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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8383f4e --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69489 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69489) diff --git a/old/69489-0.txt b/old/69489-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 800de5a..0000000 --- a/old/69489-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5138 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Wellfields, by Jessie Fothergill - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Wellfields - A novel. Vol. 3 of 3 - -Author: Jessie Fothergill - -Release Date: December 6, 2022 [eBook #69489] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Peter Becker, Brian Wilsden and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELLFIELDS *** - -Transcriber’s Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - - - - - THE WELLFIELDS. - - A Novel. - - BY - JESSIE FOTHERGILL, - - AUTHOR OF ‘THE FIRST VIOLIN’ AND ‘PROBATION.’ - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - VOL. III. - - [Illustration] - - LONDON: - RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, - Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen. - 1880. - [_All Rights Reserved._] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CONTENTS OF VOL. III. - - - STAGE IV. - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I. A REED SHAKEN IN THE WIND 1 - - II. A CONSUMMATION 16 - - III. CONSEQUENCES 36 - - IV. ‘WOO’D AND MARRIED, AND A’.’ 59 - - - STAGE V. - - I. SARA 76 - - II. ‘YES’ 89 - - III. IRREVOCABLE 113 - - IV. DOUBTS 125 - - V. MEIN GENÜGEN 145 - - VI. EINE REISE IN’S BLAUE 159 - - VII. WELLFIELD 185 - - VIII. JEROME 207 - - IX. A MYSTERY 220 - - X. CAUGHT 233 - - XI. GEFUNDEN 250 - - L’ENVOI 264 - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE WELLFIELDS. - -STAGE IV. - -CHAPTER I. - -A REED SHAKEN IN THE WIND. - - -Wellfield’s position had not been altogether an enviable one, during -the last few months. In his letter to Sara, summoning Avice home, he -had casually mentioned having had money troubles, and this was true. He -had shortly before heard from Mr. Netley, that now that his father’s -affairs were finally wound up, nothing would remain to him save -three to four hundred pounds, then lying in the bank to his account, -representing at most some twenty pounds a year. With this delightful -information in his pocket he repaired one day to Burnham as usual, and -during the morning had an interview with Mr. Bolton, in which that -gentleman, all unconscious of what had happened, offered him the post -of foreign correspondent to his house, at a salary of two hundred a -year. He was surprised at the manner in which the proposition was -received. Wellfield started, and exclaimed, - -‘Mr. Bolton–I–cannot thank you–you do not know what this is to me.’ - -With which, leaning his elbows on the table, he covered his face with -his hands. In truth, his emotion was almost overpowering; this event -appealed strongly to all the superstitious elements of his nature. -Here, when he had just been debating on his way to Burnham whether he -should not that very morning explain his circumstances to Mr. Bolton, -and then and there take his leave, leaving a message for Nita, and so -cut the Gordian knot which he spent hours daily in futilely attempting -to untie–now, at this very moment came the only man who could help -him, and proffered him such tangible assistance that, it seemed to -his nature, it would be madness to refuse it. A great strain had -been put upon his nerves lately. He had expected and feared the news -which he had that morning received, but he had waited for it as if -paralysed. Now, everything, gratitude, necessity, convenience, pointed -out to him that he must remain where he was. It was most improbable -that anywhere else he would receive so much money, or be able to find -work which he could do competently. Poor, weak and vacillating heart, -which recognised honour and truth when it saw them, but which was too -weak and vain to lay hold of them and keep them! Surely natures like -his are more to be pitied than any others when their time comes for -struggling and deciding–the natures which can see the right, but which -_never_ perform it, if the wrong offers an easier task at the moment. - -Mr. Bolton was naturally surprised. ‘Why, Wellfield,’ he asked, ‘what -ails you?’ - -Jerome lifted his face from his hands, pale and worn, and took the -letter from his pocket. - -‘If you read that, you will understand what I must feel on receiving -your offer,’ he remarked. - -‘Ah, indeed! I _do_ see,’ said Mr. Bolton, when he had finished it. -‘Yes–well, you need not fret so much about that now. Things don’t look -so bad. You have this salary coming in, and something to start with as -well.’ - -‘Yes–it is the feeling of relief, after all this strain which overcame -me for the moment,’ he answered; and added, earnestly, ‘Believe me, -Mr. Bolton, I shall never cease to be grateful for the goodness I have -received from you and yours, all this time–I, of all others!’ - -He spoke as he felt, and the remembrance of Nita’s goodness, and all -that it implied–of the miserable entanglement in the back ground, -out of which he could in no way emerge with honour, let the affair -terminate as it might–all this brought a mist before his eyes, and a -lump into his throat. - -‘Pooh!’ said Mr. Bolton, ‘never talk of that. We are not barbarians, to -turn a stranger from our doors.’ - -Jerome went back to Wellfield that afternoon, firmly resolved to -write to Sara Ford, and ask her to set him free. When it came to the -point, he ‘could’ not do it. He could picture only too vividly what -such a letter would mean to her. It was Saturday afternoon. He would -wait until to-morrow, when he would go up to Brentwood to the morning -service, and would see Somerville and consult with him. Perhaps he -might even tell him the whole truth. He did not know. He went often -to the services at Brentwood now. They soothed him, and he found a -satisfaction in going there. Indeed, when one reflects upon the fact -that there are many natures partaking of the characteristics of his, -one sees how to these natures some form of religion, of an infallible -institution outside themselves, and yet within their reach, is an -absolute necessity; and one begins to perceive more clearly why -agnosticism has never been popular. - -Wellfield could never have been an agnostic. He and such as he have -not the mental and moral toughness of fibre which enables a man to -contemplate the mystery of the heavens above and the earth beneath; of -the life and the death, and the pain and the evil that are upon the -earth, of his own feelings and speculations, and their origin, and the -purpose and destiny of them–and then, while reverently owning ‘I know -nothing, and I will assert nothing, upon these things,’ has yet the -courage to live up to an ethical code as high, as pure, and as stern as -that of St. John or of Christ–expecting nothing from a life to come, -as to the existence of which he is in absolute ignorance. The more part -of mankind want none of this; they want a religion, a thing that will -let them sin, and prescribe to them how they must get forgiven. Such -a religion was found in perfection at Brentwood, and thither Jerome -repaired. - -There was an unusually splendid service that morning. A great -dignitary–a cardinal–preached. The sermon set forth eloquently -the rewards of faith and obedience. He assumed that all present had -overcome the initiatory difficulties, that they were all entirely -faithful and entirely obedient; and then he proceeded to depict their -happiness even here upon earth, not to mention the joys which awaited -them in heaven. - -Wellfield listened; he saw others listening: a haughty-looking woman -in widow’s weeds, just on the other side of the aisle. She was Mrs. -Latheby of Latheby, whose only son was being educated at Brentwood. He -knew her well by sight; her pride and reserve were proverbial. Yet she -wiped tears from her eyes as she listened to the sermon. There was a -profound silence–a silence full of suppressed emotion, as the sermon -progressed. Faith and obedience; nothing to do but submit that private -judgment which is usually so ill-trained, and which invariably causes -such trouble, and _ye shall have rest unto your souls_. - -That was the burden of the discourse–that was what echoed with so -seductive a sound in Wellfield’s ears. - -After the service he saw Somerville; he was presented to Mrs. Latheby, -who remembered his mother, and told him so; adding with the regretful -smile which lent such pathos and sweetness to her proud and still -beautiful face: - -‘Ah, Mr. Wellfield, if that beautiful mother of yours had been here -to-day, how happy she would have been in what she had heard ... and it -gives me a melancholy pleasure to think that had she lived to bring you -up, you might have been standing here, one of us, not a looker-on, out -in the cold.’ - -‘You are far too good, madam, to think of me at all,’ he replied, moved -somewhat by her words, and yet under the influence of the emotion which -the cardinal’s word-picture had aroused. - -‘I must ever take an interest in the only son of Annunciata Wellfield,’ -she answered; ‘and I want you to come and see me–will you?’ - -‘I shall only be too honoured.’ - -‘Then I shall write this week, and appoint a day for you and Mr. -Somerville to dine at Latheby–if you can come, father.’ - -‘I shall no doubt be able to come,’ replied Somerville. - -Mrs. Latheby waited in the parlour to have an interview with his -Eminence. Somerville walked with Wellfield along the lane towards his -home. Wellfield told him what had happened. - -‘I am superstitious, I suppose, according to your notions,’ said -Somerville, ‘and I call it a sign.’ - -‘I do not call it superstition,’ stammered Wellfield. ‘I have myself -been thinking to-day that–that—’ - -‘That you ought to follow my advice, and ask for Miss Bolton’s hand,’ -was the firm, decided reply. - -‘If it were not for this miserable business in the background——’ - -‘It is your duty to tell the truth to one lady, or to get some one to -do it for you,’ said Somerville, in a smooth, even voice, which yet cut -his hearer like a whip. He winced. - -‘If you mean to stay here, you ought at least in duty and honour either -to propose to Miss Bolton, or to tell her that you are bound to another -woman.’ - -‘Do you suppose I don’t know that?’ retorted Wellfield, almost -fiercely. ‘Have I not been debating within myself until I am almost -mad, how to tell her.’ - -‘You are nervous, perhaps. Would you like me to do it for you?’ - -‘You–heaven forbid!’ he exclaimed passionately. ‘That would be to -ruin–I mean, I must think about it again. I will decide to-morrow.’ - -‘As you are taking the matter into consideration,’ observed Somerville, -with scarcely disguised insolence, ‘I would really strongly advise you -to reflect whether it would not be in every way more advisable to tell -the other lady that you wish to be free.’ - -‘Do you wish to insult me?’ asked Wellfield, pale with passion. - -‘To insult you! I am simply trying to advise you for the best. -Remember, you are now dependent upon this post of Mr. Bolton’s. If you, -or anyone else, lets Miss Bolton know that you are engaged elsewhere, -it might be bad for your prospects. Girls who have an idea–however -mistaken–that their feelings have been trifled with, are apt to be -vindictive.’ - -There was a palpable sneer beneath the even politeness of his tone. He -had taken out the whip–the whip which Wellfield’s own pleasant sins -had knotted into a cord, and which his own weakness and vacillation had -put into the other’s hand. The very first stroke had drawn blood. With -a chest heaving convulsively, and a glitter in his eyes of anything but -agreeable import, Wellfield clenched his hands behind him, and said, -composing himself with an effort rendered efficacious by dire necessity. - -‘I see what you mean, but I must think about it.’ - -‘Yes, do,’ retorted his monitor, with a smile. ‘And I must return, or I -shall receive a reprimand. Good-morning. I will stroll down to Monk’s -Gate to-morrow evening. Shall I find you in?’ - -‘I expect so,’ said Wellfield, sullenly. - -They parted. Somerville smiled as he took his way towards Brentwood. - -‘He will come back,’ he thought. ‘He has gone too far. He cannot do -without me ... and he is half won. Mrs. Latheby must flatter him, as -she _can_ flatter for us and for her Church. He will come. I see him -coming. And when he is married to Miss Bolton, of course she must learn -the truth, or they might live in such harmony that my game would be -spoiled.’ - -Somerville called early on the following evening, and it was during -this visit that the arrangements were made for Avice’s return. Jerome -was thankful for the suggestion. He dared not go to fetch her himself. -He dared not face Sara. But one side of his character–his pride, -we must call it, for want of a better name–the pride which did not -prevent him from making love to one woman while solemnly engaged to -another, pricked him sorely at the idea that Avice was receiving Sara’s -kindness and living under her care. He did not know how he was to -explain it, nor did he much care. He was getting callous, and reckless, -and anxious only to find a way out of the coil. Somerville had received -his orders suddenly, and was to set out almost immediately. Perhaps -the visit of his Eminence had something to do with the matter. He -had had a long conversation with Father Somerville, and had bestowed -his blessing upon him before parting. Jerome accordingly wrote that -letter to Sara, and on the following morning Somerville set out on his -travels. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -A CONSUMMATION. - - -One afternoon, on returning from Burnham, Jerome found a letter -awaiting him. It was that which Somerville had written from Elberthal, -and it set Wellfield’s heart on fire. Somerville in his calculations -had not forgotten to reckon among the possible effects of his -communication that one which might lead Jerome to rush back again to -Sara’s feet, shocked into honesty by the fear of losing her. But the -priest had decided again, ‘No; he will remember that if he leaves Mr. -Bolton he leaves all his subsistence; that his sister is on her way -home, and he has nowhere to place her; and above all, that he cannot -present himself to Miss Ford in the character of injured innocence, -considering the manner in which he has been conducting himself. -Besides, it will be so much easier for him to stay where he is and -propose to Miss Bolton.’ - -Whether by chance, or in consequence of extreme and almost superhuman -cleverness, Somerville had managed to calculate with mathematical -correctness. Wellfield’s first impulse, on reading the letter, was to -rush off then and there in all haste, and never to pause until he had -found Sara, and clasped her in his arms, looked into her eyes, received -the assurance of her love. Then, across this fever of impatience came -the thought, creeping chilly: - -‘When she turns and asks you to explain your late treatment of her, -what are you to say?’ - -He knew she might love with an utter abandonment of self; but should -she once suspect falsehood, it would all have to be disproved, all made -clear and clean, before she would touch his hand and speak tenderly -again. And it was too hard, too cruel. Avice was on her way home. -Sooner or later Sara would learn something of what had transpired -here, at Wellfield... What was all this talk about her favouring some -other man? Again the impulse was strong, if not to go to her, to seize -pen and paper, and ask what it all meant. And again came the cruel, -sudden check. She would have a perfect right to retort with a similar -question–to ask him what his conduct meant–to demand a reason for his -late ambiguous treatment of her. He might not write. He buried his face -in his hands and groaned. What was he to do? His counsellor was away. -For the first time he realised, by the intensity of his wish to see -him, what a hold Somerville had gained upon his mind. - -It was a dreary, gusty November evening. Round the solid walls of the -old house of Monk’s Gate, the wind wuthered sadly and fitfully; the -deep-set lattices did not shake–one only heard the sound of the wind. -No passing vehicles disturbed the ear. The quiet country road was -profoundly still. - -No one came to relieve his solitude, or to divert his mind from its -miserable debate with his conscience. He sat there perfectly alone, -until at last he could bear it no longer. He would go to the Abbey, and -join them there. There would be cheerful voices, honest faces; words to -listen to–not this hideous silence, broken only by the dismal sighing -of the wind about the roofs, and in the trees. - -He snatched up his hat, opened the door, and sallied forth into the -night. The Abbey gate was close at hand. Soon he was within that dark -portal, beneath the now leafless avenue which shaded the river walk; -he could hear the swollen stream rushing noisily along. He saw a light -in the drawing-room windows, and, with an effort, he gathered himself -together, so as to appear composed and collected, for they would not -understand his disturbance, and the fear lest by betraying it he should -‘appear unto men a fool’ was sufficient to give him outward calm. - -Of course, when the servant opened the door, Wellfield asked for Miss -Bolton, and was told she was in. But he was in the habit now of going -unannounced into the drawing-room. The page knew it, and retired. -Jerome hung up his hat, took his way to the drawing-room door, and with -a brief preliminary knock, entered. - -A large fire was burning in the ample grate, but no lamps were lighted. -No one was in the room, either, except Nita, who was kneeling upon a -tiger-skin, straight in front of the fire–her dog Speedwell by her -side. Her hands were clasped before her; her eyes wide open, and her -cheeks, with them, exposed to the full fierceness of the glowing fire. - -But she heard him come: heard his footstep, and started up–a deeper -blush mantling through the red which the heat of the fire had called -forth. - -Jerome came slowly up to her, and stooped over her, and the firelight -shone into his eyes, and showed the hollows in his pale cheek. - -‘Are you quite alone?’ he asked, and there was no surprise in his -accent, for it had flashed upon his mind, as he came in and found her -by herself, that perhaps this too was a ‘sign,’ as Somerville had -called it. - -‘Yes,’ replied Nita, rising to her feet. ‘Papa has gone up to Abbot’s -Knoll, to see John: it is a wonder for him to be out, as you know. I -don’t know what plots they are concocting, I’m sure. John is perfectly -mad about some bird–a reed-warbler, he calls it–which he vows he -has found by the river here, and he is going to overthrow some great -authority, who says they are never found so far north.’ - -‘And Miss Shuttleworth?’ asked Wellfield, unconsciously acting on his -secret desire to know the coast clear. - -‘Aunt Margaret has got a tea-party of school-teachers. She always has -one about this time. Did you want to see papa?’ - -‘I am afraid I don’t quite know what I want,’ he answered, with a great -sigh of exceeding weariness, as he rested his elbow on the mantelpiece, -and looked at her with his sombre, mournful eyes. ‘I don’t think I do -want to see your father–at least, I felt very glad when I saw you -alone. I think I want to escape from myself and my thoughts, Nita.’ - -‘Why, do your thoughts trouble you?’ she asked, softly and timidly. - -‘Sometimes they do, very much–to-night particularly. Will you let me -sit with you a little while, or must I go back again to Monk’s Gate and -solitude?’ - -‘Oh, Mr. Wellfield, you know that you are always welcome here, when it -pleases you to come!’ - -‘That is a good hearing,’ he answered, and such was the odd mixture -of the man’s nature, he felt that it was good. He felt that from Nita -he would receive no blows or buffets, or rough words–nothing but -(metaphorically speaking) tenderest caresses and softest whispers. To -go back to solitude, and the harsh accusations of conscience, and the -disagreeable anticipations for the future, was not in him; so he stayed. - -‘Do you never feel restless?’ he went on. ‘Do you never feel as if you -would like to set off on some indefinite journey, and without knowing -where you were going–with a sort of “onwards–but whither?” feeling, -that you would just like to go on and on, and for ever on, till life -itself came to a stop? Have you never felt it?’ - -‘Yes, often,’ said Nita, in a low voice. She was standing opposite -to him, on the other side of the fireplace. Her hands–soft, pretty, -little white hands–were folded lightly one over the other. Jerome, -in his idle sentimentalising, had time to notice that she had on very -pretty black-lace mittens, and that the stones of some rings sparkled -through them; that a gold bracelet was pushed tightly up the rounded -arm. He scarcely observed her averted face–her eyes looking into the -fire; her rapidly-heaving bosom; and he prosed on, because he liked -talking to her–because it was easy to make himself out sad, and -blighted and persecuted. - -‘I felt sure you had,’ he said. ‘That is what I feel to-night. But for -your father’s goodness to me–but for the stern mandate of reason and -necessity and common sense, I would set off now, this moment; and -leave Wellfield, never to return to it.’ - -He had spoken this time without rhyme or reason; without any _arrière -pensée_–any calculation as to the effect his words might have upon -her; and when he saw what it was, even he was startled. - -‘Leave Wellfield! Go away!’ she exclaimed, turning suddenly pallid. -‘What makes you say such a thing?’ - -‘Should you care much if I did?’ he asked recklessly and ruthlessly. -‘Would it–can I believe it would make any difference to you?’ - -He was standing before her, looking, as the girl in her sad -infatuation thought, so noble, so calm, so undaunted, after all his -misfortunes–undisturbed–only sad and a little despondent after his -reverses–more of a hero than ever. Ah! if she might only tell him what -she felt and wished! But at the moment something held her back; she -could not say all–could not speak the words her heart was breaking to -utter. She drew a long breath, and said: - -‘You–it would make me very sad if you went away, for then I should -feel more than ever what interlopers we must seem to you. I should -feel that we had driven you out from your old home. And you speak of -papa’s goodness–but is it goodness? I don’t call it the work for -you–drudging in an office in that way, like some common clerk. I -should think after a time it would drive you almost mad.’ - -‘Oh no! It is only the getting into harness that is such hard work–the -learning how to become a machine. I fancy when that is accomplished, -and the routine mastered, one can go on easily enough–almost -unconsciously. I shall get used to it sometime. Meanwhile, I am -thankful to be so well off.’ - -‘You are not thankful to be well off when you know you are very ill -off,’ said Nita, with agitation. ‘And you will never get used to it. -If you could you would not be what you are–it would not all be so -horrible.... Oh, I wish the Abbey–I wish the money were mine, that I -might ask you to take it as your _right_–your inheritance! But I can -do nothing, nothing; I am powerless, helpless, and I believe it will -kill me!’ - -She turned away and threw herself upon a couch, burying her face -in the cushions, and trying to stifle her sobs. For, with a great, -overwhelming rush, the conviction had come to her of what she had -really said–a sense of intolerable shame, an agony of humiliation was -torturing her. - -For one moment Wellfield gazed at her, at the prostrate form and -heaving shoulders, convulsed with sobs. Then he made a step to the -sofa, and knelt down beside her. - -‘Nita!’ he whispered, ‘dear Nita! Look up! I want to speak to you.’ - -But she would not raise her face, exclaiming in a broken, stifled voice: - -‘No, no! don’t ask me! I cannot look at you. I can never look at you -again. Oh, leave me! Mr. Wellfield–Jerome! for the love of heaven -leave me, or I shall die–I shall _die_ of shame!’ - -‘You shall not die of shame,’ he said, in the same low, persuasive -voice. ‘Nita, you shall look at me, my good angel, and hear what I have -to say to you.’ - -With gentle but irresistible force he drew her hands away, and lifted -her head, and made her look at him, and in that moment he had, perhaps, -forgotten the existence of Sara Ford. - -‘Why do you speak of shame, Nita?’ he asked, looking tenderly into her -piteous face. ‘What shame can there possibly be in giving way to such -a generous impulse, and in showing a lonely, fallen man that there is -one sweet woman left who cares for him, and would make him happy if -she might? Heaven bless you, dear, for such goodness. But you know–you -must know, why I cannot take you in my arms and say, “I accept that -goodness, and offer you my life’s devotion in return for it.” You know -it would be the basest conduct on my part towards your father, who has -treated me with unheard-of goodness. I know he wishes you to marry, and -I know he would consider it the height of presumption in _me_ to ask -for you.’ - -‘Oh, don’t speak of such things–of marriage and such horrors!’ she -almost moaned, struggling to free her hands; but he went on: - -‘No, I must face my future as best I may, and it will be with -the better cheer from the knowledge that goodness such as yours -exists–goodness which I worship and honour all the more in that you -have made it known to me.’ - -‘Oh, don’t! don’t speak of it! I cannot bear it!’ she cried, wrenching -her hands away, and again covering her face from his sight. She felt -as if she were in some strange, delirious dream. Wellfield’s looks and -tones thrilled through every nerve. Did he love her? Did he mean that -if he dared, he would tell her so? She knew not what to think. She only -knew that _he knew_, and that say or do what she might, she could never -undo the fact that she had betrayed herself; and that the one thing -which would have made it all right–would have made the difference -between a nightmare and a vision of Paradise–the knowledge that he -loved her–was wanting. Yes, despite his caressing tones, his eloquent -eyes, his tender words, she did not understand that he loved her. - -‘Do not be so distressed,’ he said. ‘I will never speak of it again, if -you desire me to be silent. I will forget it–anything–only, dear, do -not be so unhappy!’ - -‘I hear them coming,’ said Nita, her ear preternaturally quick. ‘I hear -their voices. I cannot see them–they must not see me. Tell them–tell -them I am ill–for I am–and–let me go!’ - -‘Yes–stop one moment, Nita!’ he answered, clasping his arm round her -waist, as she was darting past him. - -‘Let me go!’ she breathed again, but her voice died away as his lips -met hers–once and again, and he said, in a low, passionate voice: - -‘There! We have that, whatever may happen in the future. Nita–_my_ -Nita!’ - -He loosed his arm, and she had flashed past him, and out of the room, -in a second. - -Jerome was left standing on the rug, feeling, he too, as if he had just -gone through some mad fit of delirium. What had hurried him on to that -act of a moment ago? He stood with bated breath, and eyebrows drawn -together–then breathing again, a long, nervous breath, he muttered: - -‘By G–, I am a villain!’ - -And in the moment that ensued between this confession of conscience, -and the entrance of the others, he had time too to realise that one -cannot be a villain one moment, and have done with the villainy and its -effects in the next instant. One woman’s heart, at least, must go near -to break, in punishment for his sin of this night–or rather, for this -night’s consummation of his sin. It lay with him to decide which woman -must suffer–Nita, who was here, close by, and whose agonies he must -watch; or Sara Ford, away in Elberthal, and alone, now–and whom he -would not be able to see, let her have what she might to endure–Sara, -who had loved him all along–who loved him still, as he knew, and would -have known, had fifty letters come to tell him how devoted she and -Rudolf Falkenberg were, the one to the other. Which woman was to have -the blow from his cowardly hand? - -An ugly problem; one which would require answering very soon–but not -to-night. It might be delayed till to-morrow. - -He felt a sense of relief at this, as Mr. Bolton and John Leyburn came -in, and they began to ask him why he was alone, and what had become of -Nita. - -The three men supped alone that night. When John Leyburn was departing, -and Wellfield was about to go with him, Mr. Bolton stopped him, saying -he wanted to speak to him. Jerome, still thankful to have excuses -which delayed his home-going, remained willingly. One other surprise -was in store for him that night. Mr. Bolton, in his usual stilted and -pedantic, but most distinct and unequivocal style, informed him that -he had that evening been taking counsel with John Leyburn, as his most -trusted friend, upon several important matters. That in the main John -agreed with him, and that he wished to lose no time in telling him, -Jerome Wellfield, that, after profound consideration, he had come to -the conclusion that it would be for his own pleasure and his daughter’s -happiness if a marriage between her and him–Wellfield–could be -concluded. - -‘If you feel warranted, by your feelings towards her, in proposing -to her, you have my permission to do so. If not–you will excuse my -speaking plainly–your visits here will have to cease, for I do not -wish her happiness to be imperilled.’ - -Wellfield passed his hand over his eyes: he was almost stunned. At that -moment things stood out clearly, and, so it seemed to him, the right -bearings of them. To think of ever marrying Sara now was hopeless. -Love must be cast aside, and duty embraced instead. He was perhaps -not conscious that he was elaborately and ingeniously evading and -concealing the truth, when he said: - -‘But for feeling sure that I should displease you exceedingly, and that -it would be an ill return for your benefits, for a penniless fellow -like myself to speak to her, I should have proposed to her to-night.’ - -Mr. Bolton’s face brightened. - -‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I knew there was a liking on both sides. That makes it -smooth. Propose to her to-morrow morning, instead of to-night. You will -have her to yourself, for I shall be in town.’ - -They shook hands, but Wellfield’s eyes did not meet those of Mr. Bolton -as he went through the ceremony. He went away. Then it was upon that -proud head of Sara Ford that the stroke was to fall, and he was the -miserable wretch whose hand was to deal it. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -CONSEQUENCES. - - -Wellfield, at last left alone to ponder upon his position, felt himself -in thoroughly evil case. Once or twice a wonder crossed his mind as to -whether there were yet time to turn back, retrace his steps along this -dire and darksome path; fight his way back to the light, and to Sara -Ford; confess everything, and put himself and his fate in her hands. -He had a longing to do it, but when he reflected what that course -involved, he had not the courage. It was to lose every assured present -advantage for a problematical one; for he could not–at least he said -so to himself–be sure that Sara would forgive; and if she did not—— - -He followed Mr. Bolton’s advice, and it struck him once or twice that -it was an unusual thing for a man in Mr. Bolton’s position to have -deliberately invited a ruined man like himself, without friends and -without references, to marry his only daughter, and enter his family. -Perhaps, had he heard Mr. Bolton’s confidential conversation of the -night before with John Leyburn, he might have felt the distinction less -flattering. John and Mr. Bolton had agreed that a great change had come -over Nita, and both of them, though they did not openly speak it out, -and confess it, owned tacitly that they considered that change had been -brought about by her feelings for Jerome Wellfield. And Mr. Bolton had -said: - -‘He’ll never be any great shakes as a man of business, but it seems to -me that it is safe enough to put the management of his own–what used -to be his own–place into his hands. He will have every inducement to -care for it. And if it will make Nita happy, why should I refuse her -that happiness simply because the man has no money? He is steady and -honest, that seems certain. I’ve taken the trouble and the precaution -to find out all about his college career, and his habits there. It’s -all quite satisfactory–less backbone than I could have wished in my -girl’s husband, but no vice; music and painting and æsthetics–Nita -likes that sort of thing. Do you think I am a great fool?’ - -‘I think you are behaving in a very natural and very sensible manner,’ -said John. ‘He seems to me to be all you say; and if he only makes Nita -happy, what more is needed?’ - -‘Exactly what I think,’ said Mr. Bolton. ‘Now, leave your books and -come and have supper with us. We haven’t seen as much of you as we -ought to have done.’ - -John shut up the great folio book on ornithology which he had been -studying when Mr. Bolton arrived, and picked up some water-colour -drawings of different wild birds which lay beside the book. They were -exquisitely finished, and, as one could see, copied by a faithful and -loving hand, from nature. - -‘I promised these things to Nita,’ he casually observed. ‘Perhaps she -won’t care much about them now. But I will take them, at any rate.’ - -Mr. Bolton picked them up and looked at them. - -‘They are very nice,’ he observed. ‘I wish some other people had such -innocent tastes and habits, and would confine their studies to natural -objects like these.’ - -John laughed, a little sarcastically, as he put away his book, and -taking the sketches in his hand announced that he was ready. - -‘When Nita is married–or if she marries, Jack, you’ll have to look out -for a wife yourself,’ observed Mr. Bolton. - -‘Perhaps Nita will look out for some one, then, and do the courting -for me,’ said John, drily. ‘I have no mind to begin it on my own -account–and am not likely to find favour if I did.’ - -‘There you talk rubbish, despite that sage head of yours,’ replied his -elderly friend. ‘Suppose you delegate the choice to my cousin; she has -a wonderfully good opinion of you.’ - -John laughed aloud. ‘If her opinion of me is so high, it might be a -dangerous thing to confide the choice to her,’ he remarked. - -‘She might take a fancy to Abbot’s Knoll, and the master of it!’ -exclaimed Mr. Bolton, highly delighted. ‘There is no accounting for the -presumptuous fancies which enter a young man’s head. Here we are!’ - -They had gone in, little suspecting the scene which was even then -coming to an end, and the rest of the evening had been passed as has -been related. - -Jerome naturally knew nothing of all this conversation. He went to the -Abbey the following morning, and there was an unpleasantly-suggestive -rhyme running in his head as he took his way there–that rhyme which -gives the excellent advice: - - ‘Be sure you’re well off with the old love - Before you are on with the new.’ - -He found Nita at home, and alone–startled and surprised to see him; -overwhelmed with confusion as the sight of him recalled the scene of -last night. - -Muttering some incoherent words she would have made her escape, but -Jerome stopped her, and taking her hands, looked into her face with an -expression of such intense gravity, even severity, that she gazed up at -him spell-bound and fascinated. - -‘Did your father say anything to you this morning about me?’ he asked. - -‘No,’ whispered Nita. ‘Why–what–he has not told you to go away–oh, -he has not told you that?’ - -‘No. We were talking about you last night, Nita, and he told me this, -that if you would marry me, I might stay; but if not, _then_ I was to -go. What do you say? May I stay? Will you let me try to make you happy, -or must I go?’ - -Nita was nerveless, cold, and trembling–perhaps never in her life had -she felt so unhappy as in this moment–which should have been the one -of supreme delight–when the man she loved with all her soul asked her -to be his wife. - -‘Jerome–I–do you mean that you wish this?’ she asked, desperately -plunging into the question. - -‘I mean that I wish it more than anything in the world; and listen, -Nita–I would not conceal this from you–that I have loved, and loved -deeply, before ever I knew you: but that is all over, gone, done with, -finished! I cannot offer you all the passion of a first strong love, -but I can offer you my life’s devotion, if you will be so good, so -wonderfully good, as to take it.’ - -He saw the blank shade that came over her face: he believed that she -was going to summon up her strength of will to refuse him. If she did, -what was left to him–what in this world to make life worth an hour’s -living? - -‘Nita!’ he pleaded, in dire and dreadful earnest; ‘for God’s sake think -before you speak! Do not cast me away! Try to bear with me–or–or–I -shall be the most miserable wretch that ever lived!’ - -There was passion–there was even anguish in his tone–emotions which -Nita read there, and which overpowered her. All her love, all her -self-abnegation rushed out to meet him: - -‘Oh, Jerome, if you care for my love–if it will give you one hour’s -comfort–it is yours, it is yours! And my whole life with it–for I -love you better than you can ever know.’ - -‘Better than I can ever deserve, try as I may,’ he murmured, in the -deep tone of conviction, as he folded her in his arms, and soothed the -passionate agitation which shook her–and tried to quench the tears -which rushed from her eyes–tears which none could have named with -certainty as being of joy or of grief. - -But the die was cast: the bargain was struck. He might return to his -home with a mind free of care for the future; but with all the diviner -elements in his nature degraded, soiled, maimed, for they had been -dragged through the dust, and grievously maltreated. - -Avice and her escorts arrived late that afternoon, and he met them, and -they went with him to his house. That is, Avice and Ellen went with -him–Somerville returned to Brentwood. - -Avice felt a chill dismay strike her heart, at her brother’s reception -of her. There was an absence, a constraint, a coldness in all his -words and movements, which would not be removed. She expressed her -delight at the sight of her new home, and he absently replied that -it was very well, but rather dreary. She felt very soon that some -miserable explanation was to come. It came almost directly. They -had got into the house, and Avice had taken off her things, and was -somewhat languidly partaking of the meal which had been placed before -her. Suddenly she said: - -‘Jerome, you have never once asked after Sara.’ - -She saw his face suddenly turn pale, and his lips set. The hand which -had been lying on the table, trifling with a paper-knife, closed upon -that knife quickly and firmly: he raised his eyes to his sister’s face, -and said coldly: - -‘Miss Ford–how is she?’ - -‘Miss Ford!’ ejaculated the young girl, horror-struck. ‘Jerome! what -has happened? You speak as if she was nothing to you.’ - -‘Nor is she anything to me now,’ he answered, with that cold and -pitiless cruelty, unbending and unremorseful, which so often appears -in weak natures when they are driven to choose between themselves and -another–when the moment comes in which egoistic or altruistic feelings -can no longer be evenly balanced–in which one set must prevail over -the other. - -‘Sara–nothing to you! I–I do not understand,’ she stammered, with a -sickening sensation of fear and bewilderment. - -‘I will explain,’ he said, with the same cold glitter in his eyes, his -lips drawn to the same thin line–a look she had never seen him wear -before, and which sent her heart leaping to her throat. - -‘For heaven’s sake, Jerome, do not look at me in that manner!’ she -cried. ‘It is just–just as papa used to look when he thought some one -wanted punishing.’ - -‘Do not interrupt with such vague, foolish nonsense,’ he replied -impatiently. ‘I am going to write to Miss Ford to-night, to set her -free from her engagement to me. And I–wish to be free from her. I am -going to marry some one else.’ - -Avice had pushed back her chair, and sat looking wildly at him; her -hands clenched tightly; her breath coming quickly, but unable to speak -a word. - -‘It is as well you should understand this,’ he said, again beginning to -balance the paper-knife. ‘To-night you will want to rest, I suppose, -but afterwards you will have to meet the lady I speak of; and it -is to be hoped you will conduct yourself with more composure, more -self-respect, in fact, than you display at present.’ - -Then Avice found words. - -‘Do you imagine that I will be false just because it pleases you to -be so!’ she exclaimed. ‘If you choose to behave like a coward and a -liar–yes, a coward and a liar,’ she repeated, looking full into his -eyes with an unblenching scorn that scorched him, ‘and that to the -noblest woman that ever lived, _I_ am neither a coward nor a liar. I -will have nothing to do with this girl you are going to marry. You have -brought me home, and you can make me miserable, I suppose. And you can -make me see her, I dare say; but you can never make me like her, or -behave as if I liked her, or as if I wished her to be my sister. And I -never will. You may take my word for it. I stand by Sara Ford to the -last, if I had to die for it.’ - -She spoke with vehement passion, and looked transformed. She spoke too -like a woman, not like a child any more. And yet she was but a child, -and a helpless one. He answered composedly: - -‘It is as well that you have shown me by this specimen how you intend -to behave. I will give you till to-morrow morning to reflect upon your -position. Allow me to remind you that I never asked you to behave to -Miss Bolton as if you liked her. It will be perfectly immaterial to her -how you behave. But I want civility from you towards my future wife, -or, if you choose to withhold it, I shall have to exert my authority as -your guardian, and remove you–in other words, my dear little girl, I -have no wish to make your life uncomfortable, but unless you can obey -me without making scenes like this, I shall send you to school.’ - -Now ‘school’ had been the horror, and the bugbear, and the _bête -noire_ of Miss Wellfield’s life from her earliest childhood. She had -often been threatened with it; and seldom had the threat failed to -work its soothing spell. On hearing Jerome’s words now–on seeing the -cool unrelenting expression in his eyes, and the slight sarcastic -smile upon his lips, and recognising the absolute power he held -over her destiny–how easily he could make her miserable, if not so -easily happy; remembering that Sara was far away, and that under the -circumstances she might never see that dear friend again; remembering -that she had never seen this Miss Bolton, who might be quite ignorant -of all that had happened–remembering, in short, her own helplessness -and desolation, she burst into a passion of tears, of hopeless, -agonised weeping, exclaiming now and then: - -‘What a home-coming! Oh, what a dreadful coming home!’ - -Jerome let her cry in the corner of the settee, and took no notice -of her; till about seven o’clock he rose from his chair, went to -her and put his hand upon her shoulder. She looked up, her face all -tear-stained and pitiful; her golden hair tumbled about her head. - -‘I am going to the Abbey, and shall not be in till after ten o’clock,’ -he said. ‘Am I to tell Miss Bolton that I may take you to see her -to-morrow, or not?’ - -‘I don’t know,’ replied Avice, hopelessly. - -‘Ah, you will know by to-morrow. I shall tell her that I intend to -bring you. Good-evening. I should advise you to go to bed before long.’ - -But she did not go to bed. She sat in a stupor of grief and -bewilderment. While she had been crying, Jerome had written a letter. -Her passion had irritated him, and he had allowed his irritation to -influence his words to Sara. He had ‘set her free’ (no need to put such -a pitiful document into print–it was feeble and despicable, illogical, -and yet stabbing like a dagger, as such productions–the efforts of -selfishness to kick down the ladder by which it has risen–always -must be). ‘He would not stand in her way, he who had nothing to offer -her–no faintest prospect of a home, or of anything worthy to give -her.’ In short, under the pretence of consulting her interests, Jerome -Wellfield very decidedly asked Sara Ford to dismiss him, to release him -from his bond. - -Avice, of course, knew nothing of this. She only knew that she had come -home to find everything miserable, to find an impostor in the brother -to whom she had given the whole worship of her youthful heart. And yet, -was he an impostor, or was he not rather a very wicked, dark, bad man, -like some Byronic hero? - -She sat in the corner of the settee, darkly brooding, when some one -tapped quickly at the front-door; and then she heard it open, and a -man’s step in the little porch. Some one entered, saying in a slow, -lazy voice: - -‘I say, Wellfield, I thought I’d call to wish—— Oh, I beg your -pardon!’ followed in a more animated accent. - -Avice looked at the speaker, and saw a tall, clumsy-looking young man -peering at her, rather than looking, from a pair of short-sighted -brown eyes. On his homely, square-cut face there was an expression of -some embarrassment, not partaken of in the least by Miss Wellfield. -She rose, made a gracious bow, mentally casting a reflection of some -dismay upon her probably dishevelled appearance, and said, with -self-possession: - -‘My brother has gone to the Abbey.’ - -To herself she was thinking, ‘What a great, queer, awkward-looking -creature. Surely _he_ can’t belong to one of those “fossilised Roman -Catholic families” whom Jerome told me about, as being the only -aborigines fit to visit.’ - -‘Oh! I saw the light in the window, and supposed he was in. I did not -know you had arrived.’ - -‘Do you want to see him particularly?’ - -‘Oh, another time will do, I suppose. He has just got engaged to my -cousin and my greatest friend, and I came to wish him joy.’ - -A pause. Then Avice said: - -‘Miss Bolton is your cousin. Then of course you know her?’ - -‘I have known her since she was a baby.’ - -‘Then you must be Mr. Leyburn, I am sure. Jerome often used to speak of -you in his letters.’ - -‘Yes, that is my name,’ said John, unable to take his eyes from the -figure before him, with her lovely flushed face, ruffled golden hair, -and violet eyes at once bright with recent tears and dark and tired -with the fatigue of travelling, and, it must be confessed, with an -overpowering drowsiness, to which she had been just on the point of -yielding when he arrived. She was like nothing he had ever seen before, -and he felt tongue-tied and paralysed in her presence–as if, if he -spoke, he would infallibly say something idiotic, even drivelling, and -as though, if he moved, his boots would creak, or he would fall over -something. Together with these sensations, an intense anxiety neither -to speak as a fool, nor to tumble down; which combined currents of -emotion rendered his position anything but an agreeable one. - -Avice herself had begun to think: - -‘He is fearfully clumsy, but I am sure he has honest eyes; and if he -has known this horrid girl all his life, he can tell me something about -her. I shall ask him.’ - -She therefore said: - -‘I was too tired to go out to-night, and—’ - -‘And I am keeping you,’ exclaimed John, hastily, shocked at the -reflections called up by this discovery. - -‘Not at all. I wish you would tell me something about Miss Bolton, as -you know her so well. Is she pretty?’ - -John looked involuntarily at the lovely face and form confronting him, -and replied, slowly: - -‘Not very–but she is a perfect angel of goodness, and very nice.’ - -‘Ah!’ said Avice, looking earnestly at him, while a new element seemed -introduced into the complication. If Miss Bolton was good and nice, it -was not Sara Ford alone who had been wronged. - -‘Is she clever?’ she pursued. - -‘She may not be exactly a genius,’ said John, ‘but she is the very -least stupid girl I ever knew. She is charming. I–I should think you -would like her,’ he added, a little confusedly. - -‘It is to be hoped I may, as she is to be my brother’s wife,’ said -Avice, in so sharp and bitter a tone that John looked at her in -astonishment. Avice saw the look, and said hastily: ‘The engagement is -a surprise to me. I only heard of it this evening.’ - -‘Because it was only decided this morning,’ said John, with a beaming -smile. ‘Nita only told me of it herself this afternoon. I’ve been -congratulating her, and it is good to see her so happy. And I think I -shall pursue Wellfield up to the Abbey, and give him my good wishes -there. Nita will not mind. Good-night, Miss Wellfield.’ - -John’s drawl saved his sentences from the appearance of abruptness -which might otherwise have marred their beauty. - -‘Good-night,’ said Avice, absently. - -She held out her hand, and he shook it, and then let himself out, -painfully conscious that he knocked his feet together, and dashed -an umbrella or two to the ground in his exit, in a manner of which -Wellfield, and such as he, would never have been guilty. - -As for Avice, she was reflecting more and more hopelessly on the -situation. Good, clever, charming, and very happy. Then it was evident -that she loved Jerome very much–and if she knew nothing, it was not -she who was to blame. - -Avice carried her meditations to her room, where weariness soon -overcame her. In sleep she forgot alike the long journey home, the -strange, cold reception accorded to her, the dreadful news Jerome had -given her, her own anguish, and the great wrong done to Sara Ford. She -forgot even to wonder whether she should consent to go and see Miss -Bolton the following day, or sternly choose a dreary fate, and, for the -sake of duty, go to school. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -‘WOO’D AND MARRIED, AND A’.’ - - -With the morning, when Jerome asked her what she was going to do, Avice -replied: - -‘The only thing, there is for me to do I suppose. I must go and see -her, since you insist upon it.’ - -The flash in her eyes, as she spoke, was as far removed from meekness -as anything well could be. Jerome recognised, he could not help it, -traces of Sara’s influence–of her free, grand, bold nature in his -quiet little sister. - -With Sara no good quality was suppressed, and he had noticed, even -yesterday, a franker, freer, more open bearing in his sister. It was -disagreeably apparent again to-day, because, of course, independent -outspokenness must be inconvenient and irksome to a selfishness which -has had to descend to subterfuge and intrigue, and the conscience of -which is no longer a ‘flawless crystal.’ Yes, he recognised the broad, -bold seal of Sara’s soul stamped upon this fragile-looking girl. - -‘I am glad you have begun to think and speak more reasonably,’ he said -coolly. - -‘I do not think any differently,’ she flashed out. ‘I think exactly the -same; but I have heard things about Miss Bolton which make me think -that I ought to pity her, not hate her; and I shall be silent about you -and what you have done, because I believe it will be for the best–not -because I agree with you.’ - -‘I shall be in to lunch at half-past one,’ he said, ‘and afterwards we -can go up to the Abbey.’ - -He could not answer her, but he could not silence her, and his -feelings were not enviable. Avice, he perceived had the whip-like -tongue of her father, only with her the whip was used to scourge all -that was not ‘pure and of good report.’ - -‘Very well,’ she replied, indifferently. ‘I shall probably go and see -Ellen off to the station, and after that I shall remain indoors.’ - -‘Ellen!’ he exclaimed, for he had forgotten her. He went into the -kitchen, and gave her the letter which she carried to Sara Ford. He -could not meet the woman’s eyes; he could not look either easy, or -natural, or self-possessed, as he desired her to give the letter, -without adding word or message. He perceived, without looking at her, -that she held herself stiffly, and received the envelope and his -commission in perfect silence. Then he went into the parlour again, -and had taken his hat off the peg, when Avice called out in a voice -from which all the liquid tenderness of their first acquaintance had -vanished: - -‘Jerome, is it permitted me to write to my friend Miss Ford?’ - -He turned back upon her with scintillating eyes, and teeth set. - -‘Avice, take care how you go too far,’ he said. - -But there was not a drop of craven blood in her veins. There was -dauntless defiance in her open glance, as she said: - -‘Surely you never wish me to speak of her as _your_ friend again! And -I merely ask to hear what you have to say, because I intend to write -whatever your answer may be. I wished to take precautions–that’s all. -I intend, metaphorically, to cast myself at her feet, and beg her not -to visit the sins of my brother too hardly upon me.’ - -‘Since you have made up your mind what to do, it was unnecessary to ask -me,’ he answered, setting his teeth. - -‘I take that as a most gracious permission. I am glad that you see and -speak more reasonably,’ she retorted, mocking his own words. - -He did not speak, but left the house, and during his short journey -to the station he felt–it was a degrading feeling, no doubt–but -he, Jerome Wellfield, who, six months ago, had been as proud, as -fastidious, and as exclusive a young man as any one of them that trod -this earth, crouched morally at that moment, like a whipped hound. He -was conscious of a cowardly longing to make Avice and Nita known to -one another as speedily as possible. He had an intuitive conviction -that Nita’s charm would soon win Avice’s heart, and then his mistress’s -purity and sweetness would stand between him and his sister’s tongue. -It was a delightful, an elevating, a soul-inspiring position, and he -enjoyed it to the full. - -Avice, left behind, broke down, burst into a passion of tears, and, -engrossed in her sorrow, was surprised by Ellen, who was going away. -To her she gave the broken messages which Ellen had repeated to her -mistress. She was in too sore distress to go with Mrs. Nelson to the -station; but parted from her with more floods of tears, and cried long -after she had gone, till she had a headache, and everything looked -blurred and dim before her eyes, and while she was in this condition -some one knocked at the door, and on the servant opening it, Avice -heard a soft, gentle voice ask if Miss Wellfield was at home, and the -answer in the affirmative of the country servant, who would have said -the same thing had Avice been fainting, or raving in a delirium. No -escape was possible, for the front-door of the old house opened, as has -been said, straight into the irregular-shaped, raftered parlour. - -She gazed earnestly at the figure of the girl who now entered, with a -great dun-coloured mastiff at her side, whose demeanour proclaimed him -an inseparable companion. She saw a slight, pretty figure in a large -sealskin paletot and a shady velvet hat with a large black feather -drooping round the brim, and soft-hued brown velvet dress. Compared -with the splendid beauty and queenly presence of that other woman this -was an insignificant apparition enough, but Avice’s eye and heart -instantly appreciated the charm of the sympathetic eyes, the mobile -face, and gentle manner. - -Nita came forward, looking like anything rather than a rich heiress who -had just triumphantly bought away by her gold the allegiance of another -woman’s lover–which was the character in which Avice had pictured her -to herself: it was she who was blushing and embarrassed, and who said, -almost timidly: - -‘I could not wait till afternoon to see you; and I did not like Jerome -to bring you up to the Abbey to me, as if I were some one so dreadfully -grand. I thought we could get on better without him’–she smiled–‘and -I hope you don’t mind my having come.’ - -She held out her hand. Avice was overpowered. With all her wrath and -indignation she was but a soft-hearted girl. The instant she saw Nita -she comprehended that it was she who had been deceived all along. She -felt she could not hate this girl, even to remain loyal to Sara Ford. -She stood still and silent, with a quivering lip. Nita saw it, and took -both her hands, saying: - -‘I hope you don’t mind. I will go away if you do.’ - -‘No–no. It is very kind–very good of you to come,’ said Avice, her -voice dying away; breaking down entirely, she wept again, as she -realised the miserable hopelessness of the whole affair. - -‘What is the matter?’ said Nita, sitting down beside her. ‘Why do you -cry? Is it because Jerome has asked me to marry him? I hope not?’ - -‘It–it is because I have left a very dear friend,’ Avice stammered, -and then, with a huge effort, she recovered herself. It would not -do–she must be composed. - -‘Ah, that is sad. But do try not to be too sorry. I hope you will be my -friend. I have so longed to see you, and I have asked so many questions -about you that I am sure Jerome must have been weary of answering them.’ - -(‘“Jerome” at every other word,’ thought Avice. ‘I am sure she must be -desperately fond of him. It is dreadful.’) - -She recovered herself, lifted her head, dried her eyes, and smiled -valiantly. - -‘I’m very stupid,’ she said. - -She could not address words of welcome to Nita, and the latter noticed -it, but was resolved to ignore it, and to make her new sister love her -sooner or later. - -‘What a beautiful dog you have!’ said Avice, stooping to caress him. - -‘That is Speedwell–my greatest friend, next to John Leyburn. By the -way, John said he had disturbed you last night, and he feared you would -think him rude.’ - -‘I thought him funny,’ said Avice, a small smile beginning to creep -to the corners of her mouth. Nita sat and looked at her, and suddenly -exclaimed: - -‘How beautiful you are! I always thought no one could be handsomer than -Jerome, but you are like him–“only more so,” as John says. I hope you -won’t think me rude if I look at you rather often.’ - -This kind of innocent flattery was very pleasant. Avice began to cheer -up, to forget Ellen on her way to Sara with that dreadful letter. An -hour’s conversation made the girls like one another thoroughly. Nita -was not satisfied until she had carried Avice off to the Abbey, and -left a message for Jerome, desiring him, if he wanted either of them, -to come and seek them there. - -Here Avice was solemnly introduced to Mr. Bolton and to Aunt Margaret; -and in observing the latter found such keen entertainment as to make -her forget her troubles. It was only when suddenly Jerome stood before -them, and she saw him kiss Nita, and the quick, enraptured smile of the -latter, that the pain suddenly returned for a moment; and the thought -of Sara, alone, gave her a bitter pang. - -John Leyburn joined the party at supper, and was observed to be -unusually silent; in fact, almost speechless. When Nita, being apart -with him during the evening, innocently observed: - -‘What do you think of her, John? is she not _lovely_?’ the unhappy -young man blushed crimson, and, not looking at ‘her’ at all, fumbled -wildly amongst some books, and stammered: - -‘She’s–yes, she’s–rather good-looking.’ - -‘John!’ exclaimed Nita, looking at him for a moment, and then breaking -into laughter, not loud but prolonged, and of intense enjoyment. - -‘Well?’ said John, maddened in the consciousness that he had said the -very thing he least wished to express; ‘rather good-looking’ being the -very last description he would have wished to apply to Avice Wellfield. - -The evening passed over. As Jerome and his sister walked home, he did -not ask her what she thought of Nita, and she did not volunteer any -observation on the subject. Only, as she held out her hand and wished -him good-night, he asked: - -‘Well, have you decided whether you will stay with me, or go to school?’ - -She replied, coldly, - -‘I should prefer to stay here,’ and left him. - -Indeed, she had quite decided that she would prefer to stay there. -Avice had to learn early to decide in a difficult matter: she found -herself face to face with a hard problem; she acted as a girl, as one -inexperienced and untried, with no great range of observation, no -extensive data to go upon, was likely to act. She was conscious that -Jerome had done wrong; she was aware that Sara Ford, at least, must be -suffering cruelly from his wrong-doing, and the problem was, whether -she ought to tell Nita Bolton what she knew, or whether she ought not -to tell her. She ended by not telling her; it seemed enough that there -should be one heartbreak in the case. Nita’s joy in her love, her -happiness, her high spirits, smote upon the other girl’s heart many a -time during the short engagement that lasted only while settlements -were being made, and legal affairs settled: she could not find it in -her heart to smite down that joy and happiness; she could not convince -herself that it was right to do so. - -Meanwhile, two or three days passed, and then Jerome had news–if news -it could be called, wordless and yet eloquent as it was–of Sara. A -small packet arrived one morning, and the label belonging to it was -directed in her hand; bold, clear, and legible. He opened it, and found -the sapphire hoop he had given her when she had promised to marry him. -Nothing else–not a word–not a syllable–but that was enough, and more -than enough. It contained his ‘freedom,’ and her condemnation of him–a -condemnation too utter, too strong and intense for words. Wellfield had -arrived at that pitch of moral degradation in which he felt relieved -rather than otherwise, when the ring was in his keeping again. He had -opened the packet at the breakfast-table. Avice saw the ring, and with -suave but treacherous sweetness of accent, inquired: - -‘Is that a present for Miss Bolton?’ - -Jerome made no answer. He wished the whole business were over, but -he felt no compunction now; no thought of turning back or relenting -entered his mind. - -The marriage was not to be delayed. They only waited until settlements -could be arranged, and in cases like that, settlements are not apt -to be tedious affairs. Mr. Bolton (suffice it to say this) acted -generously. Both Nita and Jerome were amply provided for during Mr. -Bolton’s lifetime. At his death they were again to have an access -of property, but the great bulk of his estate was so arranged that -it should fall to Nita’s children, especially to an eldest son, in -case there should be one. And there was a stipulation that Wellfield -should continue to attend to business in Burnham–at least, during Mr. -Bolton’s lifetime. - -To this Jerome agreed, nothing loth; for a constant leisure, with -no fixed or settled occupation, was a prospect he did not like to -contemplate. - -Everything ran smoothly–wheels which are oiled with that infallible -solution known as ‘wealth’ usually do run smoothly. Nita had lost all -her first doubts and fears. Jerome was an assiduous lover; under the -new influence she bloomed into life and vigour, and something that was -very near being beauty. The sad November closed for her in a blaze of -sunshine. The death of the old year was to be the birth of her new -life; the entrance to a long, sun-lighted path, down which she was to -travel for the remainder of her life. Aunt Margaret’s ‘croakings’ had -to cease. Mr. Bolton daily congratulated himself upon the success of -his experiment; daily felt that he had done right in seeking Nita’s -happiness, not the gratification of whatever ambition might have -underlaid his money-making diligence of the last twenty years. - -On the second of December–her twentieth birthday–a dank, mournful, -sad-looking morning, with the leaden clouds covering up the hills, and -a raw mist rising from the river–on this morning Anita Bolton became -the wife of Jerome Wellfield; Avice and John officiating as bridesmaid -and groomsman, Aunt Margaret as guest, and Mr. Bolton in his natural -capacity as father, and giver-away of the bride. - -When it came to Nita’s turn to say ‘I will’ to all the portentous -questions asked, Avice saw, with a sudden thrill, and a quick -remembrance of all the dark background of this wedding ceremony, -how the girl made a perceptible pause, and raising her face, turned -it towards her bridegroom, looked directly into his eyes, a full, -inquiring glance, and then, with a faint smile, and a little nervous -sigh, repeated slowly and deliberately: - -‘I will.’ - -It was over. The ring was placed upon Nita’s hand; she walked down the -aisle of the quaint old church–grey and hoary with the recollections -and the dust of many centuries of the dead–down that aisle she went, -Jerome Wellfield’s wife. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -STAGE V. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -SARA. - - ‘For life is not as idle ore, - But iron dug from central gloom: - And heated hot with burning fears, - And dipped in baths of hissing tears, - And battered with the strokes of doom, - To shape and use.’ - - -Ellen Nelson had conjured her young lady not to fret, for that there -was no man in the world who was worth it. But her words had been spoken -into ears made unconscious of their meaning by the heart’s agony–and -for answer, Miss Ford had fainted in her old nurse’s arms; or, if not -absolutely fainting, she had been stunned and stupid with despair and -the shock and horror of the blow. But that merciful unconsciousness did -not last long. Soon she roused again to reality; opening her eyes, and -perplexed at first to account for the blank dejection she felt–for -the throbbing of her temples, and the aching of her heart. Then it all -rushed over her mind: Ellen’s arrival; her brief, portentous words–the -letter she had brought–Sara started up. - -‘Ellen, where is the letter I was reading?’ - -‘Never mind the letter, Miss Ford. It will do you no good to read it.’ - -‘I wish to see it. Give it to me, if you please.’ - -Reluctantly, Ellen was obliged to yield up the hated scrap of paper, -which her mistress read through again, with a calm and unmoved -countenance. Then she took off Jerome’s ring, and with hands that were -now as steady as need be, made it up into a little parcel, directed -it, and said: - -‘Ellen, I am very sorry to send you out again, so tired as you are; but -if you love me, you must go and put this in the post for me–get it -registered, or whatever it needs–I don’t know. There is a quarter of -an hour. I dare not trust it to anyone else.’ - -‘Surely I will, ma’am, this moment. And ... you won’t be working -yourself into a state again, while I am out?’ - -‘Certainly not. Why should I? That packet that you hold in your -hand–when it is safely gone, I shall be at peace.’ - -‘I am glad of it, ma’am,’ said Ellen, taking the letter, and hastening -as quickly as she might, to and from the Post-Office. - -On her return she found that her young lady had indeed not been idle. -One end of the table was spread with a cloth, and she had placed upon -it bread and butter, and cold meat. The gas-stand was lighted, and the -little kettle upon it was singing cheerily–everything looked bright -and cheerful, only that Miss Ford’s face was white and haggard, and her -eyes hollow, while just between her eyebrows there was a slight fold, -telling of a world of mental suffering. - -‘Miss Ford!’ exclaimed Ellen, almost shocked; ‘you shouldn’t have done -that. I could have got my supper ready without so much trouble.’ - -‘Come, sit down and refresh yourself, Ellen, for I am sure you will be -tired,’ said Sara, composedly. And she insisted upon Ellen’s sitting -down, and eating and drinking, while she asked little questions about -England, sitting upright in her chair, and even laughing once or twice, -but always with the same blanched face, the same unnatural fixity of -the eyes; and once Ellen saw how, in a momentary silence, a visible -shudder shook her–how she caught her breath and bit her lips. - -All this took away Ellen’s appetite. She scarcely ate anything, but -professed herself mightily refreshed with what she had taken; and then -she rose and began to take away the things, and suggested that it was -time Miss Ford had her supper too. - -‘I don’t want anything, thank you,’ she said; and it was in vain that -Ellen urged her to take something–a glass of wine; a bit of bread–for -she dreaded the results of a long fast and a long vigil, coming upon -this present mental and moral anguish. - -Sara refused, and there was that in her manner, with all its -gentleness, which prevented Ellen from approaching a step nearer. -She could only grieve silently, and wish intensely that her young -lady had a single friend to whom to turn in this emergency. But there -was no one, neither father nor mother nor brother, to help her with -sympathising heart and strong protecting hand. There was no one but -Ellen herself, and her mental attitude towards the girl always was -and had been one of deference, with all the motherly love she felt -towards her. Amongst Miss Ford’s various friends and acquaintances -at Elberthal, she could think only of one whose face had impressed -her, whose manner and–to use the expressive German word–whose -whole _Wesen_ had carried to her mind the conviction that he was -trustworthy–and that was Rudolf Falkenberg. But he was, so far as she -knew, a new friend, and a man; not one who could be appealed to in such -a case. Thus, nothing remained to the poor woman but, when her mistress -insisted upon it, to go to bed. She did so, on receiving from Sara a -promise that she also would not be long in seeking her room. - -Wearied with five days’ almost incessant travelling, and exhausted -with the mingled emotions which had filled the last forty-eight hours, -Ellen, though she had determined not to rest till her mistress went to -bed, was soon overcome with her fatigue, and dropped asleep; nor did -she awaken again until daylight, pouring into her room, told her it -must be growing late. She sprang up, and throwing on a dressing-gown, -opened the door and looked into the parlour. No one was there, and all -was still. Perhaps Sara slept. Ellen knocked at the closed door of -the bedroom, and was bidden by a composed but weary voice to come in. -She entered, and saw that Sara had never undressed. She had thrown a -wrapping gown about her, and was just then seated on a chair beside her -bed, which, as Ellen saw with dismay, had not been disturbed. As the -woman entered Sara looked at her–her face whiter than ever, her eyes -distended, an expression of such blank, utter woe in her whole look and -attitude as appalled Ellen, who said in a trembling tone: - -‘Child, you promised me to rest!’ - -‘Did I, Ellen? Then I forgot it, and if I had remembered, I could not -have kept my promise. I could not have lain still for two seconds.’ - -‘But, Miss Sara, you’ll make yourself very ill, and you will break my -heart.’ - -‘Oh, what nonsense!’ she said, with a sound like a little laugh. ‘What -is the use of lying down when one can’t sleep. By-and-by I shall be so -tired that I can’t help sleeping, and when I feel like that, I will go -to bed.’ - -She folded her hands, and leaned back her head, and there was the same -expression upon her face as that which had been there ever since she -had given Ellen the little parcel containing Jerome’s ring to post–an -expression like the changeless one of some beautiful marble mask from -which a pair of restless, wretched human eyes looked forth, haunting -all who can read the language they speak. - -Fear seized Ellen’s heart at the long duration of this strained, -unnatural calm. She dreaded the end of it. A terrible vision of her -young mistress, with perhaps reason for ever overturned, leading an -existence worse than death, occurred to her. - -‘I wish he could see her,’ she thought bitterly. ‘It would haunt him -to his dying day, and if it drove him mad, it is only what he would -deserve. To think of an empty fool like that playing with the heart of -a woman like this. ’Tis enough to make one believe there’s nothing but -evil to prevail in the world.’ - -She dressed herself hastily, and prepared some coffee, of which she -induced Sara to partake. The day dragged on. No one came near. Even -Falkenberg failed in his usual call. Sara said nothing to Ellen of -any suffering she endured. The woman could only guess from the utter -transformation of her usual ways and habits that she was enduring -tortures, and her own pain and perplexity increased. Once Sara went to -her studio, and began to paint; but in a moment she flung down brush -and palette, and began to pace about the bare boards, restlessly. - -She did not resume the effort: it had been in the first instance -mechanical. - -The day appeared like a week to Ellen. It was November, when the -daylight soon faded. The weather was cold; there was a foretaste -already of a biting winter, in a sharp, black frost, and a leaden sky, -which caused the day to close in even earlier than usual. - -It was evening. Sara had taken up a book, and was gazing unseeingly at -the page, and turning over the leaves restlessly. Suddenly she closed -the book, and said: - -‘Is not this Wednesday, Ellen?’ - -‘Yes, Miss Sara, it is.’ - -‘It is Frau Wilhelmi’s evening at home. I shall go. And if I do, it is -time to get ready at once. Will you just go and get my dress?’ - -‘Miss Ford! you are not fit to go out,’ exclaimed Ellen, desperation -lending boldness to her. - -Sara looked at her, and repeated her order. Ellen, in distress, asked -which dress she would wear. - -‘Oh, any. The old black velvet–that will be best, for it is cold.’ - -Ellen was perforce obliged to go and get out the dress, and help Sara -to make her toilette, feeling all the time that it was as if she -attired a ghost. When she was ready the young lady looked beautiful, as -usual, but it was with a kind of beauty which no sane person cares to -see. Face and lips were ghastly white; there was a deathlike composure -and calm in her expression; only those beautiful eyes looked restlessly -forth, dark and clouded, and full of a misery which surpassed the power -of words to utter, or tears to alleviate. Sara hardly knew herself -why she was going out; there was a vague consciousness that her own -thoughts and the horrible suffering they brought with them were -becoming rapidly intolerable; that soon, if she did not see and speak -to some other beings, she would shriek aloud, or lose her reason, or -that something terrible would happen. She looked at herself in the -glass, and Ellen suggested that she wanted a little rouge. - -‘Rouge!’ repeated Sara, laughing drily; ‘why, I am in a fever. Feel my -hand!’ - -Ellen took it, and incidentally felt as well, while her finger rested -on Miss Ford’s wrist, that her pulse was beating with an abnormal -rapidity. But the hand was burning as she had said. - -With a dark foreboding of evil, Ellen threw a cloak around the girl’s -shoulders, and put on her own shawl and bonnet to accompany her, for -the Wilhelmi’s house was hard by, and at Elberthal it was the custom to -walk to every kind of entertainment. - -‘Oh, how cool and refreshing!’ exclaimed Sara with a deep sigh, as the -icy air struck upon her burning face. - -Ellen’s reply was a shiver. They soon stood at the Wilhelmis’ door, -and, as Ellen left her, Sara bade her return for her at half-past ten. -It was then after half-past eight. - -The door was opened. Ellen watched her mistress as she passed into the -blaze of light in the hall, and, standing there, unfastened her cloak. -Then the door was closed again. Repressing her forebodings as well as -she could, Ellen returned home, and set herself to counting the minutes -until it should be time for her to return to Professor Wilhelmi’s. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -‘YES.’ - - ‘And I was a full-leav’d, full-bough’d tree, - Tranquil and trembling and deep in the night. - And tall and still, down the garden-ways, - She moved in the liquid, calm moonlight. - - ‘Her moonshot eyes, strained back with grief, - Her hands clench’d down, she pressed from sight; - And I was a full-leav’d, full-bough’d tree, - Tranquil and trembling and deep in the night.’ - - -Sara laid her cloak on a table, and followed the servant into Frau -Wilhelmi’s reception-room. The well-known scene smote upon her eyes -with a weird strangeness and sense of unfamiliarity; it was the same, -with the accustomed sounds of loud talking, merry laughter, and -resounding music. Light and sounds blended together and beat upon her -brain in a combined thunder. She could distinguish nothing clearly or -distinctly, beyond the faces and the voices of those who actually came -up to her and addressed her. - -By a vast effort of will she kept her composed, impassive demeanour. -When she set out she had a vague idea that on finding herself in -the midst of a gay and animated company, she would be able to smile -and speak and do as they did, even if mechanically. But the effort -failed. Her lips felt stiffened, her tongue tied, so that smiling was -impossible, and only the merest ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ would pass her lips. - -‘_Nun_, Miss Ford!’ exclaimed Frau Wilhelmi, taking her hand. ‘You look -ill, _recht elend und leidend_. Have you got a cold?’ - -‘No–a little headache. I thought it would do me good to come out,’ -she murmured. - -Had she followed her own impulse, she would have turned and left the -house again instantly, but she had an underlying determination to go -through with the ordeal, having once braved it, albeit it proved more -scathing than she had expected. - -Then Luise came up to her, laughing, with some absurd story, -to which Sara listened, thankful that she was not expected to -speak–interruptions being received unfavourably by the volatile Luise. -Luise did not notice Miss Ford’s excessive pallor, or if she did was -too absorbed in her own affairs to observe it particularly, or be -shocked by it. - -Then came Max Helmuth, who saw instantly that something was wrong, but -did not feel himself on sufficiently intimate terms with Miss Ford to -ask any questions. - -To Sara, the whole thing continued to grow more and more like a hideous -dream. She thought she must have been there an hour, and that she -might plead her headache as an excuse, and go away. Looking at a great -_Schwarzwälder_ which hung against the wall of the hall, she saw that -it was just ten minutes since she had entered the house. - -The rooms were unusually full that evening, and less notice was taken -of her than usual; but several pairs of eyes were fixed upon her in -wondering astonishment, and she was collected enough to see it, and to -desire more strongly than ever to get away. But a mere trifle prevented -her–the idea, namely, of the surprise and pity she would see in -Frau Wilhelmi’s eyes if she went up to her now ten minutes after her -arrival, and took leave. She looked around for a chair, feeling like -some hunted creature which would escape, but is paralysed with fear -when most it needs all its power of wind and limb. - -And as she looked round, some one took her hand, and a voice said: - -‘Pardon me, Miss Ford–you look ill to-night. Would you like to sit -down?’ - -It was Rudolf who addressed her. For a moment the horrible strain of -the nervous tension under which she was suffering relaxed; as she -looked up at him her eyes wavered; her lips and nostrils fluttered for -an instant, and she drew a long breath. The end of her endurance was -coming, she felt. - -‘Yes, please,’ she said, in a voice that did not rise above a whisper. - -He drew her hand through his arm, saying, ‘Let us go to the -hall–there is a bench there;’ and as he spoke, he glanced casually -and unthinkingly down at the hand which a moment ago his own had -covered–at Sara’s left hand. She wore a pair of old white-lace -mittens–one of the few relics of old prosperity which remained to her, -and this allowed her hands and their adornments to be fully seen. As -Falkenberg glanced at that hand, he missed something. He paused, as -they passed out; his eyes leaped to her face, to her hand; back to her -face again. Sara’s eyes had followed his. The first flush of colour -that had touched her cheeks since Ellen had brought her message of -sorrow, rushed over her face now. She understood the look, the glance -which asked, ‘Your ring–where is it?’ - -‘Yes,’ she said, beneath her breath, and then, as if mastering a -momentary weakness, she recovered herself; her face took the same -marble whiteness again. She let him lead her to a cushioned bench near -a pyramid of ferns and a little fountain, which stood in the centre of -the hall. She sat down, but it was only for a moment. Then she started -up again, ‘Will you–would you mind taking me home again? I–I feel -ill,’ she faltered, her powers of endurance at an end. - -‘Surely I will,’ he answered, finding her cloak and wrapping it round -her. - -Sara gathered up her dress, took his arm, and they passed out of the -house. - -Five minutes’ walking brought them to the door of her home. Falkenberg -rang the bell, and as they waited, he said: - -‘Miss Ford, may I come in? There is something I want to say to you.’ - -‘Oh yes! Come in and say what you like!’ she replied; and now that -she had found speech again, the impulse to reveal her agony was -uncontrollable–or, rather, the power of concealing it, of speaking of -other things, had disappeared. ‘Say what you like,’ she repeated. ‘If -you had come to say you had brought something to kill me with, I would -thank you on my knees.’ - -‘Yes, I know you would, but I have not brought that,’ he answered, as -the door swung open from within, and they entered. - -Ellen started up on seeing them. - -‘Oh, sir, I am glad you have brought Miss Ford home!’ she exclaimed. - -‘Leave us, Ellen,’ said her mistress. ‘Herr Falkenberg wishes to speak -with me.’ - -Ellen left the room. Sara looked at her guest. He, too, was pale, -and his eyes full of a deep and serious purpose. His heart, too, was -aching, with a pain almost as intolerable as that of her own. - -He read the whole story; that which caused his pain was his own -powerlessness to help her. He knew her better than she knew herself. -He knew that it was not grief which gave the keenest sting to her -present agony, but her outraged pride–the blow which had been dealt -to her honour and her self-respect. It was upon that feeling that he -calculated now, in what he was about to do. It was upon that, that he -staked his whole hopes, as he threw. He had told her once that she -might, some day, do something which conventional people would call -outrageous. He was bent now upon persuading her to such a deed, and he -trusted chiefly to that infuriated pride to help him. - -‘Well?’ she said, with a harsh laugh, ‘have you come to talk about my -missing ring, Herr Falkenberg? Do you want to know where it is, and who -has it now? I can inform you that it has gone back to the man who gave -it me–because–because he has sent me word that I am free. He thinks -of marrying some one else.’ - -There was a discordant, grating sound in her voice, and she laughed -again. The laugh encouraged Rudolf in his purpose. - -‘I guessed it was something like that,’ he said, ‘when I saw that it -was gone. The man could neither appreciate nor understand you. I have -felt it for a long time.’ - -‘Is that to console me?’ she asked sarcastically. - -‘It should console you, in time. Women of such stuff as you are made -of cannot grieve for ever for a coxcomb. If they do, they degrade -themselves to his level.’ - -He saw the scarlet colour that rushed over her face and throat, and -the strangely mingled glance she threw towards him. He had not -miscalculated. - -‘You did not know him. You have no right to call him a coxcomb,’ she -said. ‘You slight me by—’ - -‘By supposing you capable of making a mistake? There you are wrong. -The only thing that can be infallibly predicted by one human being of -another, is that during his life he will make a great many mistakes. I -should slight you if I supposed you capable for a moment of breaking -your heart for Jerome Wellfield.’ - -He had spoken the name advisedly. It had never passed between them -before. Its effect was to make her cover her face with her hands, and -cry faintly and pitiably. - -As Falkenberg saw this sight–saw this girl crouching and weeping, and -heartbroken and desperate in consequence of having been deceived and -deserted by Jerome Wellfield, his heart was hot within him. He went up -to her, took her hands from before her face, and as she looked at him -she saw that his eyes were full of wrath, and his brow clouded with -angry feeling. - -‘Sara!’ he said abruptly, and almost sharply, ‘you demean yourself by -this behaviour. Listen to me: answer me: You will never cast a thought -to that man again. If he were at your feet to-morrow you would turn -away from him, for you are no patient Griseldis. Is not this true?’ - -‘Of course!’ she exclaimed, brokenly; ‘why do you ask me such -questions? Do you wish to insult me?’ - -‘No. I only wanted your word for what I felt to be true. Nothing–no -repentance on his part would induce you to—’ - -‘I will not bear it,’ she exclaimed, passionately. ‘Let me go. You have -no right to—’ - -‘Sara, I have no right to say any of these things to you. I know -it too well. Will you give me the right–not to ask any more such -questions–but to protect you and stand by you in this and every other -trouble you may have? Will you leave Jerome Wellfield to reap what he -has sown, and let me try to prove to you that there are men left in -this world who know how to set a woman’s happiness higher than their -own convenience? Will you be my wife?’ - -Falkenberg had once or twice tested the extent of his influence over -Sara, but he had never pushed the experiment so far as this; and he -felt that it was a crucial test: his power over her trembled in the -balance; with her final decision now it must stand or fall. As she did -not speak, but sat still, gazing at him, while he, stooping towards -her, held her hands, and looked intently into her face, he went on: - -‘You have been too absorbed to see that it was no mere “friendship” -I felt for you. But I tell you now, that I would wait for you to my -life’s end–only, I cannot keep up this show of indifference. Choose -now, Sara. Promise to be my wife, or dismiss me once for all. It must -be one or the other.’ - -‘Oh, do not leave me here alone!’ she cried, involuntarily. - -‘Then consent to what I ask. You told me once that you had faith in me, -that you believed in me. Have you lost it all?’ - -‘Not a jot.’ - -‘Then take my word when I tell you that you shall not repent. Let me -call you my wife. Give me the duties of your husband; I ask for no -privileges. I will wait–wait twenty years, and never repent. Neither -shall you.’ - -‘But you know–you must know–I do not love you. I am not sure that I -do not love him, even yet–may God help me!’ - -‘Yes, I can understand it all. But decide, Sara, now–at once. Once -again I give you the alternative; it depends on you whether I go or -stay.’ - -This was intimidation, and he knew it. He used it because he had a -great end in view, and he saw no other way of gaining it. - -‘Speak!’ he added. ‘Do you consent?’ - -A long pause, till she answered coldly, and turning, if possible, a -shade paler than before: - -‘Yes.’ - -‘I thank you from my very soul,’ he answered, kissing first one and -then the other of the cold nerveless hands he held. ‘And now I will -leave you. You would prefer to be alone, I know. Good-night! Remember, -all I am and have are at your service.’ - -She made no answer, and the deathly hue of her face never changed or -altered. She did not reply to his good-night, nor take any notice of -him, as he went out of the room. He found Ellen, and sent her into the -room, saying: - -‘I think your mistress will be ill. If she is, send for me. She will -quite approve of it.’ - -Wondering, Ellen went into the sitting-room, and her heart echoed -Falkenberg’s words when she saw her mistress. Ellen had come to feel -that the most utter breakdown–fever, delirium, or raving–would be -better than this prolonged conscious suffering. She could almost have -found it in her heart to pray for death or madness to come and relieve -her darling from this torture. - -‘May he be paid his just wages!’ she kept wishing within herself, -‘measure for measure–not a grain more or less; and he’ll have had -about as much as he can endure. I ask no more.’ - -The end of that long-drawn agony came at last, as come it must. After -Falkenberg had gone, Sara began to pace about the room; once or twice -the consciousness of what had passed between her and him, crossed -her mind, and a vague accompanying idea, which scarcely attained the -consistency of a positive intention–that when she was better, and -better able to reason, she would tell him that she had made a mistake; -that what he bargained for was out of the question; she would do him -no such wrong. His threat of leaving her had been the last straw; she -had been unable to face the alternative. She could not do without him; -for in crises like these we see every day the adage belied that ‘vain -is the help of man.’ It is man alone that can sustain and comfort man -in such an emergency; it is then that there is brought home to us the -utter powerlessness of supernatural aids to touch our woe. - -Ellen, in her room, towards morning, heard an abrupt pause in the -measured footsteps, and something like a long moaned-out sigh. She -hastened to the other room, and found that Sara had at last, dressed as -she was, flung herself upon her bed, and lay there motionless. - -When Ellen spoke to her she murmured some incoherent words, but it was -evident that she did not understand what was said to her. - -The woman felt a sensation almost of relief. At last she could take -matters into her own hands, and her first step of course was to send -for a doctor–a doctor to cure a strange disease. Where are such -physicians to be found? and when shall we cease our quest after them? -She sent for Falkenberg, too, as he had desired her to do; and she -heard what he said to the doctor who had come out of Sara’s room, -looking grave. Falkenberg asked him what was the matter–was the case a -serious one? - -The doctor looked from Rudolf to Ellen, and answered by another -question: - -‘Has the young lady any relations? If she has, they should be sent -for.’ - -‘I do not know how that may be,’ replied Falkenberg; ‘or whether -she would desire her relations to be sent for, even if she were in -extremity. But she is my promised wife, and that being the case, I beg -you will consider me responsible in every matter that concerns her.’ - -The doctor–a grave man–bowed, also gravely, and said, that that being -the case, he might say that the lady was very dangerously ill, and -before deciding upon any measures, he would prefer to consult with his -colleague, Dr. Moritz. - -‘So be it,’ replied Falkenberg, repressing an impatient sigh. - -The note was written: the appointment made for an hour from that time. -Leaving directions for what was necessary to be done at once, the -doctor departed. - -‘Sir,’ said Ellen, turning with some agitation to Falkenberg, ‘excuse -me, but is it true what you said to the doctor, that my young lady had -promised to marry you?’ - -‘Quite true. I wrung it from her last night, by telling her that -she degraded herself by grieving for that other fellow. And if she -lives, my friend, I intend her to be my wife; therefore don’t distress -yourself on the subject. You will keep faith, and are her oldest -friend, therefore I wish there to be confidence between us.’ - -‘Thank you, sir. I hope indeed you may succeed. I wish you well with -all my heart,’ she said. - - * * * * * - -The two doctors looked very grave. It was as Ellen had dreaded–they -feared for the permanent loss of her reason, after the long, -unendurable strain, and the cruel blow she had had. Falkenberg, without -naming names, inspired only by an intense desire for her recovery, -had judged it best to be tolerably explicit as to facts. One of -the doctors–he named Moritz–looked down at the unconscious face, -remarking: - -‘Ay! She has been betrayed, and there are natures to which betrayal is -death.’ - -‘But Miss Sara was never one to give way,’ said Ellen, appealingly. -‘She was as strong as a man, sir, and as simple as a child, in her -mind.’ - -‘Then she stands so much the better chance. From what you say I -conclude she was not a morbid subject,’ he answered, as he went away. - -Falkenberg’s visits were, of course, daily. Wilhelmi called many times. -His wife and daughter went once into the sick-room, and came out again; -Frau Wilhelmi with all her mother’s heart showing in the pity of her -eyes, Luise crying aloud, and vowing that she would never forget it -till her dying day. The sight of her proud and beautiful friend tossing -senselessly to and fro–of the great grey eyes gazing with meaningless -fixity at her–of the vacant stare and smile upon the face that had -once beamed with intellect, had shaken her careless girl’s heart, and -given her a glimpse into depths she had never dreamed of before. - -‘_Ach_, mamma!’ she murmured, as they went sorrowfully away: ‘I don’t -think Falkenberg will ever have his wish–_der Arme_!’ - -‘Who knows?’ answered Frau Wilhelmi. ‘I am glad her mother cannot see -her.’ - -It was a desperate battle, if not a very long one. For more than a week -life and reason in the one balance, death or madness in the other, -oscillated with a terrible uncertainty. But Sara Ford was not doomed -to lose either life or reason in the struggle. ‘Strong light,’ says -Goethe, ‘throws strong shadow.’ And a strong, intense nature makes a -strong, obstinate struggle against all kinds of adversities which ‘the -subtlety of the devil or man’ may bring about. There came an evening -when the doctors, going away, pronounced her _safe_–sane, living, if -with no more strength than a two-weeks’ child may possess. - -It was after they had departed, and while the nurse kept watch over -her patient, that Ellen, after literally feasting her eyes upon her -‘child’s’ face, shrunk to a shadow of its former beauty, went into the -parlour for a few minutes, to take a moment’s rest, and to indulge -in the luxury of some thankful tears. It was quite late, yet she was -scarcely surprised to suddenly see Herr Falkenberg, who strode into the -room, and, standing before her, asked breathlessly: - -‘Is it true, what I heard outside–that she is _safe_?’ - -‘It is quite true, sir, I thank God!’ - -‘Oh!’ he said, biting his lips, and drawing in his breath with a long -inspiration. - -The next moment he had cast himself upon a chair beside the table, and, -with his face buried in his hands, was sobbing aloud. - -Awe-struck, Ellen stood by for a few moments, till he looked up and -demanded to hear every particular of this recovery, this conquest, this -triumph over death, which, though they had always professed themselves -so sure of it, came upon him at last with a sense of joy and relief -that was almost overwhelming. - -‘I must see her as soon as she can see or speak to anyone,’ he said. -‘You said you were my friend, Ellen, and you must manage this for me. -If she gets well and strong, she will try to break off her compact, out -of mistaken consideration for me–you understand?’ - -Ellen did not understand, but she had an intense desire to know her -mistress Rudolf Falkenberg’s wife, because she was convinced he was -good. She knew, from innumerable stories, that he was rich, and, in -his way, as great a man as some great nobleman, and therefore a -suitable husband for Miss Ford, though not at all beyond her claims. -But firstly and chiefly she wished it from a feeling, vulgar enough, -and natural enough too, to one of her position, up-bringing, and mental -calibre–she wished it as a kind of revenge upon Jerome Wellfield–to -show him that a man worth a hundred of him in every respect was only -too glad and eager to win the prize which he had cast aside. - -From this motive, if from no other, she would strain every nerve -to forward Falkenberg’s cause. Therefore, when he said to her ‘You -understand?’ she affirmed that she understood perfectly, and so let him -go. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -IRREVOCABLE. - - -Many days elapsed before Sara was permitted to see anyone. Then, one -afternoon, Frau Wilhelmi was allowed to call, and sat for a few moments -talking of the most commonplace and least agitating topics. On the -afternoon following that, Ellen cautiously began to prepare the way for -Falkenberg. As soon as she mentioned his name, her mistress said: - -‘If Herr Falkenberg calls, I should like to see him.’ - -This was when she was so far recovered as to be dressed about noon, or -one o’clock, and, half carried, half walking, to make a pilgrimage to -the couch or _chaise longue_ in her parlour, there to remain until the -authorities intimated that it was time to go to bed again. - -Falkenberg did call, half an hour after those words had passed between -Ellen and her mistress. Ellen repeated them to him, and ushered him -into the parlour, where Sara lay on the couch, looking infinitely weak -and exhausted, and scarcely able to lift a hand, or to smile faintly, -when the tall, strong man came softly up to her; his face working, his -eyes dim. - -‘You have been very good–unspeakably good,’ she said weakly, as he -bent speechlessly over her hand. ‘Ellen has told me of your great -goodness,’ she added, in a stronger voice. - -‘There is no goodness–there has been nothing but the pleasure I have -felt in gratifying my own wishes,’ he said, in a husky, broken voice. - -‘It is good to see your face again, and to hear your voice, after the -Valley of the Shadow of Death,’ she replied, her hollow eyes dwelling, -with an expression of something like curiosity, upon his face. - -‘Do not let us speak of that. You are here once more in the light of -life–to work, and hope, and make us glad again.’ - -She shook her head slowly. - -‘You are far wiser than I am,’ she answered, ‘so I will not contradict -you.’ - -‘But in the meantime, you disagree with me from beginning to end,’ he -said, regaining his composure gradually. ‘You feel that hope and work -are over for you.’ - -‘Yes, I feel as if I did not want to see the light of the sun any more.’ - -‘Nor to talk or think about anything again?’ he suggested, and his -voice trembled; he trembled himself–his heart was in his throat. - -‘Yes, just so,’ was the languid reply. - -‘And I am here, brutally to disturb and deny that wish of yours. I am -here to give you something to think about, and to tell you of something -I want you to do.’ - -‘And what is that?’ - -‘When I say I _want_ you to do it, that is a poor, inadequate word. I -pray and implore you to keep your promise to me, and as soon as may -be–to-morrow, or the day after–to become my wife. I have arranged all -the preliminaries. In consequence of your serious illness, the usual -notice has been dispensed with. I have nothing to do but intimate to -the Bürgermeister the day and the hour for the ceremony, and he, or his -representative, will come here to perform it.’ - -‘But–but–surely you have reconsidered it?’ she said, flushing -painfully. - -‘I have considered it again and again, with the same result always. Mr. -Wellfield’s marriage is in the _Times_ this morning, to Miss Bolton of -Wellfield Abbey.’ - -Sara winced, and he went on: - -‘The Wilhelmis know. The Professor and the Frau Professorin have -promised to act as witnesses.’ - -‘You have told them?’ she ejaculated. - -‘Yes–because I know that _you_ are not a person to go back from your -word,’ he answered steadily, and he knew that he had conquered–whether -because she was weak and feeble, and he strong and determined, or from -what cause soever–he knew the game was his when she said, slowly: - -‘You know what people will say of me–that I tried very hard for you, -and married you for your money, and so on.’ - -‘_Herrgott!_ yes. I know the whole of the jargon they will gabble -amongst themselves. Let them, if they like.’ - -She looked utterly weary, exhausted and worn out. When she spoke her -voice was scarce audible. He had to lean towards her to catch the -faltering words: - -‘If I do–will you–settle everything–no questions–no thinking? I -_cannot think_.’ - -‘You shall hear no more about it until the Bürgermeister comes to marry -us. A few words then, and the signing of your name, and all will be -over.’ - -‘Very well. Arrange it all as you wish, and I will do it,’ said she, -and turned her head away, and shut her eyes, as if too tired ever to -open them again. - -‘You shall not repent it. I promise that you shall not repent it,’ he -said, carrying her passive hand to his lips. - -Then he left the room. Outside he saw Mrs. Nelson, and took her aside -into Sara’s atelier. - -‘We shall be married to-morrow, Ellen,’ he observed. - -‘Thank God, sir! I believe it will be the saving of my mistress.’ She -paused, and added: ‘I hope you don’t think of separating us, sir–Miss -Ford and me. It would be sorely distressing to us both.’ - -‘Never, while you both live, believe me. I shall have to leave her in -your hands for a long time to come yet.’ - -With that he hastened away, leaving Ellen in a more contented frame of -mind than she had enjoyed for a long time. - - * * * * * - -It was afternoon of the following day. Sara was much in the same -state–no stronger, no weaker. She saw, with something like apathy, how -Wilhelmi, his wife, and Luise came into her room together, spoke to -her, and seated themselves side by side. - -She had a faint remembrance that Rudolf had said something about -witnesses; she was not quite sure what it all meant, but no doubt it -was right. Falkenberg was there too, seated beside her, and, in an -unconscious appeal to his protecting power, she had moved her hand into -his, and then lay back in her chair, silent and indifferent. He said -something to her, an explanation, it seemed, of the circumstances; -something about– - -‘In cases like this, Sara, they dispense with the usual notice, so -there has been no difficulty about getting it done at once.’ - -She looked rather blankly at him, and in her own mind wondered vaguely -what it meant. - -Then some strangers entered–the Bürgermeister and his clerk. Words -were read. Something was brought to her to sign, which deed, with -Rudolf’s assistance, she accomplished. Questions were asked as to her -age, her name, parentage, and occupation. At each of these she looked -helplessly at Falkenberg, or at Ellen, who stood at the other side of -her couch. Then more reading; then a wedding-ring was put upon her -finger, and would have rolled off again had not Rudolf caught her hand -and held it fast in his. - -Then the Bürgermeister and his clerk took their hats, murmured -severally, ‘_Empfehle mich zu gnaden_,’ bowed to the assembled company, -and were gone. - -Frau Wilhelmi and Luise came up and kissed her tenderly, and she saw -that their eyes were full of tears. Then the Professor came up and took -her hand–the good Wilhelmi–and she remembered his generous kindness -to her, and smiled what was intended for a grateful smile at him, -whereat his eyes too filled with tears, and he too stooped, and kissed -her forehead, and said something incoherent about a _geliebtes Kind_, a -_beste Schülerin_. - -Then they were all gone, and she was left alone with Ellen and Rudolf. -And then Ellen left the room too, while he still sat beside her holding -her hand, till at last a little pressure from her fingers caused him to -turn and look at her. - -She saw that his eyes were moist, and she paused as she beheld the -expression upon his face–the love that transfigured it. At last she -asked: - -‘Are we married now?’ - -‘Yes, we are married.’ - -‘I am afraid I have done you a great wrong in consenting.’ - -‘Are you? It is rather early to begin with such forebodings. What makes -you think so?’ - -‘I feel as if I should never be worth anything again, and that if I -were I should not make you happy.’ - -‘My child, it was not happiness I wanted, but you, glad or sorry, -“loving or loth.” Rest content. I shall never repent.’ - -‘Promise me that.’ - -‘I promise it fully and freely.’ - -‘Then I am more satisfied.’ - -‘That is all I ask of you.’ - -They became silent, and he still sat beside her, her hand locked in -his; and as the short December afternoon closed in, she shut her -eyes, worn out even with this quiet excitement, and he could not tell -whether she slept or not. In the quiet room there was utter peace and -stillness–a wasted, pallid-looking woman, with eyes wearily closed, -and breathing so lightly her bosom scarce seemed to move; a man -watching beside her, whose strong, calm face never lost its expression -of assured contentment, and whose eyes were full of peace: surely no -very remarkable scene. But the whole of the gossip-loving town of -Elberthal was ringing with the names of that man and that woman. - -It happened to be Frau Wilhelmi’s reception night, and great was the -disappointment felt because neither she, nor her husband, nor her -daughter would enlarge upon the subject of the marriage they had -witnessed that afternoon–would say nothing more than that _if_ Miss -Ford recovered, they were sure it would be an excellent thing. - -Max Helmuth found his Luise very subdued, and very tender. No sarcasm -and no coquetries greeted him that night. When he asked her why she was -so quiet, tears filled her eyes, and she answered: - -‘Ah, if you knew, _Schatz_! I cannot think of anything but this -afternoon. It was like a beautiful legend. Do you know that little -picture of papa’s, which he shows to very few people, and then he -generally tells them it is a head of St. Ignatius Loyola?’ - -‘I know it–yes.’ - -‘Yes. But to me he always calls it “The Human Face _Divine_,” and so it -is. Falkenberg had just the same look this morning, in his eyes, and on -his mouth. When I think of that, and then hear these wretches gossiping -about it, it makes me feel–I don’t know how. I know I will never talk -gossip again, Max.’ - -‘Till the next time, _Liebchen_! But I hope Miss Ford will recover, and -make him happy, as he deserves to be.’ - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -DOUBTS. - - ‘I pray you, is death or birth - The thing that men call so weary?’ - - -The days of her convalescence passed to Sara like a long, vague -dream. Slowly, very slowly, she recovered strength–as if some inner -instinct made her unwilling to return to her place amongst that common -humanity which had lately dealt her so bitter a blow. December was -waning–Christmas was close at hand–before she had gained sufficient -strength to walk from one room to the other. That feat was first -accomplished with the assistance of Rudolf’s arm. Then she was able to -do it alone. It was after this that she gained strength daily, and with -physical strength also returned mental strength. She had drifted on, -seeing no visitors save one, and even that one, Rudolf, had been absent -for some days, on the plea of business. He had left no word as to when -he should return, or what his plans were. - -It was the 22nd of December. Falkenberg had been absent for five days, -and it was now that doubts and fears began to distress Sara’s soul. -For the last few days she had been reflecting, deeply and uneasily, as -Ellen saw, watching the face she loved. She dreaded the result of those -meditations. Falkenberg’s cause was her cause, and she wished he would -return. But this afternoon she had a duty to perform, and, seeing Sara -sitting lost in thought, and that thought apparently of no pleasant -nature, she said: - -‘You look a deal better, ma’am, this afternoon. Do you think you would -be equal to looking at the letters that have come for you while you -were ill?’ - -‘Letters! Are there any letters for me?’ she demanded eagerly, her -whole aspect changing. ‘Bring them at once. Why did you not tell me -before?’ - -‘The doctor said you had better not have them, and Herr Falkenberg said -I was on no account to give you them till you were stronger,’ said -Ellen, unlocking a drawer, and taking them out. Her back was turned to -Sara, or she might have seen the sudden start of the latter at this -decided mention of Falkenberg’s name, and this close connection of him -and his orders with her and her affairs. Her colour changed, and she -bit her lip. But she did not speak as Ellen put the letters into her -hand. Her cheek flushed as she turned them over. There was one with -the postmark Nassau upon it, and a countess’s coronet on the flap. -That was from Frau von Trockenau. And there was one directed in Avice -Wellfield’s hand. Her face changed as she looked at them, and observed -the dates on the postmarks. They had both been written lately–the -countess’s since her marriage, for it was addressed–Sara turned hot -and cold and trembled as she saw the superscription–to Frau Rudolf -Falkenberg. She opened this letter first, and read it: - - ‘DEAREST SARA, - - ‘How can I describe the feelings with which I have heard of the - strange things that have happened to you–of your illness (thank - God that you are now restored to us!)–and of your marriage to Rudolf - Falkenberg? I knew he loved you. I flatter myself that I was the - very first to discover how suitable and delightful such a marriage - would be. I can only offer to both of you my most hearty, unmixed - congratulations. _Ja, ich gratulire vom ganzen Herzen, und mein Mann - auch._ I think, if ever there was a noble, generous, good fellow, it - is the man you have married. I should say he was perfect if I were - speaking to an ordinary person, but I know you agree with me that - perfect people must be so very horrid, and it always sounds to me more - of an insult than anything else to call a person perfect. But it is a - perfect arrangement all the same. How seldom, dear Sara, do we find - the ways of Providence exemplified thus clearly and simply–everything - working together for good in so palpable a manner that he who runs - may read.’ [The countess’s moral reflections had been wont, in former - days, to excite Sara’s intense amusement. Even now, in the tumult of - her feelings, she could not help smiling at this specimen of them.] - ‘It does my heart good–it does indeed. I feel as happy as I did - myself when I had just been married to Fritz. Write, or get your - husband to write, as soon as possible, to tell me how soon you will - come to see us, and what your movements are going to be. How I long to - see you both! - - ‘Yours, - ‘CARLA VON TROCKENAU.’ - -Sara drew a long breath as she finished reading this effusion, and the -colour rushed over her cheeks and brow and throat. Now, for the first -time, she began to realise what the step meant that she had taken. - -In vain she tried to reassure herself by recalling Rudolf’s promise -that she should not repent, and that he would never repent. She could -not be calm; she could not view the matter indifferently. She could -not rid herself of the idea that she had hurried and hastened to take -an irrevocable step; that in her agony of outraged pride and love -repulsed, she had promised, and in her after state of helpless weakness -and weary indifference she had done that which might mar a good man’s -life, and make her own even more miserable than she had expected it -would be. - -What was she to do? How to meet him? When he came she must brace -herself to the task of coming to some explanation, and she shrank in -anticipation from what must be so intensely painful an interview. - -Thus meditating, her eye fell upon Avice’s letter. At first she could -only look at it, she could not open it. With the sight of that familiar -handwriting there came rushing over her mind a vivid recollection of -all the past sweetness and bitterness connected with Avice and those -belonging to her. There came the recollection of Jerome–a memory -which had slumbered since her illness, and which she had never allowed -to awaken. Now it sprang forth again, irresistible, strong, and -overpowering. Again she felt his influence, recalled to mind the love -she had borne him, the–what was this feeling she experienced even now? -Surely she did not love him yet? ‘No!’ cried every voice within her. -And yet, beyond them all, was a whisper, more potent than any of them, -asking what it was that she felt, demanding to know the meaning of this -eager longing, this _Sehnsucht_, this yearning. - -‘I am sure I have done wrong. I have made a horrible mistake!’ she -repeated to herself. ‘What am I to do? How shall I repair it?’ - -With an effort she opened Avice’s letter, and read it with a throbbing -heart. The girl gave a full account of her arrival at home, and of -all that had happened since. She implored Sara to remember that she -had known nothing of all that was going on, and not to punish her for -Jerome’s sin. She related how the marriage was over, how Jerome and -Nita were away, and she was at the Abbey with Mr. Bolton and Miss -Shuttleworth as her companions; how Mr. Bolton was going to live at -Monk’s Gate, ‘when they came home,’ but that she, Avice, was to live -at the Abbey with ‘them.’ - -With beating heart Sara read Avice’s description of Nita, and -understood at once that it must have been Wellfield throughout, who had -played a double game, and had deceived both the woman he loved, and the -woman whom he had married. - -This was no case of a vulgar heiress who was anxious to ally herself -with a man of old name; it was the case of a very simple-hearted loving -girl, who had lost her heart irrevocably, and who would evidently -suffer as intensely in her way, if not so passionately, as Sara Ford -herself had suffered, if ever she knew the truth. - -Avice betrayed again and again her liking for her new surroundings–a -liking which she uneasily felt that she could not gratify without some -disloyalty to her friend. As for Jerome–such had been the revulsion -of feeling caused by his conduct, that Avice could not write of -him without a certain tinge of bitter sarcasm cropping up through -her words; and more than once occurred a kind of apology for even -mentioning his name in a letter to Sara. - -‘Tell me what to do,’ she concluded. ‘You have been my guide for so -long; I trust you so implicitly that I feel lost without you. Send me -one word, Sara, for whatever you say or do must be right.’ - -‘Poor child!’ thought her friend, sorrowfully. ‘This must be answered -at once. I must set her mind at rest. And, I suppose, when I tell her -what _I_ have done, she will change her opinion as to all I do and say -being right. Perhaps it is as well that her illusion should come to an -end betimes.’ - -She determined to make her first essay in letter-writing since her -illness, and began by writing that afternoon to Avice and to Frau von -Trockenau. To Avice she wrote explaining why she had not been able to -answer her letter earlier. Then she told her of her marriage, calmly, -and in a matter-of-fact way, with the remark that she could not enter -into her reasons for the course she had taken, and that Avice would -probably not understand them if she did. Of Jerome she made not the -slightest mention, but she urged Avice to do all in her power to love -and be kind to her sister-in-law. ‘From what you tell me, I am sure she -is good. In being her friend, and doing all you can to make her happy, -you will grow happier yourself. It is the only thing you can do–the -only right thing, that is.’ - -She felt that she had at least been right in urging this upon Avice; -and then she wrote a brief note to Countess Carla, thanking her for her -good wishes, and adding that she knew absolutely nothing of any plans -for the future–she left everything to Herr Falkenberg; she excused the -brevity of her letter on the plea of illness, and fastened it up. - -She had expected to be exhausted by this exertion, but found to her -surprise and pleasure that she was less tired than before. Ellen had -lighted the lamp, and the room was warm and cheerful. Sara began slowly -to pace up and down the room, her thoughts running intently on the -letters she had received, and the ideas they had conjured up. Her long, -plain dress hung loosely upon the once ample and majestic figure, now -wasted to a shadow of its former beauty. - - ‘The loose train of her amber-dropping hair’ - -was gathered up into a knot upon her neck; there was a faint glow–the -harbinger of returning health–upon her wasted cheek. While she thus -slowly promenaded to and fro some one knocked at the door. - -‘_Herein!_’ she answered, turning to see who it was, and confronting -Rudolf Falkenberg. - -She stood suddenly still, colouring highly. - -‘You did not expect me,’ he said, pausing, with the door-handle in his -hand. ‘Perhaps I intrude!’ - -There was a look of disappointment in his eyes, which she saw, and made -a hasty step forward. - -‘Indeed you do not. Only this afternoon I was wishing that I could see -you, for I have many things to ask you. Please come in,’ she added, -holding out her hand. - -Rudolf took it, and looked at her. - -‘You are better,’ he said. ‘You have been writing. I hope you have not -been doing too much?’ - -‘No, I assure you I have not. I feel better for it. If you will let me -take your arm, I think I could walk about a little longer.’ - -He gave her his arm, and they paced about for a short time, slowly and -in silence. - -‘I have much to say to you, Herr–I mean Rudolf,’ she began. - -‘Have you? I also have something to say to you. Well?’ - -‘To-day Ellen gave me my letters. I had not had them before.’ - -‘And you have answered them at once?’ he said, smiling. ‘I like a -prompt correspondent. This augurs well for the future, Sara.’ - -‘I–I wish you to read them,’ she said, with a heightened colour. ‘Read -this of Avice Wellfield’s first.’ - -She gave it to him, and he read it; then said: - -‘Poor little girl! she is in great distress. Is it allowable to ask -what you replied, and whether you intend to keep up the correspondence?’ - -‘Not if you object in the least,’ said Sara, hastily. - -‘I? No. I would not insult you with such an objection if you wrote to -and heard from her twice a day,’ he replied, with a rather proud smile. - -‘Thank you. And now this from Countess Carla. It has disturbed me very -much.’ - -He read that too, and his countenance also changed. - -‘This disturbed you–why?’ he asked. - -Sara withdrew her hand from his arm, and sat down. - -‘I ought to speak about something,’ she faltered; ‘about the future. -Everyone–all the world knows that I am married to you. I cannot go on -living here just as if nothing had happened, and yet—’ - -‘What business had you to be thinking about things?’ he asked, with a -half smile. ‘Part of the bargain was that I was to do the thinking, as -you must remember. You cannot surely suppose that I have let all this -time elapse without thinking upon the subject as well?’ - -‘Oh! if you would decide, and tell me what is best, I would so gladly -do it!’ she exclaimed. - -‘I have decided everything. The plan is ready, and only waits your -approval to be carried out.’ - -‘And what is it? If I could _only_ get away from here!’ - -‘You remember Lahnburg, and my house there?’ - -‘Where we spent the day when I was at Nassau? _Mein Genügen_–oh yes, I -remember it.’ - -‘You are so much stronger than I had dared to hope or expect, that I -think you could bear the journey there at any time almost, if I have -a special carriage for you, and take care that you don’t get cold. -Christmas will be here, you see, directly. To-morrow is the last day -before the festivities begin.’ - -‘Yes. And people will come and want to see me, and I shall not be able -to refuse some of them; and yet it would almost kill me, I think.’ - -‘Of course it would. Well, Lahnburg is a quiet, out-of-the-way place -enough. If I took you there to-morrow, and settled you there with -Ellen, you would avoid all the bustle here. It is a beautiful place. -You don’t care to go out, and are not fit for it if you did. I don’t -think you will find it duller than this, and certainly less painful; -for you will not be under the constraint of feeling that you are known -and observed. What do you think?’ - -‘I should like that,’ said Sara, slowly; and then, after a long pause, -she asked in a low voice: - -‘And you?’ - -‘I,’ replied Falkenberg, with an assumption of indifference, ‘oh, I -never _live_ in the country in winter. I detest it. Frankfort must -be my _Hauptquartier_. My manager is loading me with reproaches -for my neglect of money-matters, and I feel there is justice in -his complaints. I shall be very much engaged for at least a couple -of months to come. I may find time to run over to Lahnburg and see -you, once or twice; but you must not expect me to be very attentive. -You know,’ he concluded, smiling, and glancing at her again, ‘six -weeks–or, rather, two months ago, I did not suppose I should be -married to you, and I made all sorts of engagements, public as well as -private–the former at least must be kept. Well, what do you say to my -plan?’ - -‘What do I say?’ she repeated, in a voice full of emotion; ‘I say that -you are too generous, Rudolf, too chivalrous. Believe me, if I had not -so lately gone through what I have done, I would offer you more than -words of gratitude–I would lay my very life at your feet.’ - -‘Don’t agitate yourself; that is forbidden,’ he replied, trying to -smile with cheerful indifference. Perhaps a ray of hope had inspired -him–some faint idea that she might say, ‘Are not you also coming to -_Mein Genügen_?’ If that had been the case, he promptly repressed the -feeling, and added: - -‘All I ask of you is to get well, and try to be contented, _in your own -way_. Do not think of me. Perhaps that may come in the future. Nay, do -not cry, Sara. I cannot bear to see _that_.’ - -‘Do not scold me. I almost think I begin to see my way now. They say -that much is granted to those who watch and pray.’ - -She spoke the last words half to herself. - -‘That is true, in a sense, if not literally,’ he replied. ‘Well, I -will see after a carriage to take you by the noon train to-morrow to -Lahnburg; so tell Ellen to have everything ready. Now I must go. I will -take your letters, if they are ready.’ - -Sara wished he would not go at that moment, but something prevented -her from speaking out her wish, and he departed. - -‘I must be in some wonderful dream,’ she repeated to herself, when -she was alone. ‘It is too wildly impossible to be true. And yet, how -well I know that he has been here. He never comes without bringing -with him a purer, rarer atmosphere. He looks at things, and tells you -how he sees them, and they are never quite the same afterwards. Now -with Jerome–Hyperion to—’ She paused abruptly, biting her lip, and -thinking, ‘After all, I never saw which was Hyperion. I have no right -to sneer. Shall I ever love him? Surely, at any rate, the remembrance -of that other love will wear off enough for me to be able to say to my -husband, “Come, let us travel hand in hand at last!” Heaven send it, at -least!’ - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -MEIN GENÜGEN. - - ‘There is the outside visible progress–the progress which may be - seen, striding perceptibly onwards, superficial generally, noisy, - clamorous–likest to some wild pea, some quickly-growing parasite, - blowing brilliantly, and fading rapidly; there is the inward, - invisible progress too–the deep, unseen stream: the plant that grows - in darkness, most nourished when all around seems least propitious: - it becomes visible in the end–one perfect bloom–beauty crowning - beauty–Clytie springs from the sunflower at last, answering the - summons of the god.’ - - -The journey to Lahnburg was accomplished in safety. Just before -Christmas Eve, with its guests and its letters, its noise and its -bustle, arrived, Sara found herself in her new home. - -Lahnburg is always a secluded, retired spot, somewhat in the style of -‘the world forgetting, by the world forgot;’ and now, in the depth -of winter, when tourists had fled, and winds were bleak, it was more -silent and quiet than ever. It suited Sara that it should be so–suited -all her ideas and wishes. - -Yet it was with strange feelings that she found herself again here, on -a bleak, sad December afternoon. There was no snow, but the temperature -had been falling all day; a bitter east wind was blowing; a sullen, -leaden sky, against which the body of the cathedral and the rugged -shape of the old Heidenthurm showed out black and mournful. The hills -looked dark and sad; the aspect of the whole fair land was changed. - -It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when they arrived. Sara, -very weary, stayed in her room to rest. When at last she came -downstairs, she found the salon empty. There was a large glowing fire -in the English open grate; the lamp was turned down; the dancing -blazes flickered upon all the objects in the quaint old room, and the -first thing that caught Sara’s eye was a panel on that old painted -spinet on which Falkenberg had been leaning when they were all laughing -at the mistake she had made in crediting him with being possessed of a -wife and children. - -‘Where is Herr Falkenberg?’ she hastily asked of Ellen, who came in -just then. - -‘He’s gone, ma’am. He told me not to disturb you, but to tell you when -you came down that he had an engagement at Frankfort to-night, and he -didn’t know when he would be able to come over here again, but he would -write.’ - -Sara was silent; her mind filled with various emotions. It was very -good of him–what wonderful tact and delicacy he had! and yet, she -wished he had left a note behind. She wished he had not been so afraid -of disturbing her. He might have given her the chance of thanking him -for his goodness, and all this provision of luxury and thoughtful care -for her comfort and convenience. But no! It was doubtless best left as -it was. After all, if she had seen him, what could she have said? So -she decided in her own mind, and ten minutes afterwards was wondering -how soon he would write, and what he would say when he did so. - - * * * * * - -From this day her life went on in an even monotonous tenor. In her -home, and around it, was everything that heart could desire in the way -of beauty, of rare and costly things. The winter proved to be a hard -one, and the old town of Lahnburg lay for months under a mantle of -frost and snow. The air was cold, clear and keen; the hills around were -white; the river flowed black through a plain of spotless white; the -skies overhead were generally of a deep scintillating crystal blue. All -the beauty that winter ever has or can have, lay around her, and she -could enjoy it by going out into her own garden and grounds. - -She did not grow happy in the place, nor contented in it, but she -grew used to it, and unwilling to move away from it. She grew almost -unconsciously to love the deep and profound retirement of it–it was so -quiet, so undisturbed, that sometimes she caught herself thinking of -‘After life’s fitful fever,’ and then, with a half-smile, remembering -that that applied to death, not life. - -Very few persons knew of her being there, save her old friend Countess -Carla, who had made a pilgrimage from Nassau, and burst upon her one -day unexpectedly, and fortunately alone. She came full of wishes of -joy, and of eager congratulations. - -Sara–how, she hardly knew, but by a few words far from explicit–managed -to convey to the lively little lady something like the true state of -the case. The countess was appalled, her face fell, she could hardly -speak. At last: - -‘Sara, there was some one else, you mean.’ - -Sara assented. - -‘Was it–do forgive me–but was it Mr. Wellfield?’ - -‘Yes,’ replied Sara, with a voice and a face like stone. - -‘_Du mein Himmel!_ And–was it from pique that you married Falkenberg?’ - -‘It was something like that–and because he made me do it,’ said Sara, -the anguish she felt breaking uncontrollably forth in her trembling -voice. ‘Don’t let us speak of it. _Perhaps_ it may sometime come right. -But meantime, my dear Carla, don’t tell everyone as if it were the most -joyful news imaginable.’ - -‘What must you have thought when you got my letter?’ exclaimed the -countess. - -The little lady looked thoughtful, but parted from Sara with a tender -embrace, and asked if she might come again, ‘quite alone.’ - -‘Oh, if you would!’ cried Sara. ‘It would be so kind, and–and I know -Rudolf would approve of it.’ - -‘Yes, I have little doubt on that point. I believe I may safely say -that he has a high opinion of me,’ replied Countess Carla, darting a -keen side-glance from under her drooped eyelids at her friend, while -she appeared absorbed in fastening her glove. - -‘Indeed he has!’ echoed Sara, fervently. - -‘Well, we shall be at Trockenau for some little time now, and I will -drop you a line to say when I am coming again.’ - -They parted. Frau von Trockenau shook her head several times as she -waited with her servant at the Lahnburg station, for the train to Ems. - -‘What a complication!’ she thought. ‘But I am not hopeless. Does -she imagine I did not see how she blushed when she informed me that -“Rudolf” would approve?’ - -Such an odd sound issued at this moment from the lips of the countess -that her old man-servant, saluting, advanced a step and said: - -‘_Zu Befehl, gnädige Frau._’ - -‘It’s nothing, Fritz. I was only laughing at something I was thinking -of.’ - -Frau von Trockenau was the only one of her former friends whom Sara saw -in this manner. Of course, in so small a place as Lahnburg, it was soon -known that Herr Falkenberg was married, and that his wife was living -at present at the old schloss. No doubt there was speculation on the -subject, but, if so, it never reached Sara’s ears. - -She never entered the town, but, as she grew stronger, would take -rambles alone, or with Ellen, along the high upland roads which -branched off in all directions, at a short distance beyond _Mein -Genügen_, and which led by all manner of ways into the interior, -across the moors, or through woods and thickets, or between hedges, or -straight and poplar-planted, beside the river. - -On such excursions they seldom met any but country people and peasants; -rough but civil folk, who were not curious, but who always exchanged -greetings–giving her a nod and a ‘_Grüss’ Euch Gott, gnädige Frau_,’ -and receiving in exchange a ‘_Guten Tag, ich danke_,’ from her. - -As for Ellen Nelson, her mental attitude was one of some uncertainty. -There was a mingling of satisfaction and dissatisfaction. She rejoiced -in the changed position of her mistress, in the luxury and lavish -plenty of all their surroundings; she considered that now her beloved -child had just what she was entitled to and no more, but she mourned -over the incompleteness of a fate which, in the midst of all this -outward prosperity, withheld the inward peace which alone could make it -enjoyable. Why could not her mistress be herself again? She liked Avice -Wellfield well, but she misliked the letters which so frequently came -from her; the long, thick letters which Sara read with such avidity, -and which had the effect of giving brightness to her eye, a flush to -her cheek, new animation to her whole aspect for many hours after she -had received them. Often, after such a letter had come, Ellen would -see her lady’s lips move as they walked together–would see her eyes -suddenly flash, or her cheek flush, and all this she misliked; nor did -she take any more delight in seeing the letters which Sara always made -her post with her own hand, directed to Miss Wellfield. Ellen wished -that any distraction might come, in the shape of society, friends, -anything, to divert her mistress’s thoughts from that topic. - -‘She’ll never come to think as she ought of Herr Falkenberg,’ the old -servant decided within herself, ‘while she can sit here alone and brood -over the past, and have long letters from Miss Wellfield. If she would -only take to her painting again, or anything.’ - -For Sara did not again begin to take to her painting. Of course, -for some time the winter weather formed an excuse. It was much too -intensely cold to go out taking sketches or painting landscapes. She -had once made an attempt, and tried to catch the effect of a crimson -and daffodil sunset behind some naked trees, which sunset she could -see from one of the side-windows of the salon. But she had not even -finished it. There was no life and no pleasure in it. - -Ellen fretted, and wished she would begin, little knowing in her -ignorance that her lady would have given all she was worth if she could -have begun again; that she had begun to wonder despairingly if all that -artistic power in which she had once rejoiced, and concerning which -she had been so ambitious, were quenched and gone. It seemed as if -those powers had received some paralysing blow. It was in vain that she -attempted to resume her art, seeking, with a natural, healthy impulse -after some occupation which should divert her mind from the things it -incessantly dwelt upon. Ellen did not know how, when one attempt after -another had failed; when she had tried, and no charm, no interest -dawned, nothing but dull, dead, mechanical strokes, without meaning or -inspiration, she had thrown down her palette, and wept scalding tears -of grief and mortification, wondering bitterly if it were always to be -thus. She read some words one day which sent a chill to her heart–what -if they were prophetic? - - ‘Dark the shrine, and dumb the fount of song thence welling, - Save for words more sad than tears of blood, which said: - _Tell the King, on earth has fallen the glorious dwelling_, - _And the water springs which spake, are quenched and dead._ - _Not a cell is left the god, no roof, no cover._ - _In his hand the prophet-laurel flowers no more._’ - -Thus the winter slowly passed away, and she grew more and more -despondent, thinking miserably that she was failing in every way: -unable to paint, convinced that she felt no return of the generous love -which had taken her by the hand when she was verily ‘friendless and an -outcast;’ conscious, with a feeling of guilty shame, that the chief -interest of her life lay in those letters from Avice Wellfield, in -which the girl poured out the whole history of her every-day life–all -her hopes and fears, and her impressions of those around her–lamenting -that there was one person, and one only, who seemed to be, as she said, -‘above suspicion of being either morbid, or unhappy, or an impostor, or -a victim,’ and that one John Leyburn, over whose deficiencies of manner -the fastidious young lady made constant moan. - -Rudolf, during the whole winter, came very seldom, and stayed for a -very short time–never longer than a couple of hours. Each time that -she saw him, Sara felt more constrained, more guilty, knew less what -to say, or how to look, while his composure remained as imperturbable -as ever. - -And thus, after what had seemed an almost endless winter, spring -appeared. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -EINE REISE IN’S BLAUE. - - -It was May, and the whole land smiled under the consciousness of -thraldom removed–of winter finally passed away. The old house was -beautiful in the sunshine; its grey walls set in a frame of trees, all -bursting into the first exquisite spring foliage–of hyacinths and -primroses, late daffodils and early wallflowers, all nodding their -heads in the borders and on the flower-beds, and singing, most plainly -to be heard by those who understand their language– - - ‘Der Lenz ist gekommen, - Der Winter ist aus!’ - -Sara, after breakfast this sunshiny morning, threw a shawl around -her shoulders, and went out into the garden to read a letter. As she -paced about the sheltered, sunny south terrace, it was plain to see -that she was at least restored to bodily health. There was almost -all the splendid beauty of former days, yet somewhat paler and more -refined. But the face was perceptibly changed. It was an older, sadder -face–grander, but, as it looked now, far more sorrowful; for there was -not the inner contentment which gives the outward expression of peace. -The eyes, which now and then were raised to survey the smiling spring -landscape, were not filled with a deep, secure content. They were -troubled, clouded, dissatisfied. - -But presently she became absorbed in her letter. We may look over her -shoulder and read. It was one of those English letters, whose advent -Ellen did not love. - - ‘MY DEAR SARA, - - ‘At last the day comes round on which I may write to you. No doubt - you were perfectly right to say I must not write oftener than once a - fortnight, and I am sure, by doing so, you saved yourself from being - fearfully bored; but it makes me wild with impatience sometimes. It is - such a comfort to feel as if I were almost speaking to you–to feel - that in a few days you will be holding this that I have written in - your hand, and that for a time at least you will be _obliged_ to think - of me. - - ‘Since I wrote, something very sad has happened. Poor Mr. Bolton is - dead. He died last week, very suddenly, of heart disease. You may - imagine that it has been a fearful blow to poor Nita, unhappy as she - is already. Even Jerome felt it, I think, or believed he did. Mr. - Bolton has always been so good to him, and I defy anyone not to have - respected him. It made me very sad, too. I had got so fond of him. - Some of my happiest hours were spent with him at Monk’s Gate, helping - him with his Italian. He did so want to finish his translation of the - “Inferno,” and have it published. Nita liked me to go there. Jerome - always wanted her to stay in in the evening, and I think she did not - want her father to see how sad she looked sometimes. She is goodness - itself, but oh! so altered, so subdued, and so sad! I am sure she - knows by some means–though how, I can’t imagine–how dreadfully - Jerome had deceived her all the time she thought he loved her. At - least, I know that now she knows he does not love her as she loves - him, and as he _ought_ to love her. I know I am a fool sometimes. I - say such fearfully indiscreet things every now and then. The other - day, when Nita told me that she hoped she would have her baby before - next winter, I exclaimed, “Oh, Nita, how glad I am! That will make - it all right.” She looked at me so strangely for a few minutes, and - then burst into tears, and said, “Who knows? who knows? It is as God - shall dispose it.” I am glad she can think so. To me it seems very - strangely disposed, but then, as you know, I never could say, “Thank - God!” for the things that make everyone unhappy all round, and I don’t - believe they are providential at all. I believe they happen because - people are wicked and selfish. But Nita is very good, though she never - talks about it. I know she thinks people don’t have troubles without - deserving them, and she is under the impression that she must in some - way deserve her troubles, though even she cannot say how. - - ‘But I was telling you about Mr. Bolton’s death. Everything seems very - strange without him. Do you know, only the day before he died he gave - me a lovely pearl ring, which he said was to be in remembrance of _my - kindness to him_! How I did cry when I thought of it. And poor Mr. - Leyburn, who, I am sure, never _will_ learn when to speak, and when to - be silent, said that I ought to be glad, and not sorry, to know that I - had been of any comfort to him. Now, _did_ he expect me to burst into - a fit of delighted laughter? But of course he means well. - - ‘Mr. Bolton’s death has made Nita, and I suppose Jerome too, _very_ - rich, of course; though I don’t understand anything about the - circumstances of it. - - ‘We are not so quiet here as I should have thought we should be. All - the people round ask us out. Just before Mr. Bolton’s death, Jerome - and I dined at Mrs. Latheby’s. Nita, of course, was invited too, - but she will not go out at present, and she would not let us stay - at home. So we went. There was Mrs. Latheby, and her niece, Miss - Paulina Bagot–a Roman Catholic heiress, who is intended to marry - young Latheby. He was there too, with Father Somerville, who had - come with him from Brentwood, Jerome and myself. We were the only - heretics. Jerome sang, and I played, and young Mr. Latheby applauded - wildly. Then Miss Bagot played, which she does exceedingly well. Mr. - Somerville, as usual, made himself _very_ agreeable. He really is one - of the most delightful people I ever knew. I know you don’t like him, - but I call him charming. Both he and Mrs. Latheby are very polite to - us. Mr. Somerville comes a great deal to the Abbey. - - ‘Nita is like you–she dislikes him. At first when he came she used to - sit with him and Jerome, and so did I; but she felt so uncomfortable, - she said, that now we always leave them in the library, and we go and - sit in the drawing-room. Very often Mr. Leyburn is there too, for he - does not like Father Somerville either, and has not the good manners - even to pretend to do so, which annoys me very much. Sometimes Mr. - Bolton used to come, and then I used to read to him about the savage - tribes of South America. We were reading the “Naturalist’s Voyage - Round the World,” which Mr. Leyburn brought for us, about the only - thing in which his taste is unimpeachable. Of course he listened with - respect to that, but all the other books he calls “travellers’ tales.” - He professes to go in for natural history himself, or to be, as he - calls it, “a bit of a naturalist,” and he was always interrupting - our reading, finding fault with the botany, or the zoology, or the - something ology of the writers, which is a most exasperating habit. - It is so annoying, just as you are reading a thrilling account of - something, to be suddenly interrupted, “Incorrect! Where did the - fellow get his facts? Not from accurate personal observation, I’ll - wager.” - - ‘Miss Shuttleworth is just as amusing as ever, but I don’t think she - has done any thing _very_ remarkable since I last wrote. - - ‘Jerome still goes to business every day, though I know Nita wants him - to give it up. I wonder that Nita never reproaches him! But then he - looks almost as miserable as she does. It is a depressing household, - dear Sara, though I have nothing to complain of. They let me do - anything I like, and I believe I might even come and see you if I - chose. But I have learnt a great many things from the troubles I have - seen since I came here, and amongst others I have learnt that I am of - some comfort to Nita, therefore I will not leave her. - - ‘I must conclude. You will be tired of all this. Do not be long in - writing to me, if it is only two sides of a sheet of paper. - - ‘Ever your grateful - ‘A. W.’ - -Sara still walked to and fro, but in profound and painful reverie. -Her very soul pitied her unhappy little successful rival. She felt as -if she would have liked nothing better than to take Nita to her bosom -and soothe and comfort her, so intensely she felt for the girl in her -pain and desolation. Could she by a word, even by some sacrifice on her -own part, have given Nita her husband’s love, and wiped from her mind -all knowledge of his past transgressions, how gladly she would have -done it! for Sara, in her solitude at _Mein Genügen_, had scaled higher -moral summits than she herself knew–she thought she had not completely -cast away the old love, or the effects of it–she did not realise that -the substance of it had been burnt away; what remained was a shadow, -a heap of ashes, retaining the shape of that which was in reality -consumed. It was well that she saw the evil which remained, and not the -good which was accomplished, else had she been in danger of succumbing -to that ‘palsy of self-satisfaction’ which has a trick of seizing upon -and blighting the finest natures. - -But she knew that no word of hers could give to Nita Wellfield her -husband’s love. She felt, she had gathered from a hundred unconscious -little touches and admissions in Avice’s letters, that Jerome, like -herself, was not free. He loved her–Sara: yet sometimes she could -weep, and wish it were not so. Oftener she felt a half-contemptuous -satisfaction in the knowledge that he had not been able to cast aside -her power over him with his promises to her. But oftener still she had -the feeling, which she instinctively felt to be a far more dangerous -one, of a restless wonder what would happen if they were to meet; a -wonder that sometimes grew into something nearly akin to a longing. -Before this feeling she trembled, trying to release herself from it, -but it had a trick of seizing her unawares, and mastering her. And it -was in such moments that she felt what a slight division lay between -her present calm, monotonous existence, and the great abyss opening -under the feet of those who yield to reckless impulses, or to what are -euphoniously called ‘ungovernable passions.’ - -Such thoughts, and her meditations upon Avice’s letters, ran like -a key-note through her mental life at that time–tinctured all her -thoughts, her reading, her work; for since she had begun to believe -that she was never to paint again, she had had resort to needle-work, -and was copying some curious old Flemish lace, under the tutelage of -a nun from a neighbouring cloister. Under her auspices, too, she had -discovered some poor in and around the town, and not only poor, but -ignorant; and she found some occupation in helping and teaching them. - -‘That high-and-mighty Miss Ford turned lace-maker and sister of -charity–buried alive in the dullest place in the world, and crying -her eyes out from pure _Langeweile_, because she has displeased her -husband, who is jealous, and has shut her up there!’ - -Such was the account given by Frau Goldmark (who had a cousin in -Lahnburg, with whom she corresponded) to that very Fräulein Waldschmidt -who had been disabled by scarlet fever from taking a share in the -_tableaux vivants_. When it is remembered what language Frau Goldmark -had formerly used in speaking to Sara Ford of this very young lady, it -becomes almost impossible for an impartial mind to acquit her entirely -of a spirit of time-serving. - -Sara had been pacing about the terrace for a long time, now and then -reading over again portions of Avice’s letter, and anon lost in her -own mournful reflections. At last, raising her eyes as she turned in -her walk, she saw Falkenberg’s figure advancing towards her. The first -impulse that rushed across her mind was to conceal the letter she held -in her hand, after which she found herself blushing hotly at the idea -of doing so, and thinking, with a sudden prophetic fear, that it would -be an evil day–if ever it should dawn–on which she could not meet his -eyes. The uncomfortable sensation remained, however, that she had been -cherishing wrong thoughts–thoughts best described by the hackneyed -term ‘improper.’ - -She advanced to meet Falkenberg, and held out her hand to him. She -wished she could have smiled and looked glad to see him, in answer -to the long and wistful look he gave her; but she felt more unhappy, -more constrained in his presence than ever, and it was with a look of -profound gravity that she greeted him. - -‘You did not expect to see me?’ said he. - -‘I always feel that you may or may not come any day,’ said Sara. - -‘You are better. So your letters have told me–so you look,’ said he. - -‘Better–I am well in body,’ she rejoined; and as she spoke, the same -look of deep dejection returned–to her eyes the same cloud as that -which of late had constantly been there. - -‘Not in mind?’ asked Rudolf, gently. - -She shook her head. - -‘I wish I could say that I even felt as if I were becoming better. -Everything seems as dark, or darker than it was before. Do you see this -letter?’ - -She held it up, and her face was dark as she spoke. - -‘Yes, of course.’ - -‘It is from Avice Wellfield. I will tell you the truth. It cannot be -more bitter to you than it is to me. These letters are the events of my -life, the only things I really care for. I look forward to them with an -eagerness I cannot express, and when they have come, I live upon the -recollection of them. I cannot find my place in this new life. I will -not deceive you,’ she added, with a vehemence almost passionate. ‘I -have not sunk so low as to even wish to do that; but I feel degraded, -humiliated, miserable, to think that I cannot cast aside my weakness, -that it dwells with me. And as for returning to my old pursuits–to -my painting–to the joy I used to have in even holding a brush in my -hand–I do not believe it will ever return to me again. I believe it is -destroyed. I have heard of such things happening after a great shock or -a serious illness. I have had both; why should it not be so with me?’ - -She spoke bitterly, though composedly, and beat her hand with Avice’s -letter. - -‘And you do care for those letters?’ he asked. - -‘Yes–oh, if–do you object, Rudolf? Would you like me to give over -writing?’ she asked, with something like a ray of hope dawning upon her -face. - -‘Give it up–my dear child, I would not deal such a blow to your -poor little friend, or offer such an insult to you, as even to hint -such a thing. To me, you are above suspicion, Sara. If I heard you -were corresponding with Jerome Wellfield himself, I should feel no -uneasiness. I know you and your pride and simplicity too well.’ - -‘Ah, if only you had not been so chivalrous and so mistaken as to marry -me, Rudolf. I fear it has been a terrible error on both sides.’ - -‘Do you think so? We had better give it a little longer trial, I think, -hadn’t we?’ he asked composedly, while he glanced rather keenly at her -face. ‘Do you, perhaps, feel tired of this place? Would you like change -of scene or company? Is there no one you would like to have with you? -Miss Wellfield, for example?’ - -‘No. Avice has found a life at home. It is astonishing how she -develops, how quickly she is growing into a woman, and a thoughtful -one. She finds that her sister-in-law needs her presence greatly, -and I gather from her letters, though she evidently has no idea of it -herself, that she also will marry before long, and that happily.’ - -‘Then you will not ask her to come and see you?’ - -‘No, thank you. I have thought about it, and I am sure that this is the -best place for me. Solitude will not drive me mad. Let this be _Mein -Genügen_–I will make it so for a time longer, if you will allow me. If -I am to find peace anywhere, and a path through life, it will be here.’ - -‘So be it. And since such is the decision you have come to, I may tell -you the more freely that I have come to-day to say good-bye for a long -time. I am going on a journey, and before I go I want to have a little -talk with you on business, if you don’t mind.’ - -‘Going away!’ uttered Sara, startled. ‘Where?’ - -‘Oh, to wander about indefinitely–_auf eine Reise in’s Blaue_, as -my own people would say. I am not going alone. A friend of mine, an -artist, Rupert Schwermuth, goes with me, or rather, I offered to join -him when I heard he was intending to travel and study. He means to -go to Greece amongst other places, China, and Japan: he raves about -Japanese art. I am going to rough it with him, by way of a change.’ - -Sara found she had absolutely nothing to answer to this. To object -would, she felt, be worse than absurd; to say she was glad would not -be true, for with the knowledge that he was going so far away, came a -sudden chill sense of prospective loneliness and desolation; yet she -must say something, she felt, and at last managed to stammer out: - -‘I think you do wisely. I hope you will enjoy your tour. But ... will -you write to me?’ - -‘If you wish it,’ he said. ‘You seem tired; take my arm. Do you mean -just bulletins from the successive stages of the journey, or do you -mean something more like letters?’ - -‘I mean letters. I should like them exceedingly. I hope you will write.’ - -‘I will write. And you–will you answer my letters?’ - -‘What news can I possibly have to send from here?’ said Sara, slowly. - -‘Tell me what you do every hour, from the time you get up till the time -you go to bed, if you have no other news. It is not fair that it should -be all on one side. And if you are anxious for letters, what shall I -be, do you suppose?’ - -‘I will write,’ said Sara, in a rather low tone. - -‘That is decided, then. Now, do you mind coming into the house, for my -time is short, and I want to tell you something about money-matters.’ - -They went into the house, sat down at the writing-table, and Herr -Falkenberg from his breast-pocket drew forth a cheque-book. - -‘Do you see this?’ he said. ‘I have left directions with them at -the bank to honour all your cheques, so long as you don’t overdraw -my private account,’ he added, smiling. ‘And this little book is to -procure you the means of subsistence while I am away.’ - -‘I will not be extravagant,’ said Sara. - -‘No, don’t, or I shall of course be exceedingly displeased. “Freely, -but not extravagantly,” is an excellent motto; and you were born to -devise and carry into execution schemes of economy.’ - -‘Now you are laughing at me,’ said Sara. - -‘Sometimes I cannot help it.’ - -‘But why do you do it?’ she asked, piqued. - -‘Heaven forbid that I should tell you why. You would never give me the -chance of doing it again, and that would afflict me sorely. Now I must -go,’ he added, looking at his watch, and rising. - -‘Go! No, you will stay for the Mittagessen, at least. You have never -taken a meal in this house since I came into it–you, the master of it.’ - -‘I wish I could stay. But you see, Rupert was to meet me—’ - -‘Let him wait!’ said Sara, with a heightened colour. ‘Rudolf, I beg -you to remain. You are not starting off to-day. Please do remain till -afternoon.’ - -‘_Wie du willst_,’ he replied, using the _du_ for the first time, as -Sara instantly noticed. - -‘Thank you,’ she answered; ‘and here they are to say that lunch is -ready. Shall we go to the dining-room?’ - -‘I shall have to go directly afterwards, though,’ said he, ‘for poor -Rupert will be cooling his heels at my house, wondering what has become -of one who _never_ fails to keep an appointment.’ - -‘On which day do you think of setting off?’ asked Sara, as they sat -down to the table. - -‘To-morrow,’ he replied. - -‘To-morrow! There is something remorseless about to-morrow.’ - -The meal was not a long one. Sara was somewhat flushed and excited. She -hardly knew what had prompted her to insist so strongly upon Rudolf’s -remaining, but she was glad she had done it. - -He sat grave and composed as ever. Having made up his mind to the -wrench of parting from her, he felt it rather increased his difficulty -than otherwise when she displayed this sudden momentary gleam of–what -was it?–a latent tenderness, or an amiability called forth by the -fact that she was on the point of being rid of him for some months to -come, and felt that the least she could do was graciously to ‘speed the -parting guest.’ - -Very soon after lunch was over he said, very decidedly this time, that -he must go. - -‘Must you, really? And–from what place will you first write to me?’ - -‘Suppose we say from Trieste?’ - -‘From Trieste–very well. I shall expect a letter from there.’ - -Both were speaking composedly, but Sara was on the verge of tears, and -he was not unmoved, though he successfully concealed the fact. - -‘Good-bye, then,’ he said. - -There was a pause. - -‘I have a horror of saying good-bye,’ said Sara at last, forcing -herself to speak with an appearance of calm. - -‘Have you? It is one of the pains that attend the pleasures of life, I -suppose.’ - -‘Pleasures?’ - -‘The pleasure of travelling, I mean. You can’t go abroad without saying -good-bye, unless you wish to be thought a monster.’ - -‘Ah, you can joke about it. I cannot. And in a case like this, when you -are going such a very long way off. Suppose–anything happened in which -I wanted advice.’ - -‘In that envelope you will find full directions, and the address of my -confidential manager and head man–indeed he is more than that, and as -he is a gentleman in every respect, you will be able to apply to him as -you would to me.’ - -‘Indeed I shall not, Rudolf!’ she exclaimed, almost sharply. - -Another pause. - -‘I am afraid my going will vex you; upset you. Would you like me to -give it up?’ he asked slowly. - -‘Oh no! no!’ she answered hastily. ‘Not for worlds! It was but a -momentary folly. Let it pass! I hope you will have every kind of -enjoyment on your journey.’ - -‘Ah, Sara, I wish that momentary folly would recur oftener! But there! -don’t distress yourself. Remember this’–he clasped both her hands, -and looked with an earnestness that was almost solemnity into her -eyes–‘_wherever_ I may be, however I may be, so that I am able to move -at all, one word from you will summon me back. _Here_, in this house, -or wheresoever you are, is _mein Genügen_–my joy and my pleasure and -contentment.’ - -Sara could not speak. As their eyes met, she could not tell whether -it was a great joy or a great sorrow which that long, earnest look -foreboded. Falkenberg stooped and kissed her forehead, said to her, -‘_Lebewohl!_’ and was gone. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -WELLFIELD. - - -The feelings were varied, the emotions complicated which, that spring -and summer, held sway in the hearts of the household at Wellfield Abbey. - -At the time of Nita’s marriage, Mr. Bolton had retired to Monk’s Gate, -with his _Dante_, and his books of voyages and travels; and there Avice -Wellfield had been of great solace to him, as she had unconsciously -betrayed in her letters to Sara. - -John Leyburn generously divided his attentions between Monk’s Gate and -the Abbey; a plan which made little real difference in the amount of -his company bestowed upon either place, for often the Abbey party would -be at Monk’s Gate, or Monk’s Gate would go to the Abbey; and thus they -all met nearly as much as before. - -At the Abbey, Nita was, as she always had been, the mistress. Jerome -and Avice were the new elements. Jerome, probably by way of blunting -disagreeable reflections, had taken in good earnest to business; and if -he did not care to reflect upon the means by which he had arrived at -his present position, he had perhaps some comfort in the knowledge that -_in_ that state of life he was doing what approximated, at any rate, to -his duty, so far as he knew how. - -Mr. Bolton went seldomer to the office, and had begun to trust more -power and responsibility into the hands of his son-in-law. He had -privately told John that his health was not all he could wish, but -that he desired not to alarm Nita, and he therefore confided to him -alone that his heart was wrong. He had privately consulted a great -doctor or two, and they all said the same thing. He therefore desired -gradually to retire from the business. Thus more and more work fell -upon Jerome’s shoulders, and yet they were not overloaded. He went -eagerly and readily to work: in this employment, which a year ago -would have been utterly distasteful to him, he found some distraction; -for the atmosphere at home was not altogether cheering. When a man -has acted in a base and cowardly manner, but yet has sufficient moral -sensitiveness left to desire that his surroundings may think well -of him, it is a galling thing when one who is a portion of those -surroundings tacitly shows him that she knows he has not been all that -he ought to have been–to her and to others; and that, judging, not -by some superlative code of high morality, but by the common hacked -and hewed standard of honesty and decency patronised by the ordinary, -unremarkable man, that he has not even washed his hands in the common -brown soap and water of this working-day world, let alone cleansing -them in the finer and more subtle essences of chivalry. - -For some months after their marriage Nita continued to worship her -husband with a silent, intense passion of devotion which soothed -and pleased him, even while he was uneasily conscious of a certain -volcanic, sulphurous sort of atmosphere, while he had the idea that -he was as it were standing on the edge of a crater–a position not -without its discomforts. Nita never asked him any question as to that -other love of which he had spoken to her; she appeared satisfied with -his emphatic assurance that it was ‘over, gone, passed away’ entirely, -and she rejoiced in what he did give her of tenderness and affection. -He never knew what it was that caused the change in her. He never -asked, for he dared not, or Nita might perhaps have been able to tell -him that one evening when he was away, Father Somerville had called -to see him, and finding him out, had kindly bestowed his society upon -her for half an hour. As it was, she never mentioned the interview -except in the most casual way, merely saying that Mr. Somerville had -been disappointed to find Jerome out. She did not mention that she -had learnt during that half hour her own true position with regard -to her husband, and his with regard to her–that she had heard about -it without moving a muscle, and had sent Father Somerville away -entirely disappointed of his hope to turn that position to his own -advantage. The holy father came and went as before; Mrs. Wellfield -never condescended to express any dislike to his visits. Jerome knew -nothing of this; what he did know was that Nita’s whole manner and -being had sustained a nameless yet palpable change; she did not show -him coldness, nor aversion, but there was a wistful sadness, which -gradually grew into a dejection–a quiet sorrow which at times tortured -him. - -It was very soon after she had learnt that she was to become a mother -that this change became apparent in Nita. It was in vain that he -lavished upon her every outward care and attention; that he watched -her footsteps, and hung upon her looks, and attended her wherever she -went. It was in vain that he would refuse invitations and tell her he -did not care to go out until she could go out again too; in vain that -he gratified, and even tried to anticipate her every wish: she faded -and drooped before his eyes. And he dared not go beyond this outward -form of devotion. He dared not ask the reason of the inward grief -that consumed her, because he knew what the answer would be. He was -perfectly satisfied that she knew something–how much he knew not, and -that again he dared not ask–but something she knew of the deceit he -had practised towards her; that he had taken her for his wife holding -a lie in his right hand. The position grew terrible, even ghastly to -him. Sometimes he wished that she would reproach him; tell him what she -knew, ask him why he had treated her so–then he could at least have -promised that since they were bound together, he would never deceive -her any more, but would honestly devote his life to making her happy. -But Nita never did anything of the kind. She was most gentle, and -seemed to shrink in every way from giving him pain. With unstinting -hand and ample generosity she asserted his rights in everything, -and showed the most boundless confidence in him; making a point, if -anything of the slightest importance were referred to her, of saying -that she knew nothing about it, they must ask Mr. Wellfield. She never -appeared to shrink from being alone with him, though, when it happened -that they were alone, she would sit for hours silent, unless he spoke. -When he talked to her she always tried to keep up the conversation. But -she was woefully and mournfully changed. Between her and Avice existed -a great, if not a demonstrative friendship. Jerome was thankful for -it, and that his wife and his sister had no unseemly disputes. The -only times when Nita was really bright, or at all like her old self, -were those occasions on which her father was with them. Then she would -collect her energies (and Jerome painfully felt that her gaiety was -the result of such a collecting of energy, and not spontaneous), and -be even merry, and that so exactly in her old manner that her father -never suspected anything wrong, and put down her somewhat wan face and -languid movements to her physical condition. - -‘Are you happy, my child?’ he asked one afternoon, when he and she -were strolling beside the river. This was very shortly before his death. - -‘Quite happy, papa,’ she answered, and he concluded that the tears -which filled her eyes as she looked up at him were tears of happiness. - -‘And Jerome is all he should be–eh?’ - -‘You may see for yourself what Jerome is to me,’ replied Nita, in a -vibrating voice, and with a heightened colour. ‘Surely no wife was ever -treated with the attention that he gives to me!’ - -‘Well, well, I was but joking,’ he answered, with profound -satisfaction. ‘When I bought the Abbey, Nita, years ago, I often -thought to myself that the Wellfields were a proud, extravagant race, -and that their inheritance had passed away from them for ever, into -hands that were honester than theirs, and better able to look after -it. Then comes this youngster, and will have my daughter. It is -strange–almost like a romance, I think, sometimes. It seems that a -Wellfield is to have the old place again; it is not to be a Radical -stronghold, as I had once fancied it would be. Better so, perhaps. At -any rate, it was best that you should marry the man of your choice, be -he rich or poor, Wellfield or Smith–and be happy with him. When I do -go, I shall go in peace, knowing that you are settled in the home you -love, with the man you love.’ - -‘There never was anyone who had such a good father as I have. But -he is very wicked when he says anything about “going,” in peace or -otherwise,’ replied Nita, with something like her old smile. - -After this they went into the house, and John came down to supper, -for they still kept up the old hours, in every-day life, at least. -Mr. Bolton also remained, and to all outward semblance a very happy, -united family group was gathered there. Jerome offered to accompany -his father-in-law to Monk’s Gate, as he had wished to speak with him on -a matter of business. The business was soon settled, and then, as they -stood at the garden-door of Monk’s Gate, Mr. Bolton suddenly said: - -‘Nita and I had a stroll by the river this afternoon. I was talking to -her about you.’ - -‘Yes?’ said Jerome, his heart giving a sudden throb as he wondered -_what_ they had talked about him. - -‘When you were married, I had some fears. Now I have none. I can see -that my girl is happy. I wish you could have seen her face as she said -to me, “You can see for yourself what Jerome is to me.” Sometimes I -think I shall not last very long——’ - -‘God forbid that you should be right in your idea, sir.’ - -‘Anyhow, Nita is all I have, and I thank you, Wellfield, for making her -happy. It gives to my old age all that it needs to make it contented.’ - -He wrung Wellfield’s hand, who answered, in a voice of some emotion: - -‘My wife is an angel. I do not deserve her.’ - -‘Pooh! “An angel not too bright and good–” What is it? I know I am -quoting it wrong, but it comes to the same thing. Good-night, boy! God -bless you!’ - -Jerome, as he walked home, bit his lips, and his heart seemed burnt up -within him with shame. - -‘Gad! what a blackguard I feel when this sort of thing happens!’ he -muttered, as he went in. - -Avice had gone to bed. John Leyburn had departed. Nita was in her -dressing-room, where Jerome found her. - -‘You are tired?’ he asked, a new emotion in his face and eyes, as he -bent over her. - -‘A little, dear. Nothing much. I suppose you are busy?’ - -‘Yes. It is only a quarter-past ten. I am going to read for an hour. I -have been–I mean your father has been speaking to me about you. He has -been thanking me for making you _happy_. My God, Nita! How can I look -at you and confess it! But some day’–he clasped her hand–‘some day, -you shall be happy–you shall, my wife.’ - -He dared not trust himself to say any more, but left her. - -Nita sat still in the same position, not weeping–she did not very -often weep now–but looking down at the wedding-ring on her hand, and -wondering if that _some day_ would ever come. - -It was but a very few days after this that Mr. Bolton’s death took -place. Nita was very quiet, and apparently not much disturbed about -it. She spoke about it to no one, except that when she first saw John -Leyburn after it, she thanked him for all he had been to her father; -and she one day said to Jerome that now the Abbey belonged to him, she -wished very much that he would settle Monk’s Gate upon Avice for her -own, unless he objected. - -‘And there is another thing,’ she added; ‘I believe Avice and John are -very fond of one another, and I want you, if he proposes for her, to -give your consent.’ - -‘Avice and John! My dear child, you are dreaming!’ - -‘Oh no, I am not. I know all about it as well as if they had told me; -and oh, Jerome, don’t come between them, please.’ - -‘I think you are match-making a little; but if it should turn out so, I -shall certainly not oppose it, and I will see about Monk’s Gate being -settled upon Avice at once.’ - -Nita thanked him, and the subject dropped. - -Mr. Bolton’s will was much applauded by all who heard of it, as -being very just and righteous–a pattern of a will. Needless to go -into details. The property was left to Nita and her husband on trust, -subject to certain restrictions, for their lifetime, when the bulk of -it went to a prospective elder son, proper provision being made for -what other children there might be, and for Nita, if she were left a -widow. - -Having left behind him these right and equitable provisions, Mr. Bolton -was laid away to his rest in Wellfield churchyard, and allowed to sleep -out his long sleep in peace. - -After this the household at the Abbey went on much as usual. Nita, -though subdued, did not look utterly unhappy. Yet she was a most -unhappy wife, and Jerome knew it well, and felt the unhappiness to -be beyond his power of curing. Nothing would restore her happiness -now, and nothing give her full contentment, except the knowledge that -he loved her–perhaps not even that, if she knew all of his conduct -towards Sara–for Nita was tender-hearted. In the meantime, there was -that unalterable fact–the past, the one thing that no power in the -heavens above or in the earth beneath could make different, or cause to -be as if it had not been. - -Mr. Bolton was gone. John and Avice continued to bicker and squabble in -a polite way, and were as much engrossed in one another as two really -unselfish persons can be. Nita, as time progressed, kept more in the -house, spent more hours on her sofa, with book and work, with Avice by -her side, or Jerome, or alone with her dog Speedwell. She often sent -them away, telling them she liked to be alone, and did not wish them to -be tied to her. Jerome once uneasily inquired of Avice: - -‘Are you sure Nita really prefers to be left with her book? What book -is that she reads in so much?’ - -For Nita always closed the book when he approached, and laid it beside -her in a manner which did not permit him to take it up. - -‘It is the _Imitatione Christi_, Jerome; and I think she does like to -be left with it,’ said Avice, abruptly. - -The one other intimate visitor beside John Leyburn, was Father -Somerville. Nita saw very little of him. She now never offered -the slightest remark upon his visits, almost ignoring them. Both -Jerome and Avice imagined that her dislike to him had merged into a -neutral feeling. Somerville himself, and he alone, was conscious how -completely he was held at arm’s length by the lady of the house, by -the insignificant girl whom he had covertly sneered at many a time, -even while he was advising Wellfield to marry her. He did not speak of -it to anyone, but Nita’s treatment of himself galled him, and it is -to be feared that his bosom was not inhabited solely by that angelic -mildness, that indifference to all slights and injuries which Father -Ravignac, at any rate, would have us believe animates the breast of -every true Jesuit. Father Somerville had expected that Mrs. Wellfield -would be unhappy; he had even taken active steps for making her -unhappy, and he had expected that her unhappiness would cause her to -take counsel with some one, perhaps with him, who so well knew how -to invite confidence. But that unhappiness had had quite a different -effect. It had transformed the ‘insignificant girl’ into a perfectly -dignified, self-possessed woman–a very sad woman, certainly, but one -who wore her crown of sorrow without cries or appeals–one whose grief -was confessed, if at all, as between herself and her God–not to him, -or to any like him. He was bitterly mortified, and while his keen -insight told him the truth, he could not help admiring and wishing the -more that he could gain any influence over her. - -He had the more power over Jerome–a power which he valued, though -he would as a matter of taste have preferred the other, since there -was assuredly more glory in being able to influence a pure and exalted -soul, than one weakened by selfishness and enervated by a feeling of -self-contempt. He had not failed to probe Jerome Wellfield’s heart, -as opportunity was afforded. One day, in a fit of almost intolerable -remorse, when he had just heard the news of Sara’s having been at the -point of death, and of her marriage with Falkenberg, and when, as it -seemed to him, his wife was fading away before his eyes, consumed with -her sorrow, Jerome had confessed–it could be called nothing else. The -temptation of confiding in one whom he felt to be so much stronger and -more self-sufficing–one whose hold on life and the things of life -was so much firmer than his own, had proved too strong. Wellfield had -told him the whole story of his love for Sara Ford–of his conduct -towards her, and that, when he dared to think of it, he loved her -yet. For a short time it gave him relief, then Somerville let him -know, by degrees, that he had fastened a chain about his wrists–that -he was, to a certain extent, in his power; he hinted, in short, that -Mrs. Wellfield might take umbrage at the story, if it were related -to her. Wellfield cursed his own weakness for a time, and soon began -to long inexpressibly for some change of scene, however fleeting. He -had deteriorated–that goes without saying. Deterioration–mental -and moral–is as natural, as inevitable a consequence of a series of -actions such as his had lately been, as the sequence of the seasons, -the rhythm of seedtime and harvest, of reaping and garnering is -inevitable, as, to use the hackneyed scripture, to sow the wind and -reap the whirlwind is inevitable. - -But of course the deterioration had scarcely yet begun visibly to -manifest itself. His wife’s state had more influence with him than his -own restless longings. His place was beside her–every voice of nature -and of duty told him so, and he obeyed their mandate. The summer passed -on. Nita did not expect her confinement until the end of October–and -until that was over he must assuredly remain with her. - -Things were, then, in this state at the beginning of October, when one -of those things happened which do happen sometimes–little things in -seeming, and which yet make grim sport with the greater things which -seem of so much more importance. - -A commercial house in Frankfort failed–a house with which Mr. Bolton’s -firm had always done a large amount of business. A meeting of creditors -was called, at which it was highly desirable that principals should -be present. Wellfield wished to remain at home and let it pass, but -Avice having incautiously spoken about it, Nita insisted, with a -determination that was almost vehement, that he should go. It was -ascertained that he could easily go and return in a week, and as a -telegram requesting his presence came to add to the pressure, he went -one morning in the first half of the month. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -JEROME. - - ‘There is nothing more galling than to receive pity where we would - fain inspire love.’ - - -There had been a long and stormy meeting of creditors–fierce disputes -over the accounts which were brought forward, much vituperation, much -gesticulation, and Jerome Wellfield had sat through it all, like a man -in a dream, scarcely hearing a word. - -He leaned back in his chair, his hands in his pockets and his face set, -his eyes fixed frowningly upon the green leather top of the table at -which he sat. Two sentences which he had heard, earlier in the day, -exchanged between two gentlemen in the coffee-room of his hotel, had -banished all other subjects from his mind. - -‘When is Falkenberg going to be back from that immense _Reise in’s -Blaue_ that he undertook in May? and has he left his wife alone all -this time?’ - -‘Oh, I fancy no one knows when he will be back. His wife is at his -place at Lahnburg. She is very quiet, they say, and people think they -have had a quarrel. Don’t know how much of it is true, I am sure.’ - -He had heard every word of it. The two speakers had sat at the next -table to his as he breakfasted that morning. Ever since, heart and head -alike had been in a tumult. Not an hour’s journey distant from him, and -alone! Of course he must not go to see her, it would be the height of -folly and presumption and wickedness; but could he not get one glimpse -of her, take one glance into her face unseen by her; have a view of -her, perhaps, as she walked in her garden–or behold some outline of -her form at the window. That would be enough. There would be nothing -wrong in that; he could see her, and she would not see him; having seen -her, he could return home with a quieter heart. - -The mention of her name, the knowledge of her proximity to him, had -revealed, as such incidents do reveal, his own inmost soul to himself, -and shrined there he found Sara Ford still, and knew not whether to -rejoice that he yet loved her whose equal he had never seen, or whether -to mourn that he could not cast that love aside, and content himself -with the things that were his. - -Thus he debated and debated within himself, endeavouring to find -reasons why he should go to Lahnburg, while all the time, deep in -his heart there was the full consciousness that he ought on no -consideration to go near the place, that to do it would be an insult -to Sara and to his own wife, and could bring nothing but misery to -himself. - -The meeting had been held at Frankfort in the forenoon, and was over by -two o’clock. Jerome, when it was over, went into the hall of his hotel, -and looking round, found what he had come for, though he had not even -in his own mind confessed so much–a railway time-table fixed against -the wall. He studied it, and saw that there were many trains on the -Lahnburg line; one at five o’clock from Frankfort, arriving at Lahnburg -at six. Three hours were before him in which to decide, and he said -within himself: - -‘I will have some lunch, and think about it, but I don’t think I shall -go.’ - -Yet, when he had ordered some lunch and sat in the coffee-room waiting -for it, he caught himself thinking what a long time it would be before -the time came to set out for the station. - -Should he go, or should he not? He ate and drank something, and -strolled out of the hotel into the town, and passed by the people who -wanted to show him the sights, and he thought he was trying to decide -not to go. He repeated to himself all the arguments against going, and -they were numerous and cogent. Then he caught himself wishing ardently -that he had something to keep him in Frankfort–some engagement that -would prevent his leaving the town that evening. Then he went back to -the hotel and compared the clock there with his watch. A quarter before -five. The station was close at hand–must he go, or must he stay? A -man came up to him–one of the merchants who had been present at the -meeting, and with whom he had a slight acquaintance, and said politely: - -‘Mr. Wellfield, if you are staying in the town, and have no other -engagement to-night, will you do me the honour of dining at my house? -we are having some friends, and I should be delighted to introduce you -to my wife and daughters.’ - -‘Thank you,’ replied Wellfield, after a scarcely perceptible pause; -‘you are very kind, and I should have been delighted, but I have an -engagement out of town, and must go to the station now, if I am to -catch my train.’ - -The die was cast, and he went quickly out of the hotel, and down the -street to the station. Ten minutes later, he was in the train, on his -way to Lahnburg. - -When he arrived there it was dusk, as it is in October at six o’clock. -He knew the place well, though he had not been of the party on that day -of Sara Ford’s first visit there. He knew the way, too, to Falkenberg’s -house, and quickly he walked there, and pushed open the gate, stood -in the garden, and surveyed the old mansion. Behind one or two of the -blinds he saw lights. Everything was very still in the dank, sad air -of the autumn evening. Not a sound came from the house. The trees -stood drooping and motionless, saturated with the autumnal dew, which -is heavy and soaking and dank, not lying lightly like a gossamer mist -as that of summer does. He could see the lights of the town twinkling -here and there, and a faint hum came up from that direction; but to -the right and straight before him there was only a great veil of mist, -hiding field and hill, river and distance, alike. - -He went up to the door, and rang the bell. A man-servant opened the -door, and Wellfield began: - -‘Is–’ but his tongue refused to say Falkenberg’s name. ‘Is the -_gnädige Frau_ at home?’ - -She was at home, he was told; and Wellfield entered, and told the man -his name. The servant perhaps did not catch the sound of the strange -name, but seeing a gentleman, composed and calm, asking for his -mistress, he concluded it was right, and opening the door of the salon, -announced: - -‘A gentleman asks to see the gracious lady.’ - -Wellfield saw the lighted room, the figure seated, writing, at a table. -A moment afterwards he was alone with her; she had risen and stood -looking at him with a strange, alarmed, alien expression, which sent a -dismal chill to his very heart. She did not speak. She stood looking at -him, and, as he could not help seeing, with an expression of aversion, -of shrinking distaste. Her hand grasped the back of the chair from -which she had risen, as if for support. - -His voice first broke the silence: - -‘Have I startled you, Sara? Forgive me, but I—’ - -She drew a long sigh, as if then first realising that she was not in -some strange dream. - -‘What–what brings you here?’ she asked in an almost inaudible voice. - -‘I was in Frankfort,’ he said. ‘By accident I heard your name, and -heard that you were here and alone. I tried to fight against it, but -the impulse was too strong. I felt as if I should repent it all my life -if I did not see you once more, while I could.’ - -‘You seem to forget that your visit must be very unwelcome to me; and -that you had no right to come. Had I known of your intention I should -have ordered my servant not to admit you. You must know that you are -acting very wickedly.’ - -‘_Wickedly!_’ he repeated, scornfully and bitterly, ‘of course I am -wicked. Have I not been wicked all along? Do you suppose I do not know -it?’ - -‘I do not know, I am sure,’ she repeated, in the same low, almost -frightened voice, and with the same look of aversion in her eyes, and a -sort of alarmed wonder, which expression galled him beyond what words -can express; ‘I do not know how wicked you have been, but I think you -forget yourself strangely in thus forcing your presence upon me. Will -you go away, please, and leave me? You can have nothing to say to me -that I can listen to, and I have nothing at all–not one word–to say -to you.’ - -‘Not one? Have you no feeling for me, Sara? Do you suppose that I am -happy–that I enjoy my life? Look at me! I look happy, do I not?’ - -‘I pity you from my soul!’ she replied. ‘And if my pity can be of the -least use to you, take it. I should indeed be inhuman if I withheld it.’ - -She spoke very gently, never losing her expression of pain and -aversion. Wellfield saw it; saw that she was bewildered, tortured by -his presence. The scorn and the withering contempt he had expected were -not there. What was there was far more hopeless for him–much harder -for him to bear. He had had wild visions of falling at her feet and -forcing her to own that she, too, loved him as he loved her. Such a -course was now out of the question. He felt degraded and humbled, and, -worse than that–a fool–ridiculous and absurd. - -‘At least hear me when I tell you that I shall never cease to repent -what I did in my madness. I shall never know happiness again, in -feeling that I have destroyed yours, Sara.’ - -‘You are quite mistaken,’ she replied, suddenly and clearly, as she -stood up without support, folding her hands before her, and looking him -full in the face. ‘You have not destroyed my happiness; it is out of -your power to do so. You turned it into bitter wretchedness for a time, -I own. I am not superhuman. I loved you devotedly, and trusted you -implicitly; and when you betrayed me, I suffered as I hope few women do -have to suffer. But you did not destroy my happiness, for that consists -in loving and trying to do what is good and noble and honest, and you -are none of them. But you cannot destroy those things, nor my joy in -them, do what you will. Surely that is enough. Please leave me now, or -I must ring the bell and ask them to show you out.’ - -‘You mean to tell me that you will be happy married to Rudolf -Falkenberg? how do you account for that?’ he asked, unheeding her -words, and advancing a step nearer to her, with eyes fixed upon her -face, and breath coming and going eagerly. - -Sara drew herself up, recoiling a step from before him. Then, looking -at him with a glance devoid of the slightest feeling for him, she -replied, in a deep, calm voice: - -‘Because he is all those things that you are not; he is good and noble -and honest; he is faithful, and would be faithful unto death–because -he saved me when you had almost killed me and quite driven me mad–and -because he is my husband, and I love him.’ - -‘You love—’ he began, and stopped abruptly; then, with a short, -miserable laugh, said: ‘After that I will go, certainly. And for the -future I beg you will spare me your pity. I do not need it. Good-night.’ - -He turned on his heel and left the room. He did not know how he groped -his way to the door and opened it, for he could see nothing. At last he -found himself in the dank, soft, misty outside air again, just entering -the market-square of Lahnburg, repeating her last words to himself over -and over again, blankly, vacantly, and mechanically: ‘Because he is my -husband, and I love him.’ - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -A MYSTERY. - - ‘Oh snows so pure, oh peaks so high! - I shall not reach you till I die!’ - - _Songs of Two Worlds._ - - -Wellfield found his way somehow to the station, and waited for the -train to Frankfort, pacing about the little asphalted platform with -feelings of the most horrible shame and humiliation–a longing to quit -the place, to lose the recollection of it–a sensation that he belonged -to a different world, a lower order of creature than she did, and that -to approach her was folly, and must necessarily result in disaster, -in singed feathers and maimed pinions. Blended with this was a sudden -yearning, stronger than he had ever felt before, to see once more the -gentle eyes of the wife who, he knew, would never love any other than -him, let his shortcomings or the nobility of the other be never so -strongly contrasted. Truly, could his moral stature, his innermost -_ich_, have been disrobed then and placed naked before the eyes of men, -it must have presented but a sorry, grovelling kind of figure. - -The slow, jog-trot train came rumbling in, and bore him in leisurely -fashion past all the little stations, till at last, long after -half-past eight, they arrived at Frankfort. - -He trailed his steps slowly up the street to the hotel. What he had -just gone through mentally–the moral scourging he had just sustained, -had exhausted him more than the hardest day of physical exertion could -have done. He felt used up–_todtmüde_, as he dragged himself up the -steps into the dazzling light of the hall, filled with piles of luggage -and groups of visitors–men smoking, girls flirting with them, parties -of people taking their coffee, an incessant passing to and fro, and -cheerful bustle. - -It seemed that there was to be no pause, no reprieve in the sequence of -his calamities just then. A waiter came up to him, and asked if he were -the person to whom ‘_dieses telegram_’ was addressed. - -Mechanically he took it; his apprehension dulled with the moral -castigation from which he was freshly come, and opened it, dully -wondering from whom it came, and what in the world it was about. - - ‘_John Leyburn_, - _Wellfield._ - - _To Jerome Wellfield, Esq._, - _–Hotel, Frankfort-am-Main._ - - ‘Your wife has a son. She is very ill. Return at once, or you may be - too late.’ - -For the first moment this seemed the one drop too much. With a kind of -faint groan, he dropped into a chair that stood hard by, and propped— -his throbbing head upon his hands, feeling as if to move another step -would be impossible. - -But this was but for a moment. He raised his head at last, and saw that -one person had been compassionate enough to come forward, and speak -to him–a stout, comely English matron, who, bravely overcoming her -insular reserve, said: - -‘I fear you are ill. Is there nothing we can do for you?’ - -He raised so haggard a face, such wretched eyes towards her, that she -half-started; but Jerome, touched inexpressibly by the one drop of -sympathy of this motherly-looking woman, answered brokenly: - -‘I am not ill, madam, I thank you. I–my wife–you may see—’ - -He put the paper into her hand, and went upstairs to put up his things, -and hasten to the night train for Brussels and Calais, which he knew -left in about half an hour’s time. When he came down again, and had -paid his bill, and was going out into the night with his wretchedness, -the same kind-looking matron stepped up to him, and said, all her -stiffness melted away: - -‘I hope you will find your wife better, and not worse, when you -get home. I can feel for you, and I shall think of you, for I have -daughters of my own.’ - -‘Thank you for your goodness–you are very kind,’ he said quickly, his -voice breaking, as he hurried away. - -‘Poor young fellow! I wonder if his wife will get better,’ said the -prosperous-looking matron to her husband. - -‘Pooh, my dear! A perfect stranger! The thing is sure to be in the -_Times_ if she does die. That “poor young fellow” must be young -Wellfield of Wellfield. I wonder how he came to be here.’ - -‘He has a great trouble of some kind, and I hope his poor wife will not -die,’ repeated the lady. - - * * * * * - -The kindly words of the strange lady put a momentary warmth into his -heart, and he thought of them more than once on his journey home. - -We all know what a journey from such a place to London is. Jerome, -inquiring on the way, found that with the best will in the world he -could not be in Manchester before nine o’clock the following night, -and from Manchester how was he to get to that out-of-the-world place -Wellfield? He dared not stop to think of it, but made his way onwards -as fast as he could. The twenty-four hours of travelling and waiting, -and waiting and travelling, seemed an eternity. He knew how they must -all be waiting for him, and Nita–he stopped that thought instantly -–it never got so far as the wonder whether she were dead or alive. - -Manchester at last–after time, on a clear moonlight night. Into a -hansom, with urgent demands for speed, from the London Road Station, -down the long length of noisy Piccadilly and Market Street, up the hill -to the Victoria Station. He breathlessly asked the porter who strolled -up to him, ‘The train for Wellfield–how long?’ - -‘Last train left twenty minutes ago, sir–the slow one–doesn’t get in -till eleven.’ - -‘I _must_ be there to-night,’ he repeated, mechanically. - -‘There’s an express to Bolton, sir, in five minutes. If you took that, -you might perhaps have a special on from there.’ - -This was the only plan, and he took it. He was in Bolton in half an -hour. A few inquiries there. Yes–they would send him on with a special -if he liked, but not for an hour. The line was blocked, and it could -not be done before then. - -A sudden thought struck Jerome. One of his horses had been sent to -Bolton two days before he left, for a certain dealer to dispose of: he -knew it must still be there, for he had left orders that nothing was -to be concluded about it till his return. The man’s place was close to -the station, and it was but ten o’clock. It was a twenty miles’ ride -to Wellfield, but with a swift horse he might be there sooner than by -waiting an hour for a special train. - -How it was settled he knew not. His white intent face, and something of -a silent urgency in his whole manner, caused the men to hasten their -work. In little more than ten minutes he rode out of the town along the -great north-eastern road. - -It was a moonlight night, and bitter cold–a contrast to that of -twenty-four hours ago. He settled himself into his saddle, set his -teeth, and tried to think it was a short way. He never confessed the -feeling to himself, but he had little hope–his feeling was, not -that he hastened to give Nita the comfort of his presence as soon as -possible, but that he rode a race to speak to her and hear her speak to -him before she died. - -The horse was fresh, was ready, and willing for the work; he shook his -head, stretched his long legs and lean flanks, and ‘his thundering -hoofs consumed the ground.’ Bending his head before the bitter air, -Jerome gave him rein, and they flew quickly past village and farm -and town, through one great dingy mass of square buildings and tall -chimneys after another; through streets dazzling with lights, and -flaring gin-palace windows, into a long stretch of quiet country, with -the moon shining serenely on the silent fields. - -It seemed an eternity till he came to Burnham, the last great town -before Wellfield, and some six miles away from it. Outside the town, -beside a brook, he paused to water his horse; then, with a word of -encouragement, and a pat on the neck, the good beast resumed its long, -swinging stride, and there at last, in the moonlight, he sees the -first home landmark, the great shape of Penhull, grey and ghast in the -moonbeams. Nearer and nearer to that well-known shape, till he saw the -long wooded ridge on which Brentwood stands, and then down a hill, -betwixt thick woods; there stands the old white church at the end of -the street, here he is on the stones of Wellfield village–up its whole -length in a moment’s space, in at the Abbey gate–his horse’s hoofs -sound hollow on the turf of the river walk. The gate stands open; his -eye scans the windows. That was Nita’s room, and a light shone behind -the blind. - -He flung himself off his horse, and almost staggered into the house. -The drawing-room door stood wide open, and as he entered a man came -out; he looked desperately into the face of Nita’s old friend. - -‘Leyburn–my wife–is–is she—’ - -‘Yes, she is living still,’ said John, putting his arm within his, -and leading him to the foot of the stairs. ‘In her own room,’ added -Leyburn. ‘Miss Shuttleworth and your sister are—’ - -‘Yes–thanks!’ he answered, running up the stairs and finding himself -at last in the subdued light of Nita’s room, hearing Avice’s voice -exclaim: - -‘Oh, Jerome! Thank God!’ - -He neither saw nor heeded anyone, but strode to Nita’s side, and knelt -by her bed, controlling himself with a great effort. - -‘Is it you, Jerome?’ said a feeble changed voice. Avice and Miss -Shuttleworth had left them, the latter sobbing uncontrollably. - -‘Don’t speak, Nita, my darling! I am here, I shall never leave you till -you are well again!’ he murmured. - -‘I must speak, Jerome. I want to say–you will love my baby–oh!’ She -began to weep pitifully. - -‘Hush, hush!’ he implored her. ‘Nita, hush! Let me love _you_, my -child.’ - -‘And you will not let him forget that _I_ was his mother, and should -have loved him dearly if I had stayed with him,’ she went on, in a -voice ever fainter and fainter. - -‘You shall teach him yourself, my wife. Ah, Nita, you must not leave -me! God knows how I need you and your love and your forgiveness!’ - -‘Jerome,’ with a sudden flicker of life and strength, ‘do you love me a -little?’ - -‘As God is above us, Nita, I love you dearly,’ he answered; and he -spoke what was the truth at the moment, at least. - -‘I am glad that I was able to speak to you,’ she said. ‘But if—’ - -These were the last words. When, alarmed by the long silence, Avice -and Miss Shuttleworth entered the room, they found Wellfield kneeling -still beside his dead wife, holding her cold hands to his breast, and -motionless almost as herself. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -CAUGHT. - - -A few days later, Nita was laid to her rest in the churchyard at -Wellfield, beside the father who had loved her so well, hard by the -paved footpath leading to the church-door. Many feet would daily pass -beside her grave: lovers walked through the churchyard; the old people -strolled there to sit on the bench by the porch at sunset; the feet of -those who were full of life and business hastened constantly to and -fro; for the gates were always open, and the churchyard path was a -much-used thoroughfare. - -When it was all over, Avice put her hand through her brother’s -arm, and turned to the two other persons who had come with them as -mourners–John Leyburn and Father Somerville. - -‘I think we will go home alone, if you do not mind,’ she said, offering -her hand first to one, and then to the other of them. - -Wellfield did not speak; his gaze was blank, and he scarcely knew or -saw who was there, or what had passed. - -‘I will come this evening and ask after you,’ said John; ‘and you can -see me if you choose.’ - -With which, and with a mute inclination of the head to the others, he -went away to his home. A new love, fresh and strong, had sprung up in -his heart. But he had loved Nita well, too, with faithful, brotherly -love, and his heart was heavy. Her going made a great blank space in -his life. - -Somerville turned to Avice, and said in a low voice: - -‘If it gets too much for you, Miss Wellfield’–he glanced significantly -at Jerome–‘send for me, and I will come instantly.’ - -With which he, too, turned and left them. - -Slowly they walked from the churchyard, in at the Abbey gate, up the -river walk, and towards the house. - -It was a soft, mild October noontide. The sun shone with mellow, -tempered warmth; the hues were varied of the fading leaves and the -autumn flowers; birds chirped here and there, and the river rushed, as -the two figures, black, and, as it seemed, incongruous, paced slowly up -the walk. As they entered the house, Avice said pleadingly: - -‘Jerome, won’t you go and see Nita’s baby? He is such a lovely child. I -am sure it would make you less grieved.’ - -‘No, no! not yet, at any rate.’ - -‘Do you know, that when he was born we thought he would die? Father -Somerville called to ask about you–he did not know you were away–just -as they were about to send for the vicar to baptise him; and he offered -to do it, so they let him, for fear it should be too late if they -waited–for his poor little life seemed to hang by a thread.’ - -‘Why do you say _they_?’ asked her brother. - -‘Simply because to me it seemed absurd–as if it made any difference to -the poor little darling whether he was baptised or not! Will you not go -and see him, Jerome?’ - -‘Perhaps–presently. So _Somerville_ baptised him!’ he said dreamily; -and then added: - -‘I am going upstairs to her sitting-room.’ - -‘Don’t stay there too long, Jerome. It makes me so unhappy to think of -you.’ - -‘You must not mind me,’ was all he said, as he slowly took his way -upstairs. - -Passing the rooms which had been set apart as nurseries, he heard a -child’s feeble cry, and started, shuddered, and hastened his steps -till he came to what had of late been Nita’s favourite room–a little -boudoir opening from her bedroom. There was a dimness, subdued and -faint. He stood on the threshold, looking round, and by degrees began -to distinguish things more clearly. They had not drawn up the blinds -here since Nita had last been in the room, the evening before she was -taken ill. Everything was as she had left it. There was the couch -on which she had spent so many weary hours, and the little table -beside it, on which lay one or two books, and her writing-case, and a -work-basket. Another book had fallen upon the floor, and something lay -beside it, in which Jerome, looking intently, recognised Nita’s great -dog, Speedwell, stretched upon the ground beside the couch, waiting, -no doubt, for her return, and watching the book which had fallen; it -was the book she had read in so much of late–her little ‘Imitation of -Christ.’ - -The old dog looked up, with a wistful expression, whined a little, -and waved his tail to and fro, as Jerome looked at him. With an -inarticulate sound, which ended in a heavy sob, the young man dropped -upon one end of the couch, covering his face with one hand, while the -other hung down, and the dog licked it, and sat up, and whined again, -asking where she was. - -His anguish at this moment amounted to torture, as he realised how -completely everything had come to an end. Here, as he sat alone, with -his own miserable thoughts–here and in this moment his wages were paid -to him; measure for measure–no more and no less; wages which could -not be refused, could not be transferred, must be accepted and counted -over, and tasted to the bitter end. - -Let the future hold what it might, this hour could never be wiped out. -In his then state of mind, he could not see any future at all; he could -see nothing but the past–could realise nothing except that he had -played a dishonest game, and had lost; and that at every turn in his -mental path he was confronted by an ‘if.’ ‘If I had done this!’ ‘If I -had told her that!’ - -He did not know how long he remained in Nita’s room, feeling the -tokens of her recent presence on every side like whips of fire, but -when he left the room and went out of the house, it was dusk, and he -mechanically took his way towards a field-path by the river, along -which one could wander for two or three miles uninterrupted by gate or -stile, or barrier of any description. It was lonely and beautiful; it -had been one of Nita’s favourite haunts. - -The path led sometimes through a kind of lane, with a high hedge on -either side, and again through broad, level fields beside the river, -towards Brentwood, with glorious views of hill and wood on every side. - -Between those hedges and through those fields Wellfield wandered as -one distraught–not with any outward appearance of disorder, but with -inwardly such an agony of remorse and self-reproach as was rapidly -gaining the ascendency over his judgment and reason. Long fasting, -and watching beside that cold mask which had been all that remained -of Nita’s countenance, and upon whose placid features he had thought -to detect a fixed and marble reproach, silent but terrible, and which -haunted him ceaselessly–all this had combined to raise him into a -wild, excited frame of mind, in which he was scarce master of his -impulses or actions. As he watched, in the rapidly-gathering dusk, the -deep and swiftly-running river, the desire presented itself again and -again to quench therein this unabating torture of mind: each time the -temptation came more insidiously, and the plausible excuse incessantly -recurred, that he had proved himself unfit to manage his own affairs, -and that those who were left behind would much better manage those of -his child–his child whom he had not yet been able to look upon. - -It went so far that at last he stood beside the river, and looked and -looked, until to his morbid perceptions it seemed to shape its murmurs -into words that invited him to come. Deep down in his nature he was -profoundly superstitious. There was an old record of a Wellfield -who had been unhappy, and had destroyed himself in this very river. -Jerome thought in his madness, ‘Well, wherever he is, I may go too, I -suppose. There can be nothing in the future–on the other side, as bad -as this.... I believe all I have gone through has been sent to show me -that I have no right to remain here any longer ... besides, a life for -a life! I have taken Nita’s, and...’ - -He stood on the very edge of the stream towards which he had -unconsciously drawn, and was looking down into it as it hurried past, -with a vague, fascinated gaze. Would it ever have come to the point of -throwing himself in? Probably not. Suicides are not such as he. His -remorse doubtless was horrible. But if he _had_ taken that cold plunge, -it would have been, not from a sense that he was too unworthy a wretch -to live, but because life was so intensely uncomfortable–to _him_. Be -that as it may, he stood on the brink, in a dreamy ecstasy–a luxury, -as it were, of grief and self-reproach, interspersed with vague wonder -why women would fall in love with him, when: - -‘You walk late beside the river, Wellfield,’ said Somerville’s voice, -while at the same moment the priest laid his slender, fragile-looking, -yet muscular fingers upon his arm. - -‘Ah!’ breathed Wellfield, with a kind of prolonged sigh; and then, -looking up, he could see, even through the gathering darkness, the -calm, clear, commanding eyes which were fixed upon his face. The -stronger nature subdued him–subdued everything about him: his anguish -of remorse; his poignant grief; his wild desire to bring his misery -to an end in some way or other, but to put it to an end. He felt that -Somerville had read his half-formed wish, nor did the latter hesitate -to avow it. - -‘You had no good purpose in your mind?’ he said, composedly. - -For all answer, Wellfield gave a half-groan, and propped himself up -against an ancient, gnarled crab-tree which overhung the stream. Then, -after a pause, he said: - -‘I had no purpose at all, except to end my wretchedness. I tell you I -cannot live through much more of this. Why did you come in my way?’ - -‘Because another lot is appointed to you than to make an end of -yourself in that river,’ was the reply; ‘and I–I recognise it -distinctly–was sent to tell you of that different lot.’ - -‘Then give me peace–give me ease from these torments that I am -enduring,’ said Wellfield, fiercely, his sombre eyes, clouded over with -his anguish, flashing suddenly. ‘You it was who first put the cursed -idea into my head of marrying that girl; you told me then, when I -hesitated, that if I belonged to you–you could make it all smooth and -right for me. Make it right now–now that I have murdered her and got -her money.’ - -‘Yes, I will do so,’ was the rejoinder, in a tone of such perfect -assurance, such calm conviction, that his hearer felt it strike -something like conviction to his heart. ‘You are in a labyrinth, but I -can guide you out of it, for I have the clue. Yield yourself only to my -guidance. That is all I demand. And for me to guide you, I must know -_all_, unreservedly–every secret of your heart, every thought that -distracts you. Then I can help you.’ - -Who shall deny the healing virtue of confession now and then? The -temptation to confess now was irresistible to Jerome; to Somerville -it suddenly gave the power he so ardently desired; suddenly, and far -more easily than he had expected. It was not the first case, by many, -of remorse gone mad, which he had had to deal with. A dullard, an -unsympathetic nature might have driven the patient to worse lengths. -Somerville was neither the one nor the other, and by this time he -thoroughly understood the nature he had to deal with–the hot southern -impetuousness which raged and rebelled under misfortune, which met -grief as a hated foe, to be wrestled with–not as a fact inseparable -from life itself, to be accepted; the half-hysterical remorse, the -stinging, intolerable sense of humiliation and degradation which -so tortured the man who loved to see things smooth, and to find -circumstances bland. Somerville’s hand was at once light and firm. -Walking with Wellfield to the Abbey, he heard out the whole miserable -story; the confession of all that had happened from the time Jerome had -left Wellfield for Frankfort, up to this very day, when he had gone -into Nita’s room and found her old dog watching beside her couch. - -It was an opportunity which the priest did not fail to turn in a -masterly manner to the very best advantage. Already he saw the Abbey -and its wealth once more in the hands of firm adherents of the Roman -Catholic Church–of the Society of Jesus. Had not the child been, by -his own hand, baptised into that Church? He distracted Jerome’s mind -from its purely emotional pain, by reminding him that Nita and her -father had left things behind them–the one land and money, the other a -life–for the disposal of which things he alone was now answerable. - -He found Wellfield only too ready to own that he wanted guidance, only -too eager to clasp the first helping hand extended to him. Somerville -remained all night at the Abbey, with every hour binding his silken -chain more firmly and more intricately around his–penitent. He sent -word to the Superior at Brentwood on what mission he was engaged, and -during the long vigil he kept with the broken man, he succeeded in the -most vital part of the work which he had set himself. He convinced -Wellfield that he was indispensable to his peace of mind, and he -promised not to desert him. - -In the morning, before leaving for Brentwood, after promising that he -would return again, Somerville, passing through the drawing-room, found -Avice standing there, with the motherless baby in her arms. She held it -tenderly, with a motherly, protecting gesture, and looked down with -love and pity into its face. He paused, smiling, and said: - -‘I have forgotten to ask how your charge goes on, Miss Wellfield?’ - -‘Both nurse and the doctor say he is going to thrive, father. Look into -his dear little face–he looks rosy and healthy. Poor little darling, -how I love him! and how I wish Jerome would take to him!’ - -‘I will do what I can to persuade him when I call again. At present he -is utterly worn out with grief and watching.’ - -‘Yes,’ said Avice, tears dimming her violet eyes. ‘Do you know, I did -not think Jerome cared so much for my sister as it seems he does. I -have done him an injustice.’ - -‘One naturally cares more or less for the person who is of most -importance to one,’ replied Somerville, with a sweet and polished -smile. He looked again at the child, whose dark eyes dwelt -unconsciously and with the vague, meaningless gaze of infancy upon his -face, and bending over it, he blessed it, slow and solemnly. ‘Since I -baptised him, I may do that?’ he said. - -‘Surely!’ replied Avice; and added, with a musing look, ‘Oh, if Nita -could have but lived to see him like this, I think mere love would have -given her courage to fight her way back to life again, and she would -have struggled through.’ - -‘It may be so,’ replied Somerville, wishing her good-morning, -and wondering within himself, as he went away, how long it would -be–whether he should be still living, and still teaching, when that -baby should be a student at Brentwood. ‘For that he will be,’ he said -within himself. ‘What strides I have made in this affair! and how truly -providential that the mother died at that precise time! Had she lived, -we should never have had the child ... and if he marries again, we must -see that the woman is a Catholic.’ - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -GEFUNDEN. - - -When Wellfield left her, Sara sat down, trembling and unnerved. But -that sensation was not of long duration. Soon she recovered, and was -astonished at the sudden lightsomeness of heart which she felt. It -was as if some thunder-cloud had burst, had discharged its flood of -storm-rain, and dispersed, leaving a sky behind of a blue etherealised -and idealised. It was not the effect she would have expected–the very -reverse; it gladdened her as unexpected joy does gladden. She did not -mention, even to Ellen, the visitor she had had. She had a plan in her -mind, which came there spontaneously; she found it there; it gladdened -her, thrilled her, filled her eyes with happy tears. She would make it -the pretext for telling Rudolf that she loved him; she would so tell -the incident of Jerome’s unlucky and reckless visit to her, that no -doubt should remain in her husband’s mind as to what she meant, for as -to speaking out the words to him which she had said with such boldness -and composure to Wellfield–the very idea of it was impossible. - -Ellen, as she helped her mistress to undress, wondered greatly what -could cause the frequent smile, and the brightened eyes which she -instantly noted. - -The next morning was a clear, glorious autumnal one; a white mist -enveloped the valley, and covered the river and the fields which -bordered it, and the long rows of poplars between which it flowed, -while the tops of the hills stood out, clear and distinct, bathed in -a flood of golden sunshine, and the sky above was like a sapphire for -clearness and depth of hue. - -Sara drank in deep draughts of the sweet, bracing air, and as she -looked around, her heart swelled within her, and an impulse which for -months had slumbered–had been as though it had never inspired her, -animated her once more–the desire, namely, to take her brush in her -hand, and picture that scene as once she would have had great joy in -doing. But after first arriving at _Mein Genügen_ she had had such an -impulse often, and nothing had come of it; when she had tried to reduce -it to action, she had been so disheartened with the dulness, the utter -absence of life, of the old strength and craft, that it was now long -since she had renewed the attempt. This morning, though the impulse was -at first strong within her, she shook her head, and decided not to make -an attempt which must end in disappointment. She opened her book, and -tried to be interested in that. - -Soon the effort succeeded. It was an Italian history, which she had -found amongst Falkenberg’s books, and the page at which she opened -it pictured that scene in which _il rè galantuomo_, contrary to the -advice of his great minister, and other wise and potent counsellors, -had insisted on preserving in the speech from the throne which he was -to utter on opening parliament, an allusion to the sufferings of his -people, and his own sensibility to them. That ‘cry of anguish’–that -_grido di dolore_ of which the King spoke, has now become historical. -Sara did not remember even to have read of it before, or, if she had, -she had passed it by, and forgotten it. What drew her attention to -it on this occasion was a mark in pencil beside the sentence, and -at the foot of the page, on the margin, the words, in her husband’s -handwriting: - - ‘Surely a fine subject for a picture, treated either allegorically or - literally.–R. F.’ - -Sara’s hands, with the book in them, sank gradually, and she raised her -face, full of musing and reflection, towards the clear hill-tops, whose -bases and all beneath were swathed in mist. - -‘It _would_ make a grand picture,’ she mused, ‘for all who knew the -allusion. _Il grido di dolore_.... When Victor Emmanuel spoke those -words they were prophetic of the release of his people–of their -salvation. There spoke the deliverer. The scene should not be all a -cry of anguish; there should be a tone of hope as well. It would be -best treated allegorically, I believe. I suppose, if I treated it as -I should wish, I should be called narrow and feminine in my idea. No -doubt I should make it personal–turn Italy into a human being–bring -my own experience to bear upon it–what has my language been of late -but a _grido di dolore_; more shame for me, no doubt! I wonder how -_he_ thought of its being represented. I wish I knew. Surely any real -representation of the thing should show not only the lower creature -crying aloud in its agony, but the strong spirit which has heard its -cry and will raise it up.’ - -Again she looked across towards the hills. The mist had almost all -cleared away. The river was now perceptible, winding in silver links -towards Coblenz; the poplars and the fields, the red-roofed villages -and the peaceful homesteads, all came into view. Upon her spirit, -too, fell a peace which it was long since she had experienced. -She went into the house, and found that the post had come in, and -that breakfast awaited her. There was one letter for her, and that -was from Falkenberg. Throwing off her hat and shawl, she eagerly -opened and read it. It was from Rio–so far had they progressed in -their wanderings–and it gave her a graphic account of their recent -expeditions, of the glowing beauty of the Brazilian scenery, and of the -odd, eccentric habits of his companion. - -‘I think you would like him, though. He has real original genius -beneath all his whimsicalities, and some of his sketches are masterly.’ -Then he went on to say that their movements were undecided; they did -not know whether to make a further journey or to return to Europe. - -He made many inquiries after her health, her pursuits, her happiness, -and begged her to write very soon. ‘You cannot tell with what eagerness -I look for your letters. You will not quarrel with me for saying this, -since I am such a long way off. Sometimes the longing to see your -face is so intense that I feel as if I must start up, and be off then -and there–_auf der stelle_; but do not be dismayed. The aberration, -when it comes, is only temporary. You need not dread my bursting in -upon you suddenly, without preparation; that is, if you will keep me -pacified by some more letters like your last one.’ - -She finished it breathlessly, and, as if by a sudden, irresistible -impulse, pressed the paper again and again to her lips, with passionate -earnestness. - -‘Oh!’ she murmured to herself, ‘would that you were here! Will anything -step between us? anything come to keep you and me apart _now_? I cannot -think that the end of this story will be all that it should be. And now -I shall tremble always, till I see you–and–perhaps even then. Who -knows?’ - -Later in the forenoon, she felt again irresistibly impelled to try once -more if her old craft had not come back to her. She took a canvas, and -her palette and brushes, and tried to sketch in some representation of -the scene which had haunted her ever since she had seen the pencilled -words at the foot of the page. Again she opened the book, and again -read the words: ‘I am not insensible to the cry of anguish–_il grido -di dolore_–which arises from my faithful people in all parts of my -kingdom.’ As she drew, her heart beat ever faster and faster. It was a -man’s figure that she outlined; the figure of a king, it was intended -for–of one who, by nature and by circumstance, was a ruler. Her crayon -moved more slowly as she tried to infuse into this figure some of the -royalty of bearing and look with which, in her own mind, she invested -the form of this ‘deliverer.’ When, after a couple of hours’ diligent -drawing, the outline stood out clearly before her, she looked at it, -and saw that it was good; it _was_ kingly, dignified; majestic and -benevolent too. She had not failed. She was not to be robbed for ever -of her old power. Her art had been restored to her. - -That, she felt, was enough for one day. She had not been aware with -what intense eagerness she had longed that she might prevail–that -life and skill might be restored to her hand, until, when she at last -saw that ‘it was so,’ she broke down, and burst into a passion of -tears–but tears which, if stormy at first, soothed and healed in the -falling. - -It was evening of the same day. Sara sat down in the quaint old salon, -in the flickering firelight. There was an open English grate in which -pine-logs were burnt, for the appearance of comfort; and there was -likewise a porcelain stove to produce the reality of it. She had sent -away the servant who came with lights, saying she would ring when she -wanted them; and now, with her cheek propped on her hand, she sat and -gazed into the fire–into the red map of the land of dreams. It was -indeed a vague, aimless dream in which she was lost; and yet there was -an undercurrent of passion about it, a solid basis to the vision. That -letter from Rio, which she had had that morning, which lay open in -her hands now, which she had just been reading, and which had wafted -her on its thin pages away from this place altogether. She pictured -to herself tropical climes and South American forests. Could he be -perhaps wandering with his friend in the solemn, desolate splendour -and luxuriance of such a forest, even now? At least, wherever he was, -he was hundreds of leagues away from her. She had visions of stately -vessels borne onwards by soft south-western gales–gentle gales. -So, equally, she could see, in the map that was constantly changing -its boundaries by a process of crumbling, visions of fair and busy -cities–foreign cities, full of pleasure and gaiety, most beautiful to -behold, but all a very long way off–hundreds, yea, thousands of miles -away. - -The great distance, the feeling that if anyone asked her, ‘Where is he -now?’ she could only answer, ‘I know not!’ weighed her down with an -unspeakable despondency. Then, like a flash of fire across this chill -mood of resignation, darted a longing, intense and uncontrollable, to -have him there, at that very moment. Oh, if he would but come! If he -would but come! Could he not understand the meaning her last letters -had tried to convey? Could he not read, ‘I love you,’ between the -lines? This intense, concentrated longing for the bodily presence -of some deeply-loved personality is a painful thing when one longs -and goes on longing in spite of the secure knowledge that no amount -of longing will bring that person to one. Thus it was with her. She -covered her face with her hands presently, and her heart throbbed. Did -he in this moment experience half of the same feeling? If she could -have thought it, she would have felt almost satisfied. But how could -he? She raised her head, and looked round the room–her favourite, -because it was into it that he had led her and Countess Carla, on that -far back, happy red-letter day whose full worth and meaning she had -only within the last weeks began really to realise. - -‘Could not a miracle happen?’ she thought; ‘could not he have followed -quickly on the footsteps of his letter, and–but heaven forgive my -presumption! Why should such notice be taken of _me_?’ - -Even as she thought it, a cloud seemed to come before her eyes; her -very breath to stop. Yet she was rising from her chair, advancing to -meet the ghost–to prove the miracle, which seemed to waver and flicker -before her eyes; if she touched it, if she stretched out her hand, -or found her voice, would it not melt away? Surely it would. He was -in South America. She unsteadily moved out a hand, as one who gropes -in the dark. But that was no ghost’s touch–no phantom fingers which -captured it, drew it, her other hand, all of her, into a close embrace; -nor was it any unearthly voice which said: - -‘The aberration conquered at last, Sara. Your last letter came -immediately after I had posted mine to you. I took it to mean that I -might come.’ - -‘You understood, Rudolf, at last?’ - -‘At last, thickhead that I am, I thought I understood.’ - -‘Ah!’ said Sara, ‘when I saw you come in, I thought you were of the -same nature as a phantom–a dead man, who visited me last night, an -evil spirit which I exorcised by the use of your name. I thought I saw -your ghost, Rudolf.’ - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -L’ENVOI. - - -Six months later Jerome Wellfield was formally received into the Roman -Catholic Church, in the large chapel at Brentwood; and six years later -Nita’s child was sent to the college of that name, there to begin his -studies under the polished and accomplished supervision of the Fathers -of the Society of Jesus. - -Green wave the trees to this day over the river walk of Wellfield -Abbey, and placidly that stream flows past the ruined cloisters, and -under the wooded ‘Nab.’ The Abbey farms are as fat, and the Abbey lands -as productive now, as they were in the days of its proudest fame. -Once, years after these things had happened, a carriage, with a lady -and a gentleman in it, drove through the village of Wellfield, over the -bridge, away from John Leyburn’s house. The persons in the carriage had -been to pay a flying visit to John Leyburn’s wife. As their carriage -drove slowly up a steep hill just outside the village, they saw below -them to the right the whole of the Abbey–the river, the avenue, even -the ancient, hoary front of the house, and the lawn before it. It was -a brilliant July evening, and they saw, slowly walking about that -garden, three figures–that of a tall man, who held the hand of a -slender, graceful-looking boy, whose face was turned towards his guide, -and beside them, the figure of a priest, who appeared to be speaking -earnestly, and who raised his hand now and then, as if to enforce his -argument. The two travellers looked long at this group, and at the -slender shadows they cast upon the dazzling green of the grass–as -long as they could see it, until a bend in the road shut it all -abruptly from their view: and then they looked, each into the other’s -face. - -‘What a life! What an ignominious slavery!’ observed Falkenberg, with -more than a tinge of contempt in his tone. - -‘If he finds peace in it, Rudolf?’ - -‘_He!_ And what about the poor child whom your friend was telling us -about–what about his wife?’ - -‘I have often asked myself that question, and I can find nothing that -gives me any answer to it–neither religion, nor irreligion, nor faith, -nor unfaith. I told you long ago that Jerome Wellfield was as a dead -man to me. And think of what he must feel himself dead to, before he -could come to this. But he had no deliverer.’ - -They became silent until they drove into Burnham, from which town they -were to take the train to London, on their homeward way. This was the -last glimpse into Jerome Wellfield’s life which Sara ever obtained or -asked for. - - -THE END. - - -BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD. - - _J. S. & Sons._ - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes. - - 1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical - errors. - - 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELLFIELDS *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Wellfields</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>A novel. Vol. 3 of 3</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Jessie Fothergill</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December 6, 2022 [eBook #69489]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Peter Becker, Brian Wilsden and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELLFIELDS ***</div> - -<div class="tnotes covernote"> - <p class="center">The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="1774" height="2560" alt="Cover."> -</div> -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="topspace6"></div> - -<h1 class="nobreak">THE WELLFIELDS.</h1> - -<div class="topspace6"></div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/title.png" width="600" height="786" alt="Title Page."> -</div> -<br><br> -<div class="caption center"> -<span class="xxxlarge">THE WELLFIELDS.</span><br> -<br> -<span class="large">A Novel.</span><br> -<br> -<br> -BY<br> -<span class="xlarge">JESSIE FOTHERGILL,</span> -<br><br> -AUTHOR OF ‘THE FIRST VIOLIN’ AND ‘PROBATION.’<br> -<br> -<br> -IN THREE VOLUMES. -<br><br> -VOL. III.<br> -<br> -<br> -LONDON:<br> -<span class="xlarge">RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,</span><br> -Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.<br> -1880.<br> -<br> -[<i>All Rights Reserved.</i>]<br> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/p001_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS OF VOL. III.</h2> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/diamond-rule.png" width="250" height="50" alt="Decorated Horizontal Rule."> -</div> - -<p class="center">STAGE IV.</p> - -<table> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">CHAPTER </td> -<td class="tdl"> </td> -<td class="tdr">PAGE</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">I. </td> -<td class="tdl">A REED SHAKEN IN THE WIND</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">1</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">II. </td> -<td class="tdl">A CONSUMMATION</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">16</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">III. </td> -<td class="tdl">CONSEQUENCES</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">36</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">IV. </td> -<td class="tdl">‘WOO’D AND MARRIED, AND A’.’</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">59</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<td class="tdc"> </td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<td class="tdc">STAGE V.</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<td class="tdc"> </td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">I. </td> -<td class="tdl">SARA</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_I">76</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">II. </td> -<td class="tdl">‘YES’</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_II">89</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">III. </td> -<td class="tdl">IRREVOCABLE</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_III">113</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">IV. </td> -<td class="tdl">DOUBTS</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_IV">125</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">V. </td> -<td class="tdl">MEIN GENÜGEN</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_V">145</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VI. </td> -<td class="tdl">EINE REISE IN’S BLAUE</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_VI">159</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VII. </td> -<td class="tdl">WELLFIELD</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_VII">185</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VIII. </td> -<td class="tdl">JEROME</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_VIII">207</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">IX. </td> -<td class="tdl">A MYSTERY</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_IX">220</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">X. </td> -<td class="tdl">CAUGHT</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_X">233</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">XI. </td> -<td class="tdl">GEFUNDEN</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_XI">250</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<td class="tdl">L’ENVOI</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_XII">264</a></td> -</tr> -</table> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" > -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 1]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_I"> - <img src="images/p001_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> - -<p class="center xxxxlarge">THE WELLFIELDS.<br></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/club-rule.png" width="250" height="50" alt="Decorated horizntal rule."> -</div> - -<p class="center"><span class="xxlarge">STAGE IV.</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/club-rule.png" width="250" height="50" alt="Decorated horizntal rule."> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I. -<br><br> -<small>A REED SHAKEN IN THE WIND.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_w_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated First Letter."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Wellfield’s</span> position had not been altogether an enviable one, during -the last few months. In his letter to Sara, summoning Avice home, he -had casually mentioned having had money troubles, and this was true. He -had shortly before heard from Mr. Netley, that now that his father’s -affairs were finally wound up, nothing would remain to him save - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 2]</span> - -three to four hundred pounds, then lying in the bank to his account, -representing at most some twenty pounds a year. With this delightful -information in his pocket he repaired one day to Burnham as usual, and -during the morning had an interview with Mr. Bolton, in which that -gentleman, all unconscious of what had happened, offered him the post -of foreign correspondent to his house, at a salary of two hundred a -year. He was surprised at the manner in which the proposition was -received. Wellfield started, and exclaimed,</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Bolton–I–cannot thank you–you do not know what this is to me.’</p> - -<p>With which, leaning his elbows on the table, he covered his face with -his hands. In truth, his emotion was almost overpowering; this event -appealed strongly to all the superstitious elements of his nature. -Here, when he had just been debating on his way to Burnham whether he -should not that very morning explain his circumstances to Mr. Bolton, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 3]</span> - -and then and there take his leave, leaving a message for Nita, and so -cut the Gordian knot which he spent hours daily in futilely attempting -to untie–now, at this very moment came the only man who could help -him, and proffered him such tangible assistance that, it seemed to -his nature, it would be madness to refuse it. A great strain had -been put upon his nerves lately. He had expected and feared the news -which he had that morning received, but he had waited for it as if -paralysed. Now, everything, gratitude, necessity, convenience, pointed -out to him that he must remain where he was. It was most improbable -that anywhere else he would receive so much money, or be able to find -work which he could do competently. Poor, weak and vacillating heart, -which recognised honour and truth when it saw them, but which was too -weak and vain to lay hold of them and keep them! Surely natures like - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 4]</span> - -his are more to be pitied than any others when their time comes for -struggling and deciding–the natures which can see the right, but which -<em>never</em> perform it, if the wrong offers an easier task at the moment.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton was naturally surprised. ‘Why, Wellfield,’ he asked, ‘what -ails you?’</p> - -<p>Jerome lifted his face from his hands, pale and worn, and took the -letter from his pocket.</p> - -<p>‘If you read that, you will understand what I must feel on receiving -your offer,’ he remarked.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, indeed! I <em>do</em> see,’ said Mr. Bolton, when he had finished it. -‘Yes–well, you need not fret so much about that now. Things don’t look -so bad. You have this salary coming in, and something to start with as -well.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes–it is the feeling of relief, after all this strain which overcame -me for the moment,’ he answered; and added, earnestly, ‘Believe me, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 5]</span> - -Mr. Bolton, I shall never cease to be grateful for the goodness I have -received from you and yours, all this time–I, of all others!’