Her hands lay idle in her lap, an emblem of the day’s repose. The whole village had folded its hands to watch the lengthening shadows. A few conspicuous white shirt-sleeves lolled against the church-yard wall. And somewhere a bullfinch was carolling, breaking the Sabbath in his own divinely appointed way.
“How hushed it all is,” thought Ursula, looking up to the far plumes of the motionless poplars. And the lull sank around her own soul. Why break our hearts over the scuffling and splashing of one or two swimmers? The river of God’s glory flows steadily on. She laid a tired head on its current; for a moment the waters were stilled.
She did not even care to penetrate the mystery concerning her Aunt Josine. The confidences of the preceding afternoon had been succeeded by an extreme reserve which the lady’s two companions almost provokingly respected. The pastor knew of nothing. At dinner, on the Saturday, he had been mildly astonished by an atmosphere of constraint, in the midst of which his sister-in-law had suddenly ejaculated,
“Well, Roderigue?” with the vehemence of a bomb-shell.
“Well, Josine? It certainly is much better than the last joint, though she _will_ over-roast it,” a reply which did not seem to give full satisfaction to its recipient.
“He has gone, first of all, to obtain his father’s permission,” thought Miss Mopius. “I might have known. With the aristocracy a father is a very important personage.”
She retired early with a headache which not even the vegetable electricity could combat. It extended over the Sunday, as Miss Mopius’s headaches naturally would. She lay on her sofa and sighed at intervals. People would not be surprised at her lying on the sofa. Had she not sighed at intervals, Ursula would have risen to see what was wrong.
The church-clock had just struck seven; in the ensuing pause of expectancy its last note was still trembling away into nothing, when Ursula’s closed eyes became conscious that somebody was watching them. She started to her feet in confusion, a little ruffled and rumpled, before the admiring gaze of the Jonker Otto van Helmont.
“You were asleep. I am sorry I woke you,” replied honest Otto, “but I came with a message from my mother. She is very anxious to speak to you. She--she wants you to come up to-night. If you would?”