her voice dropped to a whisper. “Imagine that! Or sell some of your uncle’s dear art treasures that he bade me keep. She doesn’t care for them, I know, for she never seems to see them even. I’ve watched her constantly. Oh, Nellie, I’m set here as sentinel, and—my strength is failing.”

Helena felt that, irrational as she knew the feeling to be, she could not but think ill of Ursula.

“I forgot one of the poor children’s birthdays last week,” wailed the Baroness—she alluded to her dead infants that slept beneath “The Devil’s Doll”—“and Ursula didn’t remind me to take any flowers. I have never forgotten before.”

Ursula entered at the moment, tall and straight in her heavy gown. To both the gracefully drooping women, whose soft clothes and figures intermingled against the darkening window, her presence at that moment seemed more than ever an insult.

“Shall we have lights?” she said, in her clear voice.

“Oh, in the drawing-room, pray,” replied her mother-in-law, pettishly. “Mynheer van Helmont is gone in there. He was looking for you.”

Ursula withdrew into an adjoining apartment. It was very large and lofty, and the figures on its tapestried walls, half hidden under the great masses of shadow now clouding around them, peered forth in vaguely distorted gloom. Theodore was pacing the parqueted floor with moody tramp. He came forward at once.

“I want you,” he said, hurriedly. “I must leave to-night. So we may as well have our talk at once.”

“I am quite ready,” she answered. “I did not wish to press you. Will half an hour suffice?”

“Ten minutes. Everything worth saying in this world by one human being to another can be said in ten minutes. But I should like you to sit down.”

“Very well,” she said. “No, not an easy-chair. Thanks.”

“I have looked into everything, superficially,” he began, resuming his march in the dusk. “I must, in the first place, beg your pardon for misjudging you all. I came here with false impressions. When a man grows up, as I have done, in the bourgeois daily fight with poverty, he is apt to form erroneous impressions of the life which his ‘grand’ relations lead, especially when his impressions are gained by hearsay. I beg your pardon.”

He paused for a moment; then, as she did not answer, he continued:

“In the second place I want to express my—my admi—my recognition of the way in which you have carried on your husband’s work. Few women, I imagine, would have taken up such a load or borne it so bravely. I didn’t like your sudden telegram. I thought of the people who jump into the water and then call out to strangers to save them. There! that’s off my mind. I am not good at compliments or excuses. I’ve no manners, as Freule Louisa says. Now to business.” His tone, which had been agitated, immediately dropped to the habitual growl that masked his shyness.

“He reminds you,” Helena had said, when they met by the Christmas-tree, “of a peach with a wasp inside.”

“The truth is as you stated,” he resumed; “nothing but hard work can keep the whole thing going. A forced sale would mean ruin. On the other hand, barring such extra expenses as death duties, you ought, with rigid economy, to pay your way.” He paused for a moment. “With rigid economy,” he repeated.

“I know,” said Ursula, softly.

“There is nothing so hopeless as farming without capital—you know that better than I do. But the cherry orchards pay, and so, especially, do the osier plantations. Without these latter you could hardly get on. You have good tenants, on the whole. One of them, however, will have to go.”

“I know,” said Ursula again, in the same tone, through the darkness; “but he can’t.”

“He must. I see we understand each other—the home-farm man—your sort of agent. I don’t say he is dishonest. Otto seems pretty well to have stopped that—but he is expensive—you can’t afford him.”

“I cannot make cheese myself,” pleaded Ursula, a little helplessly, for her. “I tried once, and nobody could eat it. It—it didn’t stiffen.”

But her stern adviser vouchsafed no responsive smile.

“It’s a matter of life or death,” he said; “the work that fellow does must be done by another man.”

“But where would you find a better?”

“I can’t find a better, but I can find a cheaper.”

“Have you got him?”

“Yes; I mean myself. Stop a minute—let me explain. I told you I had always wanted to be a farmer”—his voice grew nervous again. “I’m sick of being a genteel sort of manikin in a pot-hat. I’m especially sick of the post-office. I’m going to take that farm and work it.”

“But, Mynheer Helmont, this sudden decision—”

“It isn’t a sudden decision. It took twenty-four hours to come to, and its twenty-four hours old already. I’ve announced it to my mother.” He again made a pause, away at the farther, darkest end. “Oh, I dare say you don’t like it,” he burst out; “I didn’t expect you would. But it’s going to happen, all the same. To have as my lady Baroness’s close neighbor a farmer bearing her name—”

“I was not thinking of that,” she interrupted him. “For, of course, a gentleman-farmer—”

But he would not allow her to proceed.