</p> - -<p>He spoke as he felt, and the remembrance of Nita’s goodness, and all -that it implied–of the miserable entanglement in the back ground, -out of which he could in no way emerge with honour, let the affair -terminate as it might–all this brought a mist before his eyes, and a -lump into his throat.</p> - -<p>‘Pooh!’ said Mr. Bolton, ‘never talk of that. We are not barbarians, to -turn a stranger from our doors.’</p> - -<p>Jerome went back to Wellfield that afternoon, firmly resolved to -write to Sara Ford, and ask her to set him free. When it came to the -point, he ‘could’ not do it. He could picture only too vividly what -such a letter would mean to her. It was Saturday afternoon. He would -wait until to-morrow, when he would go up to Brentwood to the morning -service, and would see Somerville and consult with him. Perhaps he - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 6]</span> - -might even tell him the whole truth. He did not know. He went often -to the services at Brentwood now. They soothed him, and he found a -satisfaction in going there. Indeed, when one reflects upon the fact -that there are many natures partaking of the characteristics of his, -one sees how to these natures some form of religion, of an infallible -institution outside themselves, and yet within their reach, is an -absolute necessity; and one begins to perceive more clearly why -agnosticism has never been popular.</p> - -<p>Wellfield could never have been an agnostic. He and such as he have -not the mental and moral toughness of fibre which enables a man to -contemplate the mystery of the heavens above and the earth beneath; of -the life and the death, and the pain and the evil that are upon the -earth, of his own feelings and speculations, and their origin, and the - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 7]</span> - -purpose and destiny of them–and then, while reverently owning ‘I know -nothing, and I will assert nothing, upon these things,’ has yet the -courage to live up to an ethical code as high, as pure, and as stern as -that of St. John or of Christ–expecting nothing from a life to come, -as to the existence of which he is in absolute ignorance. The more part -of mankind want none of this; they want a religion, a thing that will -let them sin, and prescribe to them how they must get forgiven. Such -a religion was found in perfection at Brentwood, and thither Jerome -repaired.</p> - -<p>There was an unusually splendid service that morning. A great -dignitary–a cardinal–preached. The sermon set forth eloquently -the rewards of faith and obedience. He assumed that all present had -overcome the initiatory difficulties, that they were all entirely -faithful and entirely obedient; and then he proceeded to depict their -happiness even here upon earth, not to mention the joys which awaited - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 8]</span> - -them in heaven.</p> - -<p>Wellfield listened; he saw others listening: a haughty-looking woman -in widow’s weeds, just on the other side of the aisle. She was Mrs. -Latheby of Latheby, whose only son was being educated at Brentwood. He -knew her well by sight; her pride and reserve were proverbial. Yet she -wiped tears from her eyes as she listened to the sermon. There was a -profound silence–a silence full of suppressed emotion, as the sermon -progressed. Faith and obedience; nothing to do but submit that private -judgment which is usually so ill-trained, and which invariably causes -such trouble, and <i>ye shall have rest unto your souls</i>.</p> - -<p>That was the burden of the discourse–that was what echoed with so -seductive a sound in Wellfield’s ears.</p> - -<p>After the service he saw Somerville; he was presented to Mrs. Latheby, -who remembered his mother, and told him so; adding with the regretful - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 9]</span> - -smile which lent such pathos and sweetness to her proud and still -beautiful face:</p> - -<p>‘Ah, Mr. Wellfield, if that beautiful mother of yours had been here -to-day, how happy she would have been in what she had heard ... and it -gives me a melancholy pleasure to think that had she lived to bring you -up, you might have been standing here, one of us, not a looker-on, out -in the cold.’</p> - -<p>‘You are far too good, madam, to think of me at all,’ he replied, moved -somewhat by her words, and yet under the influence of the emotion which -the cardinal’s word-picture had aroused.</p> - -<p>‘I must ever take an interest in the only son of Annunciata Wellfield,’ -she answered; ‘and I want you to come and see me–will you?’</p> - -<p>‘I shall only be too honoured.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 10]</span></p> - -<p>‘Then I shall write this week, and appoint a day for you and Mr. -Somerville to dine at Latheby–if you can come, father.’</p> - -<p>‘I shall no doubt be able to come,’ replied Somerville.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Latheby waited in the parlour to have an interview with his -Eminence. Somerville walked with Wellfield along the lane towards his -home. Wellfield told him what had happened.</p> - -<p>‘I am superstitious, I suppose, according to your notions,’ said -Somerville, ‘and I call it a sign.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not call it superstition,’ stammered Wellfield. ‘I have myself -been thinking to-day that–that—’</p> - -<p>‘That you ought to follow my advice, and ask for Miss Bolton’s hand,’ -was the firm, decided reply.</p> - -<p>‘If it were not for this miserable business in the background——’</p> - -<p>‘It is your duty to tell the truth to one lady, or to get some one to - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 11]</span> - -do it for you,’ said Somerville, in a smooth, even voice, which yet cut -his hearer like a whip. He winced.</p> - -<p>‘If you mean to stay here, you ought at least in duty and honour either -to propose to Miss Bolton, or to tell her that you are bound to another -woman.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you suppose I don’t know that?’ retorted Wellfield, almost -fiercely. ‘Have I not been debating within myself until I am almost -mad, how to tell her.’</p> - -<p>‘You are nervous, perhaps. Would you like me to do it for you?’</p> - -<p>‘You–heaven forbid!’ he exclaimed passionately. ‘That would be to -ruin–I mean, I must think about it again. I will decide to-morrow.’</p> - -<p>‘As you are taking the matter into consideration,’ observed Somerville, -with scarcely disguised insolence, ‘I would really strongly advise you -to reflect whether it would not be in every way more advisable to tell - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 12]</span> - -the other lady that you wish to be free.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you wish to insult me?’ asked Wellfield, pale with passion.</p> - -<p>‘To insult you! I am simply trying to advise you for the best. -Remember, you are now dependent upon this post of Mr. Bolton’s. If you, -or anyone else, lets Miss Bolton know that you are engaged elsewhere, -it might be bad for your prospects. Girls who have an idea–however -mistaken–that their feelings have been trifled with, are apt to be -vindictive.’</p> - -<p>There was a palpable sneer beneath the even politeness of his tone. He -had taken out the whip–the whip which Wellfield’s own pleasant sins -had knotted into a cord, and which his own weakness and vacillation had -put into the other’s hand. The very first stroke had drawn blood. With -a chest heaving convulsively, and a glitter in his eyes of anything but -agreeable import, Wellfield clenched his hands behind him, and said, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 13]</span> - -composing himself with an effort rendered efficacious by dire necessity.</p> - -<p>‘I see what you mean, but I must think about it.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, do,’ retorted his monitor, with a smile. ‘And I must return, or I -shall receive a reprimand. Good-morning. I will stroll down to Monk’s -Gate to-morrow evening. Shall I find you in?’</p> - -<p>‘I expect so,’ said Wellfield, sullenly.</p> - -<p>They parted. Somerville smiled as he took his way towards Brentwood.</p> - -<p>‘He will come back,’ he thought. ‘He has gone too far. He cannot do -without me ... and he is half won. Mrs. Latheby must flatter him, as -she <em>can</em> flatter for us and for her Church. He will come. I see him -coming. And when he is married to Miss Bolton, of course she must learn -the truth, or they might live in such harmony that my game would be -spoiled.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 14]</span></p> - -<p>Somerville called early on the following evening, and it was during -this visit that the arrangements were made for Avice’s return. Jerome -was thankful for the suggestion. He dared not go to fetch her himself. -He dared not face Sara. But one side of his character–his pride, -we must call it, for want of a better name–the pride which did not -prevent him from making love to one woman while solemnly engaged to -another, pricked him sorely at the idea that Avice was receiving Sara’s -kindness and living under her care. He did not know how he was to -explain it, nor did he much care. He was getting callous, and reckless, -and anxious only to find a way out of the coil. Somerville had received -his orders suddenly, and was to set out almost immediately. Perhaps -the visit of his Eminence had something to do with the matter. He -had had a long conversation with Father Somerville, and had bestowed -his blessing upon him before parting. Jerome accordingly wrote that - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 15]</span> - -letter to Sara, and on the following morning Somerville set out on his -travels.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 16]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_II"> - <img src="images/p016_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II. -<br><br> -<small>A CONSUMMATION.</small><br></h2> -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_o_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated Horizontal Rule."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">One</span> afternoon, -on returning from Burnham, Jerome found a letter -awaiting him. It was that which Somerville had written from Elberthal, -and it set Wellfield’s heart on fire. Somerville in his calculations -had not forgotten to reckon among the possible effects of his -communication that one which might lead Jerome to rush back again to -Sara’s feet, shocked into honesty by the fear of losing her. But the -priest had decided again, ‘No; he will remember that if he leaves Mr. -Bolton he leaves all his subsistence; that his sister is on her way - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 17]</span> - -home, and he has nowhere to place her; and above all, that he cannot -present himself to Miss Ford in the character of injured innocence, -considering the manner in which he has been conducting himself. -Besides, it will be so much easier for him to stay where he is and -propose to Miss Bolton.’</p> - -<p>Whether by chance, or in consequence of extreme and almost superhuman -cleverness, Somerville had managed to calculate with mathematical -correctness. Wellfield’s first impulse, on reading the letter, was to -rush off then and there in all haste, and never to pause until he had -found Sara, and clasped her in his arms, looked into her eyes, received -the assurance of her love. Then, across this fever of impatience came -the thought, creeping chilly:</p> - -<p>‘When she turns and asks you to explain your late treatment of her, -what are you to say?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 18]</span></p> - -<p>He knew she might love with an utter abandonment of self; but should -she once suspect falsehood, it would all have to be disproved, all made -clear and clean, before she would touch his hand and speak tenderly -again. And it was too hard, too cruel. Avice was on her way home. -Sooner or later Sara would learn something of what had transpired -here, at Wellfield... What was all this talk about her favouring some -other man? Again the impulse was strong, if not to go to her, to seize -pen and paper, and ask what it all meant. And again came the cruel, -sudden check. She would have a perfect right to retort with a similar -question–to ask him what his conduct meant–to demand a reason for his -late ambiguous treatment of her. He might not write. He buried his face -in his hands and groaned. What was he to do? His counsellor was away. -For the first time he realised, by the intensity of his wish to see - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 19]</span> - -him, what a hold Somerville had gained upon his mind.</p> - -<p>It was a dreary, gusty November evening. Round the solid walls of the -old house of Monk’s Gate, the wind wuthered sadly and fitfully; the -deep-set lattices did not shake–one only heard the sound of the wind. -No passing vehicles disturbed the ear. The quiet country road was -profoundly still.</p> - -<p>No one came to relieve his solitude, or to divert his mind from its -miserable debate with his conscience. He sat there perfectly alone, -until at last he could bear it no longer. He would go to the Abbey, and -join them there. There would be cheerful voices, honest faces; words to -listen to–not this hideous silence, broken only by the dismal sighing -of the wind about the roofs, and in the trees.</p> - -<p>He snatched up his hat, opened the door, and sallied forth into the -night. The Abbey gate was close at hand. Soon he was within that dark -portal, beneath the now leafless avenue which shaded the river walk; - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 20]</span> - -he could hear the swollen stream rushing noisily along. He saw a light -in the drawing-room windows, and, with an effort, he gathered himself -together, so as to appear composed and collected, for they would not -understand his disturbance, and the fear lest by betraying it he should -‘appear unto men a fool’ was sufficient to give him outward calm.</p> - -<p>Of course, when the servant opened the door, Wellfield asked for Miss -Bolton, and was told she was in. But he was in the habit now of going -unannounced into the drawing-room. The page knew it, and retired. -Jerome hung up his hat, took his way to the drawing-room door, and with -a brief preliminary knock, entered.</p> - -<p>A large fire was burning in the ample grate, but no lamps were lighted. -No one was in the room, either, except Nita, who was kneeling upon a -tiger-skin, straight in front of the fire–her dog Speedwell by her -side. Her hands were clasped before her; her eyes wide open, and her - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 21]</span> - -cheeks, with them, exposed to the full fierceness of the glowing fire.</p> - -<p>But she heard him come: heard his footstep, and started up–a deeper -blush mantling through the red which the heat of the fire had called -forth.</p> - -<p>Jerome came slowly up to her, and stooped over her, and the firelight -shone into his eyes, and showed the hollows in his pale cheek.</p> - -<p>‘Are you quite alone?’ he asked, and there was no surprise in his -accent, for it had flashed upon his mind, as he came in and found her -by herself, that perhaps this too was a ‘sign,’ as Somerville had -called it.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ replied Nita, rising to her feet. ‘Papa has gone up to Abbot’s -Knoll, to see John: it is a wonder for him to be out, as you know. I -don’t know what plots they are concocting, I’m sure. John is perfectly -mad about some bird–a reed-warbler, he calls it–which he vows he - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 22]</span> - -has found by the river here, and he is going to overthrow some great -authority, who says they are never found so far north.’</p> - -<p>‘And Miss Shuttleworth?’ asked Wellfield, unconsciously acting on his -secret desire to know the coast clear.</p> - -<p>‘Aunt Margaret has got a tea-party of school-teachers. She always has -one about this time. Did you want to see papa?’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid I don’t quite know what I want,’ he answered, with a great -sigh of exceeding weariness, as he rested his elbow on the mantelpiece, -and looked at her with his sombre, mournful eyes. ‘I don’t think I do -want to see your father–at least, I felt very glad when I saw you -alone. I think I want to escape from myself and my thoughts, Nita.’</p> - -<p>‘Why, do your thoughts trouble you?’ she asked, softly and timidly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 23]</span></p> - -<p>‘Sometimes they do, very much–to-night particularly. Will you let me -sit with you a little while, or must I go back again to Monk’s Gate and -solitude?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Mr. Wellfield, you know that you are always welcome here, when it -pleases you to come!’</p> - -<p>‘That is a good hearing,’ he answered, and such was the odd mixture -of the man’s nature, he felt that it was good. He felt that from Nita -he would receive no blows or buffets, or rough words–nothing but -(metaphorically speaking) tenderest caresses and softest whispers. To -go back to solitude, and the harsh accusations of conscience, and the -disagreeable anticipations for the future, was not in him; so he stayed.</p> - -<p>‘Do you never feel restless?’ he went on. ‘Do you never feel as if you -would like to set off on some indefinite journey, and without knowing -where you were going–with a sort of “onwards–but whither?” feeling, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 24]</span> - -that you would just like to go on and on, and for ever on, till life -itself came to a stop? Have you never felt it?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, often,’ said Nita, in a low voice. She was standing opposite -to him, on the other side of the fireplace. Her hands–soft, pretty, -little white hands–were folded lightly one over the other. Jerome, -in his idle sentimentalising, had time to notice that she had on very -pretty black-lace mittens, and that the stones of some rings sparkled -through them; that a gold bracelet was pushed tightly up the rounded -arm. He scarcely observed her averted face–her eyes looking into the -fire; her rapidly-heaving bosom; and he prosed on, because he liked -talking to her–because it was easy to make himself out sad, and -blighted and persecuted.</p> - -<p>‘I felt sure you had,’ he said. ‘That is what I feel to-night. But for -your father’s goodness to me–but for the stern mandate of reason and -necessity and common sense, I would set off now, this moment; and - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 25]</span> - -leave Wellfield, never to return to it.’</p> - -<p>He had spoken this time without rhyme or reason; without any <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">arrière -pensée</i>–any calculation as to the effect his words might have upon -her; and when he saw what it was, even he was startled.</p> - -<p>‘Leave Wellfield! Go away!’ she exclaimed, turning suddenly pallid. -‘What makes you say such a thing?’</p> - -<p>‘Should you care much if I did?’ he asked recklessly and ruthlessly. -‘Would it–can I believe it would make any difference to you?’</p> - -<p>He was standing before her, looking, as the girl in her sad -infatuation thought, so noble, so calm, so undaunted, after all his -misfortunes–undisturbed–only sad and a little despondent after his -reverses–more of a hero than ever. Ah! if she might only tell him what -she felt and wished! But at the moment something held her back; she - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 26]</span> - -could not say all–could not speak the words her heart was breaking to -utter. She drew a long breath, and said:</p> - -<p>‘You–it would make me very sad if you went away, for then I should -feel more than ever what interlopers we must seem to you. I should -feel that we had driven you out from your old home. And you speak of -papa’s goodness–but is it goodness? I don’t call it the work for -you–drudging in an office in that way, like some common clerk. I -should think after a time it would drive you almost mad.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no! It is only the getting into harness that is such hard work–the -learning how to become a machine. I fancy when that is accomplished, -and the routine mastered, one can go on easily enough–almost -unconsciously. I shall get used to it sometime. Meanwhile, I am -thankful to be so well off.’</p> - -<p>‘You are not thankful to be well off when you know you are very ill -off,’ said Nita, with agitation. ‘And you will never get used to it. - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 27]</span> - -If you could you would not be what you are–it would not all be so -horrible.... Oh, I wish the Abbey–I wish the money were mine, that I -might ask you to take it as your <em>right</em>–your inheritance! But I can -do nothing, nothing; I am powerless, helpless, and I believe it will -kill me!’</p> - -<p>She turned away and threw herself upon a couch, burying her face -in the cushions, and trying to stifle her sobs. For, with a great, -overwhelming rush, the conviction had come to her of what she had -really said–a sense of intolerable shame, an agony of humiliation was -torturing her.</p> - -<p>For one moment Wellfield gazed at her, at the prostrate form and -heaving shoulders, convulsed with sobs. Then he made a step to the -sofa, and knelt down beside her.</p> - -<p>‘Nita!’ he whispered, ‘dear Nita! Look up! I want to speak to you.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 28]</span></p> - -<p>But she would not raise her face, exclaiming in a broken, stifled voice:</p> - -<p>‘No, no! don’t ask me! I cannot look at you. I can never look at you -again. Oh, leave me! Mr. Wellfield–Jerome! for the love of heaven -leave me, or I shall die–I shall <em>die</em> of shame!’</p> - -<p>‘You shall not die of shame,’ he said, in the same low, persuasive -voice. ‘Nita, you shall look at me, my good angel, and hear what I have -to say to you.’</p> - -<p>With gentle but irresistible force he drew her hands away, and lifted -her head, and made her look at him, and in that moment he had, perhaps, -forgotten the existence of Sara Ford.</p> - -<p>‘Why do you speak of shame, Nita?’ he asked, looking tenderly into her -piteous face. ‘What shame can there possibly be in giving way to such -a generous impulse, and in showing a lonely, fallen man that there is -one sweet woman left who cares for him, and would make him happy if - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 29]</span> - -she might? Heaven bless you, dear, for such goodness. But you know–you -must know, why I cannot take you in my arms and say, “I accept that -goodness, and offer you my life’s devotion in return for it.” You know -it would be the basest conduct on my part towards your father, who has -treated me with unheard-of goodness. I know he wishes you to marry, and -I know he would consider it the height of presumption in <em>me</em> to ask -for you.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, don’t speak of such things–of marriage and such horrors!’ she -almost moaned, struggling to free her hands; but he went on:</p> - -<p>‘No, I must face my future as best I may, and it will be with -the better cheer from the knowledge that goodness such as yours -exists–goodness which I worship and honour all the more in that you -have made it known to me.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 30]</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh, don’t! don’t speak of it! I cannot bear it!’ she cried, wrenching -her hands away, and again covering her face from his sight. She felt -as if she were in some strange, delirious dream. Wellfield’s looks and -tones thrilled through every nerve. Did he love her? Did he mean that -if he dared, he would tell her so? She knew not what to think. She only -knew that <em>he knew</em>, and that say or do what she might, she could never -undo the fact that she had betrayed herself; and that the one thing -which would have made it all right–would have made the difference -between a nightmare and a vision of Paradise–the knowledge that he -loved her–was wanting. Yes, despite his caressing tones, his eloquent -eyes, his tender words, she did not understand that he loved her.</p> - -<p>‘Do not be so distressed,’ he said. ‘I will never speak of it again, if -you desire me to be silent. I will forget it–anything–only, dear, do -not be so unhappy!’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 31]</span></p> - -<p>‘I hear them coming,’ said Nita, her ear preternaturally quick. ‘I hear -their voices. I cannot see them–they must not see me. Tell them–tell -them I am ill–for I am–and–let me go!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes–stop one moment, Nita!’ he answered, clasping his arm round her -waist, as she was darting past him.</p> - -<p>‘Let me go!’ she breathed again, but her voice died away as his lips -met hers–once and again, and he said, in a low, passionate voice:</p> - -<p>‘There! We have that, whatever may happen in the future. Nita–<em>my</em> -Nita!’</p> - -<p>He loosed his arm, and she had flashed past him, and out of the room, -in a second.</p> - -<p>Jerome was left standing on the rug, feeling, he too, as if he had just -gone through some mad fit of delirium. What had hurried him on to that -act of a moment ago? He stood with bated breath, and eyebrows drawn -together–then breathing again, a long, nervous breath, he muttered:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 32]</span></p> - -<p>‘By G–, I am a villain!’</p> - -<p>And in the moment that ensued between this confession of conscience, -and the entrance of the others, he had time too to realise that one -cannot be a villain one moment, and have done with the villainy and its -effects in the next instant. One woman’s heart, at least, must go near -to break, in punishment for his sin of this night–or rather, for this -night’s consummation of his sin. It lay with him to decide which woman -must suffer–Nita, who was here, close by, and whose agonies he must -watch; or Sara Ford, away in Elberthal, and alone, now–and whom he -would not be able to see, let her have what she might to endure–Sara, -who had loved him all along–who loved him still, as he knew, and would -have known, had fifty letters come to tell him how devoted she and -Rudolf Falkenberg were, the one to the other. Which woman was to have -the blow from his cowardly hand?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 33]</span></p> - -<p>An ugly problem; one which would require answering very soon–but not -to-night. It might be delayed till to-morrow.</p> - -<p>He felt a sense of relief at this, as Mr. Bolton and John Leyburn came -in, and they began to ask him why he was alone, and what had become of -Nita.</p> - -<p>The three men supped alone that night. When John Leyburn was departing, -and Wellfield was about to go with him, Mr. Bolton stopped him, saying -he wanted to speak to him. Jerome, still thankful to have excuses -which delayed his home-going, remained willingly. One other surprise -was in store for him that night. Mr. Bolton, in his usual stilted and -pedantic, but most distinct and unequivocal style, informed him that -he had that evening been taking counsel with John Leyburn, as his most -trusted friend, upon several important matters. That in the main John -agreed with him, and that he wished to lose no time in telling him, -Jerome Wellfield, that, after profound consideration, he had come to - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 34]</span> - -the conclusion that it would be for his own pleasure and his daughter’s -happiness if a marriage between her and him–Wellfield–could be -concluded.</p> - -<p>‘If you feel warranted, by your feelings towards her, in proposing -to her, you have my permission to do so. If not–you will excuse my -speaking plainly–your visits here will have to cease, for I do not -wish her happiness to be imperilled.’</p> - -<p>Wellfield passed his hand over his eyes: he was almost stunned. At that -moment things stood out clearly, and, so it seemed to him, the right -bearings of them. To think of ever marrying Sara now was hopeless. -Love must be cast aside, and duty embraced instead. He was perhaps -not conscious that he was elaborately and ingeniously evading and -concealing the truth, when he said:</p> - -<p>‘But for feeling sure that I should displease you exceedingly, and that -it would be an ill return for your benefits, for a penniless fellow - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 35]</span> - -like myself to speak to her, I should have proposed to her to-night.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton’s face brightened.</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I knew there was a liking on both sides. That makes it -smooth. Propose to her to-morrow morning, instead of to-night. You will -have her to yourself, for I shall be in town.’</p> - -<p>They shook hands, but Wellfield’s eyes did not meet those of Mr. Bolton -as he went through the ceremony. He went away. Then it was upon that -proud head of Sara Ford that the stroke was to fall, and he was the -miserable wretch whose hand was to deal it.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 36]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_III"> - <img src="images/p036_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III. -<br><br> -<small>CONSEQUENCES.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_w_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated Horizontal Rule."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Wellfield</span>, at last left alone to ponder upon his position, felt himself -in thoroughly evil case. Once or twice a wonder crossed his mind as to -whether there were yet time to turn back, retrace his steps along this -dire and darksome path; fight his way back to the light, and to Sara -Ford; confess everything, and put himself and his fate in her hands. -He had a longing to do it, but when he reflected what that course -involved, he had not the courage. It was to lose every assured present -advantage for a problematical one; for he could not–at least he said - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 37]</span> - -so to himself–be sure that Sara would forgive; and if she did not——</p> - -<p>He followed Mr. Bolton’s advice, and it struck him once or twice that -it was an unusual thing for a man in Mr. Bolton’s position to have -deliberately invited a ruined man like himself, without friends and -without references, to marry his only daughter, and enter his family. -Perhaps, had he heard Mr. Bolton’s confidential conversation of the -night before with John Leyburn, he might have felt the distinction less -flattering. John and Mr. Bolton had agreed that a great change had come -over Nita, and both of them, though they did not openly speak it out, -and confess it, owned tacitly that they considered that change had been -brought about by her feelings for Jerome Wellfield. And Mr. Bolton had -said:</p> - -<p>‘He’ll never be any great shakes as a man of business, but it seems to -me that it is safe enough to put the management of his own–what used - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 38]</span> - -to be his own–place into his hands. He will have every inducement to -care for it. And if it will make Nita happy, why should I refuse her -that happiness simply because the man has no money? He is steady and -honest, that seems certain. I’ve taken the trouble and the precaution -to find out all about his college career, and his habits there. It’s -all quite satisfactory–less backbone than I could have wished in my -girl’s husband, but no vice; music and painting and æsthetics–Nita -likes that sort of thing. Do you think I am a great fool?’</p> - -<p>‘I think you are behaving in a very natural and very sensible manner,’ -said John. ‘He seems to me to be all you say; and if he only makes Nita -happy, what more is needed?’</p> - -<p>‘Exactly what I think,’ said Mr. Bolton. ‘Now, leave your books and -come and have supper with us. We haven’t seen as much of you as we -ought to have done.’</p> - -<p>John shut up the great folio book on ornithology which he had been - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 39]</span> - -studying when Mr. Bolton arrived, and picked up some water-colour -drawings of different wild birds which lay beside the book. They were -exquisitely finished, and, as one could see, copied by a faithful and -loving hand, from nature.</p> - -<p>‘I promised these things to Nita,’ he casually observed. ‘Perhaps she -won’t care much about them now. But I will take them, at any rate.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton picked them up and looked at them.</p> - -<p>‘They are very nice,’ he observed. ‘I wish some other people had such -innocent tastes and habits, and would confine their studies to natural -objects like these.’</p> - -<p>John laughed, a little sarcastically, as he put away his book, and -taking the sketches in his hand announced that he was ready.</p> - -<p>‘When Nita is married–or if she marries, Jack, you’ll have to look out -for a wife yourself,’ observed Mr. Bolton.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 40]</span></p> - -<p>‘Perhaps Nita will look out for some one, then, and do the courting -for me,’ said John, drily. ‘I have no mind to begin it on my own -account–and am not likely to find favour if I did.’</p> - -<p>‘There you talk rubbish, despite that sage head of yours,’ replied his -elderly friend. ‘Suppose you delegate the choice to my cousin; she has -a wonderfully good opinion of you.’</p> - -<p>John laughed aloud. ‘If her opinion of me is so high, it might be a -dangerous thing to confide the choice to her,’ he remarked.</p> - -<p>‘She might take a fancy to Abbot’s Knoll, and the master of it!’ -exclaimed Mr. Bolton, highly delighted. ‘There is no accounting for the -presumptuous fancies which enter a young man’s head. Here we are!’</p> - -<p>They had gone in, little suspecting the scene which was even then -coming to an end, and the rest of the evening had been passed as has -been related.</p> - -<p>Jerome naturally knew nothing of all this conversation. He went to the - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 41]</span> - -Abbey the following morning, and there was an unpleasantly-suggestive -rhyme running in his head as he took his way there–that rhyme which -gives the excellent advice:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container38"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Be sure you’re well off with the old love</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Before you are on with the new.’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>He found Nita at home, and alone–startled and surprised to see him; -overwhelmed with confusion as the sight of him recalled the scene of -last night.</p> - -<p>Muttering some incoherent words she would have made her escape, but -Jerome stopped her, and taking her hands, looked into her face with an -expression of such intense gravity, even severity, that she gazed up at -him spell-bound and fascinated.</p> - -<p>‘Did your father say anything to you this morning about me?’ he asked.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ whispered Nita. ‘Why–what–he has not told you to go away–oh, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 42]</span> - -he has not told you that?’</p> - -<p>‘No. We were talking about you last night, Nita, and he told me this, -that if you would marry me, I might stay; but if not, <em>then</em> I was to -go. What do you say? May I stay? Will you let me try to make you happy, -or must I go?’</p> - -<p>Nita was nerveless, cold, and trembling–perhaps never in her life had -she felt so unhappy as in this moment–which should have been the one -of supreme delight–when the man she loved with all her soul asked her -to be his wife.</p> - -<p>‘Jerome–I–do you mean that you wish this?’ she asked, desperately -plunging into the question.</p> - -<p>‘I mean that I wish it more than anything in the world; and listen, -Nita–I would not conceal this from you–that I have loved, and loved -deeply, before ever I knew you: but that is all over, gone, done with, -finished! I cannot offer you all the passion of a first strong love, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 43]</span> - -but I can offer you my life’s devotion, if you will be so good, so -wonderfully good, as to take it.’</p> - -<p>He saw the blank shade that came over her face: he believed that she -was going to summon up her strength of will to refuse him. If she did, -what was left to him–what in this world to make life worth an hour’s -living?</p> - -<p>‘Nita!’ he pleaded, in dire and dreadful earnest; ‘for God’s sake think -before you speak! Do not cast me away! Try to bear with me–or–or–I -shall be the most miserable wretch that ever lived!’</p> - -<p>There was passion–there was even anguish in his tone–emotions which -Nita read there, and which overpowered her. All her love, all her -self-abnegation rushed out to meet him:</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Jerome, if you care for my love–if it will give you one hour’s -comfort–it is yours, it is yours! And my whole life with it–for I -love you better than you can ever know.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 44]</span></p> - -<p>‘Better than I can ever deserve, try as I may,’ he murmured, in the -deep tone of conviction, as he folded her in his arms, and soothed the -passionate agitation which shook her–and tried to quench the tears -which rushed from her eyes–tears which none could have named with -certainty as being of joy or of grief.</p> - -<p>But the die was cast: the bargain was struck. He might return to his -home with a mind free of care for the future; but with all the diviner -elements in his nature degraded, soiled, maimed, for they had been -dragged through the dust, and grievously maltreated.</p> - -<p>Avice and her escorts arrived late that afternoon, and he met them, and -they went with him to his house. That is, Avice and Ellen went with -him–Somerville returned to Brentwood.</p> - -<p>Avice felt a chill dismay strike her heart, at her brother’s reception -of her. There was an absence, a constraint, a coldness in all his - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 45]</span> - -words and movements, which would not be removed. She expressed her -delight at the sight of her new home, and he absently replied that -it was very well, but rather dreary. She felt very soon that some -miserable explanation was to come. It came almost directly. They -had got into the house, and Avice had taken off her things, and was -somewhat languidly partaking of the meal which had been placed before -her. Suddenly she said:</p> - -<p>‘Jerome, you have never once asked after Sara.’</p> - -<p>She saw his face suddenly turn pale, and his lips set. The hand which -had been lying on the table, trifling with a paper-knife, closed upon -that knife quickly and firmly: he raised his eyes to his sister’s face, -and said coldly:</p> - -<p>‘Miss Ford–how is she?’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Ford!’ ejaculated the young girl, horror-struck. ‘Jerome! what -has happened? You speak as if she was nothing to you.