“A gentleman-gammon!” he cried, still out of the distant darkness; “a common, common farmer. Nothing in all the world—not even drink—costs half as much as gentility. But, remember, if it isn’t pleasant for you people, it’s a hundred times worse for my mother and—” He broke off. “But she’ll do it,” he lamely concluded the sentence.

Ursula rose and came up the big room to look for him.

“Sit down, please,” he said, hastily; “I haven’t done. Please sit down till I’ve done. Women are such bad listeners!” She obeyed, knocking the chair against something which crashed to the floor. “I hope that isn’t anything expensive!” exclaimed Theodore, emerging from his corner. His tone chid her as if she had been an awkward child.

“It didn’t sound broken,” replied Ursula, meekly; “but I suppose you object to my getting a light?”

For only answer he struck a match, revealing a cloisonnÉ vase which lay in a pool of water and a tangle of white anemones upon an Oriental rug. The match flickered out.

“That’ll keep,” said Theodore, coolly. “I only want half a minute more. There is still one point, the most important. The three thousand florins we require next week will be found.”

“But how?” Ursula’s voice betrayed her.

“Oh, not picked up on the high-road. When I say ‘found,’ of course I mean provided and paid for. I shall provide them. You can imagine that, poor as we are, we do not live on my salary only. As a matter of fact, I possess about twenty-seven thousand florins; I have looked so much into your private affairs that I suppose you have a right, if you care, to know something of mine. Three thousand, therefore, I will advance, if you can give me sufficient security.”

“That is just what I cannot do.”

“That remains to be seen. Freule Louisa mentioned that you still had a valuable diamond brooch.”

Ursula was thankful he could not see the hot flare of her resentment.

“And do you think,” she said, scornfully, “that I would not have sold that? But it isn’t mine to sell. It is an heirloom. I must keep it, like the rest.”

“It is legally yours,” he replied, “and therefore you must not keep it. Besides, I trust that you will be able to redeem it in the slow course of the years. All ladies like diamonds. I promise to take good care of yours. Bring the thing down before the carriage starts. And now perhaps I had better ring for somebody with a cloth.”

“Stop!” she cried; he had lighted another match and was looking for the bell-rope. “Before you do that I want to say—”

“Don’t. I really do not think there is anything more to be said just now.” He had found the bell and pulled it.

“But I do not want to do this. I do not want—”

“I know you don’t. Did not I tell you so? However, permit me to say that I have as good a right to interfere in this matter as you. I am quite as much of a Helmont—even a good deal more.” His voice rolled out like the threat of a recoiling dog.

A female servant knocked and entered, letting in a flood of light from the hall. She gazed with decorous astonishment at the occupants of the room.

“Ursula,” said Willie, coming in with the others, “is it true that you have let the shooting?”

“No; that was not one of my crimes,” replied Ursula, with a petulant laugh. “Otto did it immediately after Gerard’s departure.” Then her voice softened. “I believe it was the greatest sacrifice he ever made. You know, he was such a splendid shot.”

“He was,” assented Willie, with that solemn admiration which no man can suppress.

“But, Ursula, I remember you used to say you hated ‘splendid shots’?” suggested Helena, looking back over the arm which still supported the Dowager. They were passing in to dinner. Willie, glancing up, saw mischief in his wife’s blue eye.

“They are better than stabs,” answered Ursula; and from that moment it might be evident to any one that these two women meant war. It would not, however, be the feminine skirmishing of intrigue and innuendo, for Helena, as we know, was reckless, and Ursula blunt.

“I want to sit next to poor dear auntie,” said Helena, as they took their places. “Mynheer van Helmont, I suppose your habitual seat is next to the lady of the house? Are you going to stay here long?”

“I have no habitual seat,” replied Theodore, awkwardly. “I leave to-night. I am only a three days’ guest.”

“Yes; no one of your name could be anything else at the Horst now. Not even the head of the house, away in Acheen.” She smiled sweetly and turned to the Dowager.

Theodore was mortally afraid of this fine lady, all soft texture and vague perfume, like a rose. But he found conversation hardly easier with Ursula, in spite of the sullen admiration he unwillingly accorded her.

“Your mother will be glad to have you back,” said Ursula.

“Yes, indeed,” he replied, fervently. “And I to go—back,” he added, blushing.

“You know, it was impossible,” Helena’s voice rang out again. “We are speaking of your uncle Mopius, Ursula. They have had to withdraw his candidature. He is a very good sort of man—oh, very good—but he is not what Freule Louisa calls ‘strong.’ Papa tells me it is quite impossible, though I’m sure I worked hard for him—didn’t I, Willie? Your uncle says it’s all your doing, Ursula. He was very rude about you to papa. I had to stop him, and remind him you were become my cousin by marriage.”

“Indeed,” replied Ursula.

“Would you like to hear what he said?”

“I cannot say I care.”

“Well, as we are quite among ourselves, perhaps it is better you should know. He said that your elevation had turned your head. You know, Ursula, he is rather, rather—pardon me the word—vulgar!”

She had spoken French. The servant, by the sideboard, rattled his plates.

“And he said your political opinions were deplorable. What are your political opinions, Mynheer van Helmont?”

“Deplorable,” replied Theodore, with a ready championship which astonished himself.

“Ah, you two are in close sympathy, I see. So much the better.” She dropped her voice. “But is it not a strange thought to you, Mynheer van Helmont, that this old place is now certain to pass, in due time, to Ursula’s children, whatever their name may happen to be?”

“No,” replied Theodore; “it’s no business of mine.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, angrily. “The Baron van Helmont thinks differently, no doubt. Why, if Ursula has some seizure to-night, I suppose we shall soon see a Lord Mopius of Horstwyk! Fie, Mynheer van Helmont, this poor creature at my side has more spirit than you.”

Ursula could not avoid hearing enough of this aside to understand its meaning. She felt that everybody had heard it. Passionate as she was, she fixed her eyes on the table-cloth. She remained conscious that Helena, that everybody, even while the talk went on, was watching her. At last she lifted them—those steadfast brown eyes.

“It is six months to-day,” she said, “exactly six months. Only six months since Otto and Baby died.” And she rose from the table.

“Ursula, you have forgotten the dessert,” cried Aunt Louisa, lingering.

Ursula turned back.

“True,” she said. “I beg everybody’s pardon. Won’t you try some of mamma’s preserved orange-leaves, Helena? You will find them as good as ever.”

In the hall, just as the carriage had driven up which was to convey the three visitors to the station, Ursula appeared with a small parcel in her hand; she gave it to Theodore, who buttoned it out of sight, without even saying “Thanks.”

“There is one thing still,” she began, hurriedly. “You heard about the election. I had a letter yesterday from the Opposition Caucus, asking me if I wished to put forward a candidate, or would accept one from them. I have none. I have one. I mean, I had thought, hearing what you said at dinner, that, if your political opinions were theirs—”

“I have no political opinions,” he answered, moving away from the sheltering pillar to the light where the others stood grouped.

She put out one hand. “I am sorry,” she stammered, trembling from head to foot. “I had thought—it is the one only thing I could have done to thank you—to express my gratitude—”

“I want no thanks,” he replied, literally shaking off her hand. “Gratitude, pshaw! I told you a couple of hours ago that I have as much right to do this as you have. I am not all peasant, Mevrouw. You remind me too frequently of that side.” And he went and took up his own valise. “The servants forget these things,” he said to Helena.

When they were all gone, Ursula crossed the cold emptiness of the hall and encountered Hephzibah. The maid shrank away. “Hephzibah, I want you to do me a favor,” said the young Baroness. “Would you take this letter, when you go to the Parsonage to-morrow with the Freule, and give it to a person who is staying at Klomp’s? Please give it into her own hands. There is money in it.”

“H’m,” reflected Hephzibah, watching the tall figure in its slow ascent. “Money in it. Is there? And why? Throw a barking dog a bone.” She shook her head. “If I hear that noise up-stairs again,” she muttered, “I’ll write to the Jonker, wife or not. But I’ve said that so often before! And if the Jonker’s got a wife already, what business had he wearing Mevrouw’s glove in his bosom and duelling? I saw him pick it up. It’s a bad world, a bad world. But I’m a blessed body to feel how bad it is. I told cook about the groanings, though I didn’t explain their reason, so she only said I ought to take medicine.”

“Well, Willie, I’ve lost my wager,” declared Helena, as soon as they were rid of the “post-boy.”

“I don’t know about that, but pay up anyhow. You deserve to, Nellie, for your treatment of Ursula. Poor thing, she behaved very well, I thought. She’s quite lost that magnificent rich complexion of hers. She looks sallow.”

“Oh, that will come right when she marries little Theodore,” replied Helena, with tranquil satisfaction. “The person I am sorry for is auntie. I’m sure I cried with her for nearly an hour.”