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 46]</span></p> - -<p>‘Nor is she anything to me now,’ he answered, with that cold and -pitiless cruelty, unbending and unremorseful, which so often appears -in weak natures when they are driven to choose between themselves and -another–when the moment comes in which egoistic or altruistic feelings -can no longer be evenly balanced–in which one set must prevail over -the other.</p> - -<p>‘Sara–nothing to you! I–I do not understand,’ she stammered, with a -sickening sensation of fear and bewilderment.</p> - -<p>‘I will explain,’ he said, with the same cold glitter in his eyes, his -lips drawn to the same thin line–a look she had never seen him wear -before, and which sent her heart leaping to her throat.</p> - -<p>‘For heaven’s sake, Jerome, do not look at me in that manner!’ she -cried. ‘It is just–just as papa used to look when he thought some one - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 47]</span> - -wanted punishing.’</p> - -<p>‘Do not interrupt with such vague, foolish nonsense,’ he replied -impatiently. ‘I am going to write to Miss Ford to-night, to set her -free from her engagement to me. And I–wish to be free from her. I am -going to marry some one else.’</p> - -<p>Avice had pushed back her chair, and sat looking wildly at him; her -hands clenched tightly; her breath coming quickly, but unable to speak -a word.</p> - -<p>‘It is as well you should understand this,’ he said, again beginning to -balance the paper-knife. ‘To-night you will want to rest, I suppose, -but afterwards you will have to meet the lady I speak of; and it -is to be hoped you will conduct yourself with more composure, more -self-respect, in fact, than you display at present.’</p> - -<p>Then Avice found words.</p> - -<p>‘Do you imagine that I will be false just because it pleases you to - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 48]</span> - -be so!’ she exclaimed. ‘If you choose to behave like a coward and a -liar–yes, a coward and a liar,’ she repeated, looking full into his -eyes with an unblenching scorn that scorched him, ‘and that to the -noblest woman that ever lived, <em>I</em> am neither a coward nor a liar. I -will have nothing to do with this girl you are going to marry. You have -brought me home, and you can make me miserable, I suppose. And you can -make me see her, I dare say; but you can never make me like her, or -behave as if I liked her, or as if I wished her to be my sister. And I -never will. You may take my word for it. I stand by Sara Ford to the -last, if I had to die for it.’</p> - -<p>She spoke with vehement passion, and looked transformed. She spoke too -like a woman, not like a child any more. And yet she was but a child, -and a helpless one. He answered composedly:</p> - -<p>‘It is as well that you have shown me by this specimen how you intend - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 49]</span> - -to behave. I will give you till to-morrow morning to reflect upon your -position. Allow me to remind you that I never asked you to behave to -Miss Bolton as if you liked her. It will be perfectly immaterial to her -how you behave. But I want civility from you towards my future wife, -or, if you choose to withhold it, I shall have to exert my authority as -your guardian, and remove you–in other words, my dear little girl, I -have no wish to make your life uncomfortable, but unless you can obey -me without making scenes like this, I shall send you to school.’</p> - -<p>Now ‘school’ had been the horror, and the bugbear, and the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">bête -noire</i> of Miss Wellfield’s life from her earliest childhood. She had -often been threatened with it; and seldom had the threat failed to -work its soothing spell. On hearing Jerome’s words now–on seeing the -cool unrelenting expression in his eyes, and the slight sarcastic -smile upon his lips, and recognising the absolute power he held - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 50]</span> - -over her destiny–how easily he could make her miserable, if not so -easily happy; remembering that Sara was far away, and that under the -circumstances she might never see that dear friend again; remembering -that she had never seen this Miss Bolton, who might be quite ignorant -of all that had happened–remembering, in short, her own helplessness -and desolation, she burst into a passion of tears, of hopeless, -agonised weeping, exclaiming now and then:</p> - -<p>‘What a home-coming! Oh, what a dreadful coming home!’</p> - -<p>Jerome let her cry in the corner of the settee, and took no notice -of her; till about seven o’clock he rose from his chair, went to -her and put his hand upon her shoulder. She looked up, her face all -tear-stained and pitiful; her golden hair tumbled about her head.</p> - -<p>‘I am going to the Abbey, and shall not be in till after ten o’clock,’ - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 51]</span> - -he said. ‘Am I to tell Miss Bolton that I may take you to see her -to-morrow, or not?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know,’ replied Avice, hopelessly.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, you will know by to-morrow. I shall tell her that I intend to -bring you. Good-evening. I should advise you to go to bed before long.’</p> - -<p>But she did not go to bed. She sat in a stupor of grief and -bewilderment. While she had been crying, Jerome had written a letter. -Her passion had irritated him, and he had allowed his irritation to -influence his words to Sara. He had ‘set her free’ (no need to put such -a pitiful document into print–it was feeble and despicable, illogical, -and yet stabbing like a dagger, as such productions–the efforts of -selfishness to kick down the ladder by which it has risen–always -must be). ‘He would not stand in her way, he who had nothing to offer -her–no faintest prospect of a home, or of anything worthy to give - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 52]</span> - -her.’ In short, under the pretence of consulting her interests, Jerome -Wellfield very decidedly asked Sara Ford to dismiss him, to release him -from his bond.</p> - -<p>Avice, of course, knew nothing of this. She only knew that she had come -home to find everything miserable, to find an impostor in the brother -to whom she had given the whole worship of her youthful heart. And yet, -was he an impostor, or was he not rather a very wicked, dark, bad man, -like some Byronic hero?</p> - -<p>She sat in the corner of the settee, darkly brooding, when some one -tapped quickly at the front-door; and then she heard it open, and a -man’s step in the little porch. Some one entered, saying in a slow, -lazy voice:</p> - -<p>‘I say, Wellfield, I thought I’d call to wish—— Oh, I beg your -pardon!’ followed in a more animated accent.</p> - -<p>Avice looked at the speaker, and saw a tall, clumsy-looking young man -peering at her, rather than looking, from a pair of short-sighted - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 53]</span> - -brown eyes. On his homely, square-cut face there was an expression of -some embarrassment, not partaken of in the least by Miss Wellfield. -She rose, made a gracious bow, mentally casting a reflection of some -dismay upon her probably dishevelled appearance, and said, with -self-possession:</p> - -<p>‘My brother has gone to the Abbey.’</p> - -<p>To herself she was thinking, ‘What a great, queer, awkward-looking -creature. Surely <em>he</em> can’t belong to one of those “fossilised Roman -Catholic families” whom Jerome told me about, as being the only -aborigines fit to visit.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! I saw the light in the window, and supposed he was in. I did not -know you had arrived.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you want to see him particularly?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, another time will do, I suppose. He has just got engaged to my -cousin and my greatest friend, and I came to wish him joy.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 54]</span></p> - -<p>A pause. Then Avice said:</p> - -<p>‘Miss Bolton is your cousin. Then of course you know her?’</p> - -<p>‘I have known her since she was a baby.’</p> - -<p>‘Then you must be Mr. Leyburn, I am sure. Jerome often used to speak of -you in his letters.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, that is my name,’ said John, unable to take his eyes from the -figure before him, with her lovely flushed face, ruffled golden hair, -and violet eyes at once bright with recent tears and dark and tired -with the fatigue of travelling, and, it must be confessed, with an -overpowering drowsiness, to which she had been just on the point of -yielding when he arrived. She was like nothing he had ever seen before, -and he felt tongue-tied and paralysed in her presence–as if, if he -spoke, he would infallibly say something idiotic, even drivelling, and -as though, if he moved, his boots would creak, or he would fall over -something. Together with these sensations, an intense anxiety neither - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 55]</span> - -to speak as a fool, nor to tumble down; which combined currents of -emotion rendered his position anything but an agreeable one.</p> - -<p>Avice herself had begun to think:</p> - -<p>‘He is fearfully clumsy, but I am sure he has honest eyes; and if he -has known this horrid girl all his life, he can tell me something about -her. I shall ask him.’</p> - -<p>She therefore said:</p> - -<p>‘I was too tired to go out to-night, and—’</p> - -<p>‘And I am keeping you,’ exclaimed John, hastily, shocked at the -reflections called up by this discovery.</p> - -<p>‘Not at all. I wish you would tell me something about Miss Bolton, as -you know her so well. Is she pretty?’</p> - -<p>John looked involuntarily at the lovely face and form confronting him, -and replied, slowly:</p> - -<p>‘Not very–but she is a perfect angel of goodness, and very nice.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 56]</span></p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said Avice, looking earnestly at him, while a new element seemed -introduced into the complication. If Miss Bolton was good and nice, it -was not Sara Ford alone who had been wronged.</p> - -<p>‘Is she clever?’ she pursued.</p> - -<p>‘She may not be exactly a genius,’ said John, ‘but she is the very -least stupid girl I ever knew. She is charming. I–I should think you -would like her,’ he added, a little confusedly.</p> - -<p>‘It is to be hoped I may, as she is to be my brother’s wife,’ said -Avice, in so sharp and bitter a tone that John looked at her in -astonishment. Avice saw the look, and said hastily: ‘The engagement is -a surprise to me. I only heard of it this evening.’</p> - -<p>‘Because it was only decided this morning,’ said John, with a beaming -smile. ‘Nita only told me of it herself this afternoon. I’ve been -congratulating her, and it is good to see her so happy. And I think I -shall pursue Wellfield up to the Abbey, and give him my good wishes - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 57]</span> - -there. Nita will not mind. Good-night, Miss Wellfield.’</p> - -<p>John’s drawl saved his sentences from the appearance of abruptness -which might otherwise have marred their beauty.</p> - -<p>‘Good-night,’ said Avice, absently.</p> - -<p>She held out her hand, and he shook it, and then let himself out, -painfully conscious that he knocked his feet together, and dashed -an umbrella or two to the ground in his exit, in a manner of which -Wellfield, and such as he, would never have been guilty.</p> - -<p>As for Avice, she was reflecting more and more hopelessly on the -situation. Good, clever, charming, and very happy. Then it was evident -that she loved Jerome very much–and if she knew nothing, it was not -she who was to blame.</p> - -<p>Avice carried her meditations to her room, where weariness soon -overcame her. In sleep she forgot alike the long journey home, the - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 58]</span> - -strange, cold reception accorded to her, the dreadful news Jerome had -given her, her own anguish, and the great wrong done to Sara Ford. She -forgot even to wonder whether she should consent to go and see Miss -Bolton the following day, or sternly choose a dreary fate, and, for the -sake of duty, go to school.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 59]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_IV"> - <img src="images/p059_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV. -<br><br> -<small>‘WOO’D AND MARRIED, AND A’.’</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_w_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated Horizontal Rule."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">With</span> the morning, when -Jerome asked her what she was going to do, Avice replied:</p> - -<p>‘The only thing, there is for me to do I suppose. I must go and see -her, since you insist upon it.’</p> - -<p>The flash in her eyes, as she spoke, was as far removed from meekness -as anything well could be. Jerome recognised, he could not help it, -traces of Sara’s influence–of her free, grand, bold nature in his -quiet little sister.</p> - -<p>With Sara no good quality was suppressed, and he had noticed, even -yesterday, a franker, freer, more open bearing in his sister. It was - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 60]</span> - -disagreeably apparent again to-day, because, of course, independent -outspokenness must be inconvenient and irksome to a selfishness which -has had to descend to subterfuge and intrigue, and the conscience of -which is no longer a ‘flawless crystal.’ Yes, he recognised the broad, -bold seal of Sara’s soul stamped upon this fragile-looking girl.</p> - -<p>‘I am glad you have begun to think and speak more reasonably,’ he said -coolly.</p> - -<p>‘I do not think any differently,’ she flashed out. ‘I think exactly the -same; but I have heard things about Miss Bolton which make me think -that I ought to pity her, not hate her; and I shall be silent about you -and what you have done, because I believe it will be for the best–not -because I agree with you.’</p> - -<p>‘I shall be in to lunch at half-past one,’ he said, ‘and afterwards we -can go up to the Abbey.’</p> - -<p>He could not answer her, but he could not silence her, and his - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 61]</span> - -feelings were not enviable. Avice, he perceived had the whip-like -tongue of her father, only with her the whip was used to scourge all -that was not ‘pure and of good report.’</p> - -<p>‘Very well,’ she replied, indifferently. ‘I shall probably go and see -Ellen off to the station, and after that I shall remain indoors.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 62]</span></p> - -<p>‘Ellen!’ he exclaimed, for he had forgotten her. He went into the -kitchen, and gave her the letter which she carried to Sara Ford. He -could not meet the woman’s eyes; he could not look either easy, or -natural, or self-possessed, as he desired her to give the letter, -without adding word or message. He perceived, without looking at her, -that she held herself stiffly, and received the envelope and his -commission in perfect silence. Then he went into the parlour again, -and had taken his hat off the peg, when Avice called out in a voice -from which all the liquid tenderness of their first acquaintance had -vanished:</p> - -<p>‘Jerome, is it permitted me to write to my friend Miss Ford?’</p> - -<p>He turned back upon her with scintillating eyes, and teeth set.</p> - -<p>‘Avice, take care how you go too far,’ he said.</p> - -<p>But there was not a drop of craven blood in her veins. There was -dauntless defiance in her open glance, as she said:</p> - -<p>‘Surely you never wish me to speak of her as <em>your</em> friend again! And -I merely ask to hear what you have to say, because I intend to write -whatever your answer may be. I wished to take precautions–that’s all. -I intend, metaphorically, to cast myself at her feet, and beg her not -to visit the sins of my brother too hardly upon me.’</p> - -<p>‘Since you have made up your mind what to do, it was unnecessary to ask -me,’ he answered, setting his teeth.</p> - -<p>‘I take that as a most gracious permission. I am glad that you see and -speak more reasonably,’ she retorted, mocking his own words.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 63]</span></p> - -<p>He did not speak, but left the house, and during his short journey -to the station he felt–it was a degrading feeling, no doubt–but -he, Jerome Wellfield, who, six months ago, had been as proud, as -fastidious, and as exclusive a young man as any one of them that trod -this earth, crouched morally at that moment, like a whipped hound. He -was conscious of a cowardly longing to make Avice and Nita known to -one another as speedily as possible. He had an intuitive conviction -that Nita’s charm would soon win Avice’s heart, and then his mistress’s -purity and sweetness would stand between him and his sister’s tongue. -It was a delightful, an elevating, a soul-inspiring position, and he -enjoyed it to the full.</p> - -<p>Avice, left behind, broke down, burst into a passion of tears, and, -engrossed in her sorrow, was surprised by Ellen, who was going away. - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 64]</span> - -To her she gave the broken messages which Ellen had repeated to her -mistress. She was in too sore distress to go with Mrs. Nelson to the -station; but parted from her with more floods of tears, and cried long -after she had gone, till she had a headache, and everything looked -blurred and dim before her eyes, and while she was in this condition -some one knocked at the door, and on the servant opening it, Avice -heard a soft, gentle voice ask if Miss Wellfield was at home, and the -answer in the affirmative of the country servant, who would have said -the same thing had Avice been fainting, or raving in a delirium. No -escape was possible, for the front-door of the old house opened, as has -been said, straight into the irregular-shaped, raftered parlour.</p> - -<p>She gazed earnestly at the figure of the girl who now entered, with a -great dun-coloured mastiff at her side, whose demeanour proclaimed him -an inseparable companion. She saw a slight, pretty figure in a large - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 65]</span> - -sealskin paletot and a shady velvet hat with a large black feather -drooping round the brim, and soft-hued brown velvet dress. Compared -with the splendid beauty and queenly presence of that other woman this -was an insignificant apparition enough, but Avice’s eye and heart -instantly appreciated the charm of the sympathetic eyes, the mobile -face, and gentle manner.</p> - -<p>Nita came forward, looking like anything rather than a rich heiress who -had just triumphantly bought away by her gold the allegiance of another -woman’s lover–which was the character in which Avice had pictured her -to herself: it was she who was blushing and embarrassed, and who said, -almost timidly:</p> - -<p>‘I could not wait till afternoon to see you; and I did not like Jerome -to bring you up to the Abbey to me, as if I were some one so dreadfully -grand. I thought we could get on better without him’–she smiled–‘and - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 66]</span> -I hope you don’t mind my having come.’</p> - -<p>She held out her hand. Avice was overpowered. With all her wrath and -indignation she was but a soft-hearted girl. The instant she saw Nita -she comprehended that it was she who had been deceived all along. She -felt she could not hate this girl, even to remain loyal to Sara Ford. -She stood still and silent, with a quivering lip. Nita saw it, and took -both her hands, saying:</p> - -<p>‘I hope you don’t mind. I will go away if you do.’</p> - -<p>‘No–no. It is very kind–very good of you to come,’ said Avice, her -voice dying away; breaking down entirely, she wept again, as she -realised the miserable hopelessness of the whole affair.</p> - -<p>‘What is the matter?’ said Nita, sitting down beside her. ‘Why do you -cry? Is it because Jerome has asked me to marry him? I hope not?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 67]</span></p> - -<p>‘It–it is because I have left a very dear friend,’ Avice stammered, -and then, with a huge effort, she recovered herself. It would not -do–she must be composed.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, that is sad. But do try not to be too sorry. I hope you will be my -friend. I have so longed to see you, and I have asked so many questions -about you that I am sure Jerome must have been weary of answering them.’</p> - -<p>(‘“Jerome” at every other word,’ thought Avice. ‘I am sure she must be -desperately fond of him. It is dreadful.’)</p> - -<p>She recovered herself, lifted her head, dried her eyes, and smiled -valiantly.</p> - -<p>‘I’m very stupid,’ she said.</p> - -<p>She could not address words of welcome to Nita, and the latter noticed -it, but was resolved to ignore it, and to make her new sister love her -sooner or later.</p> - -<p>‘What a beautiful dog you have!’ said Avice, stooping to caress him.</p> - -<p>‘That is Speedwell–my greatest friend, next to John Leyburn. By the - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 68]</span> - -way, John said he had disturbed you last night, and he feared you would -think him rude.’</p> - -<p>‘I thought him funny,’ said Avice, a small smile beginning to creep -to the corners of her mouth. Nita sat and looked at her, and suddenly -exclaimed:</p> - -<p>‘How beautiful you are! I always thought no one could be handsomer than -Jerome, but you are like him–“only more so,” as John says. I hope you -won’t think me rude if I look at you rather often.’</p> - -<p>This kind of innocent flattery was very pleasant. Avice began to cheer -up, to forget Ellen on her way to Sara with that dreadful letter. An -hour’s conversation made the girls like one another thoroughly. Nita -was not satisfied until she had carried Avice off to the Abbey, and -left a message for Jerome, desiring him, if he wanted either of them, -to come and seek them there.</p> - -<p>Here Avice was solemnly introduced to Mr. Bolton and to Aunt Margaret; - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 69]</span> - -and in observing the latter found such keen entertainment as to make -her forget her troubles. It was only when suddenly Jerome stood before -them, and she saw him kiss Nita, and the quick, enraptured smile of the -latter, that the pain suddenly returned for a moment; and the thought -of Sara, alone, gave her a bitter pang.</p> - -<p>John Leyburn joined the party at supper, and was observed to be -unusually silent; in fact, almost speechless. When Nita, being apart -with him during the evening, innocently observed:</p> - -<p>‘What do you think of her, John? is she not <em>lovely</em>?’ the unhappy -young man blushed crimson, and, not looking at ‘her’ at all, fumbled -wildly amongst some books, and stammered:</p> - -<p>‘She’s–yes, she’s–rather good-looking.’</p> - -<p>‘John!’ exclaimed Nita, looking at him for a moment, and then breaking -into laughter, not loud but prolonged, and of intense enjoyment.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 70]</span></p> - -<p>‘Well?’ said John, maddened in the consciousness that he had said the -very thing he least wished to express; ‘rather good-looking’ being the -very last description he would have wished to apply to Avice Wellfield.</p> - -<p>The evening passed over. As Jerome and his sister walked home, he did -not ask her what she thought of Nita, and she did not volunteer any -observation on the subject. Only, as she held out her hand and wished -him good-night, he asked:</p> - -<p>‘Well, have you decided whether you will stay with me, or go to school?’</p> - -<p>She replied, coldly,</p> - -<p>‘I should prefer to stay here,’ and left him.</p> - -<p>Indeed, she had quite decided that she would prefer to stay there. -Avice had to learn early to decide in a difficult matter: she found -herself face to face with a hard problem; she acted as a girl, as one -inexperienced and untried, with no great range of observation, no - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 71]</span> - -extensive data to go upon, was likely to act. She was conscious that -Jerome had done wrong; she was aware that Sara Ford, at least, must be -suffering cruelly from his wrong-doing, and the problem was, whether -she ought to tell Nita Bolton what she knew, or whether she ought not -to tell her. She ended by not telling her; it seemed enough that there -should be one heartbreak in the case. Nita’s joy in her love, her -happiness, her high spirits, smote upon the other girl’s heart many a -time during the short engagement that lasted only while settlements -were being made, and legal affairs settled: she could not find it in -her heart to smite down that joy and happiness; she could not convince -herself that it was right to do so.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, two or three days passed, and then Jerome had news–if news -it could be called, wordless and yet eloquent as it was–of Sara. A - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 72]</span> - -small packet arrived one morning, and the label belonging to it was -directed in her hand; bold, clear, and legible. He opened it, and found -the sapphire hoop he had given her when she had promised to marry him. -Nothing else–not a word–not a syllable–but that was enough, and more -than enough. It contained his ‘freedom,’ and her condemnation of him–a -condemnation too utter, too strong and intense for words. Wellfield had -arrived at that pitch of moral degradation in which he felt relieved -rather than otherwise, when the ring was in his keeping again. He had -opened the packet at the breakfast-table. Avice saw the ring, and with -suave but treacherous sweetness of accent, inquired:</p> - -<p>‘Is that a present for Miss Bolton?’</p> - -<p>Jerome made no answer. He wished the whole business were over, but -he felt no compunction now; no thought of turning back or relenting -entered his mind.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 73]</span></p> - -<p>The marriage was not to be delayed. They only waited until settlements -could be arranged, and in cases like that, settlements are not apt -to be tedious affairs. Mr. Bolton (suffice it to say this) acted -generously. Both Nita and Jerome were amply provided for during Mr. -Bolton’s lifetime. At his death they were again to have an access -of property, but the great bulk of his estate was so arranged that -it should fall to Nita’s children, especially to an eldest son, in -case there should be one. And there was a stipulation that Wellfield -should continue to attend to business in Burnham–at least, during Mr. -Bolton’s lifetime.</p> - -<p>To this Jerome agreed, nothing loth; for a constant leisure, with -no fixed or settled occupation, was a prospect he did not like to -contemplate.</p> - -<p>Everything ran smoothly–wheels which are oiled with that infallible -solution known as ‘wealth’ usually do run smoothly. Nita had lost all - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 74]</span> - -her first doubts and fears. Jerome was an assiduous lover; under the -new influence she bloomed into life and vigour, and something that was -very near being beauty. The sad November closed for her in a blaze of -sunshine. The death of the old year was to be the birth of her new -life; the entrance to a long, sun-lighted path, down which she was to -travel for the remainder of her life. Aunt Margaret’s ‘croakings’ had -to cease. Mr. Bolton daily congratulated himself upon the success of -his experiment; daily felt that he had done right in seeking Nita’s -happiness, not the gratification of whatever ambition might have -underlaid his money-making diligence of the last twenty years.</p> - -<p>On the second of December–her twentieth birthday–a dank, mournful, -sad-looking morning, with the leaden clouds covering up the hills, and -a raw mist rising from the river–on this morning Anita Bolton became -the wife of Jerome Wellfield; Avice and John officiating as bridesmaid - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 75]</span> - -and groomsman, Aunt Margaret as guest, and Mr. Bolton in his natural -capacity as father, and giver-away of the bride.</p> - -<p>When it came to Nita’s turn to say ‘I will’ to all the portentous -questions asked, Avice saw, with a sudden thrill, and a quick -remembrance of all the dark background of this wedding ceremony, -how the girl made a perceptible pause, and raising her face, turned -it towards her bridegroom, looked directly into his eyes, a full, -inquiring glance, and then, with a faint smile, and a little nervous -sigh, repeated slowly and deliberately:</p> - -<p>‘I will.’</p> - -<p>It was over. The ring was placed upon Nita’s hand; she walked down the -aisle of the quaint old church–grey and hoary with the recollections -and the dust of many centuries of the dead–down that aisle she went, -Jerome Wellfield’s wife.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 76]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTERSV_I"> - <img src="images/p076_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<p class="center xxxlarge">STAGE V.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/leaves_rule.png" width="250" height="50" alt="Decorated horizntal rule."> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I. -<br><br> -<small>SARA.</small><br></h2> - -<div class="poetry-container41"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘For life is not as idle ore,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But iron dug from central gloom:</div> - <div class="verse">And heated hot with burning fears,</div> - <div class="verse">And dipped in baths of hissing tears,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And battered with the strokes of doom,</div> - <div class="verse indent6">To shape and use.’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> -<br> -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_e_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated Horizontal Rule."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Ellen Nelson</span> had conjured -her young lady not to fret, for that there was no man in the world who -was worth it. But her words had been spoken into ears made unconscious -of their meaning by the heart’s agony–and for - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 77]</span> - -answer, Miss Ford had fainted in her old nurse’s arms; or, if not -absolutely fainting, she had been stunned and stupid with despair and -the shock and horror of the blow. But that merciful unconsciousness did -not last long. Soon she roused again to reality; opening her eyes, and -perplexed at first to account for the blank dejection she felt–for -the throbbing of her temples, and the aching of her heart. Then it all -rushed over her mind: Ellen’s arrival; her brief, portentous words–the -letter she had brought–Sara started up.</p> - -<p>‘Ellen, where is the letter I was reading?’</p> - -<p>‘Never mind the letter, Miss Ford. It will do you no good to read it.’</p> - -<p>‘I wish to see it. Give it to me, if you please.’</p> - -<p>Reluctantly, Ellen was obliged to yield up the hated scrap of paper, -which her mistress read through again, with a calm and unmoved -countenance. Then she took off Jerome’s ring, and with hands that were -now as steady as need be, made it up into a little parcel, directed - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 78]</span> - -it, and said:</p> - -<p>‘Ellen, I am very sorry to send you out again, so tired as you are; but -if you love me, you must go and put this in the post for me–get it -registered, or whatever it needs–I don’t know. There is a quarter of -an hour. I dare not trust it to anyone else.’</p> - -<p>‘Surely I will, ma’am, this moment. And ... you won’t be working -yourself into a state again, while I am out?’</p> - -<p>‘Certainly not. Why should I? That packet that you hold in your -hand–when it is safely gone, I shall be at peace.’</p> - -<p>‘I am glad of it, ma’am,’ said Ellen, taking the letter, and hastening -as quickly as she might, to and from the Post-Office.</p> - -<p>On her return she found that her young lady had indeed not been idle. -One end of the table was spread with a cloth, and she had placed upon -it bread and butter, and cold meat. The gas-stand was lighted, and the - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 79]</span> - -little kettle upon it was singing cheerily–everything looked bright -and cheerful, only that Miss Ford’s face was white and haggard, and her -eyes hollow, while just between her eyebrows there was a slight fold, -telling of a world of mental suffering.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Ford!’ exclaimed Ellen, almost shocked; ‘you shouldn’t have done -that. I could have got my supper ready without so much trouble.’</p> - -<p>‘Come, sit down and refresh yourself, Ellen, for I am sure you will be -tired,’ said Sara, composedly. And she insisted upon Ellen’s sitting -down, and eating and drinking, while she asked little questions about -England, sitting upright in her chair, and even laughing once or twice, -but always with the same blanched face, the same unnatural fixity of -the eyes; and once Ellen saw how, in a momentary silence, a visible -shudder shook her–how she caught her breath and bit her lips.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 80]</span></p> - -<p>All this took away Ellen’s appetite. She scarcely ate anything, but -professed herself mightily refreshed with what she had taken; and then -she rose and began to take away the things, and suggested that it was -time Miss Ford had her supper too.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want anything, thank you,’ she said; and it was in vain that -Ellen urged her to take something–a glass of wine; a bit of bread–for -she dreaded the results of a long fast and a long vigil, coming upon -this present mental and moral anguish.</p> - -<p>Sara refused, and there was that in her manner, with all its -gentleness, which prevented Ellen from approaching a step nearer. -She could only grieve silently, and wish intensely that her young -lady had a single friend to whom to turn in this emergency. But there -was no one, neither father nor mother nor brother, to help her with -sympathising heart and strong protecting hand. There was no one but -Ellen herself, and her mental attitude towards the girl always was - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 81]</span> - -and had been one of deference, with all the motherly love she felt -towards her. Amongst Miss Ford’s various friends and acquaintances -at Elberthal, she could think only of one whose face had impressed -her, whose manner and–to use the expressive German word–whose -whole <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Wesen</i> had carried to her mind the conviction that he was -trustworthy–and that was Rudolf Falkenberg. But he was, so far as she -knew, a new friend, and a man; not one who could be appealed to in such -a case. Thus, nothing remained to the poor woman but, when her mistress -insisted upon it, to go to bed. She did so, on receiving from Sara a -promise that she also would not be long in seeking her room.</p> - -<p>Wearied with five days’ almost incessant travelling, and exhausted -with the mingled emotions which had filled the last forty-eight hours, -Ellen, though she had determined not to rest till her mistress went to -bed, was soon overcome with her fatigue, and dropped asleep; nor did - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 82]</span> - -she awaken again until daylight, pouring into her room, told her it -must be growing late. She sprang up, and throwing on a dressing-gown, -opened the door and looked into the parlour. No one was there, and all -was still. Perhaps Sara slept. Ellen knocked at the closed door of -the bedroom, and was bidden by a composed but weary voice to come in. -She entered, and saw that Sara had never undressed. She had thrown a -wrapping gown about her, and was just then seated on a chair beside her -bed, which, as Ellen saw with dismay, had not been disturbed. As the -woman entered Sara looked at her–her face whiter than ever, her eyes -distended, an expression of such blank, utter woe in her whole look and -attitude as appalled Ellen, who said in a trembling tone:</p> - -<p>‘Child, you promised me to rest!’</p> - -<p>‘Did I, Ellen? Then I forgot it, and if I had remembered, I could not -have kept my promise. I could not have lain still for two seconds.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 83]</span></p> - -<p>‘But, Miss Sara, you’ll make yourself very ill, and you will break my -heart.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, what nonsense!’ she said, with a sound like a little laugh. ‘What -is the use of lying down when one can’t sleep. By-and-by I shall be so -tired that I can’t help sleeping, and when I feel like that, I will go -to bed.’</p> - -<p>She folded her hands, and leaned back her head, and there was the same -expression upon her face as that which had been there ever since she -had given Ellen the little parcel containing Jerome’s ring to post–an -expression like the changeless one of some beautiful marble mask from -which a pair of restless, wretched human eyes looked forth, haunting -all who can read the language they speak.</p> - -<p>Fear seized Ellen’s heart at the long duration of this strained, -unnatural calm. She dreaded the end of it. A terrible vision of her - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 84]</span> - -young mistress, with perhaps reason for ever overturned, leading an -existence worse than death, occurred to her.</p> - -<p>‘I wish he could see her,’ she thought bitterly. ‘It would haunt him -to his dying day, and if it drove him mad, it is only what he would -deserve. To think of an empty fool like that playing with the heart of -a woman like this. ’Tis enough to make one believe there’s nothing but -evil to prevail in the world.’</p> - -<p>She dressed herself hastily, and prepared some coffee, of which she -induced Sara to partake. The day dragged on. No one came near. Even -Falkenberg failed in his usual call. Sara said nothing to Ellen of -any suffering she endured. The woman could only guess from the utter -transformation of her usual ways and habits that she was enduring -tortures, and her own pain and perplexity increased. Once Sara went to -her studio, and began to paint; but in a moment she flung down brush - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 85]</span> - -and palette, and began to pace about the bare boards, restlessly.</p> - -<p>She did not resume the effort: it had been in the first instance -mechanical.</p> - -<p>The day appeared like a week to Ellen. It was November, when the -daylight soon faded. The weather was cold; there was a foretaste -already of a biting winter, in a sharp, black frost, and a leaden sky, -which caused the day to close in even earlier than usual.</p> - -<p>It was evening. Sara had taken up a book, and was gazing unseeingly at -the page, and turning over the leaves restlessly. Suddenly she closed -the book, and said:</p> - -<p>‘Is not this Wednesday, Ellen?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Miss Sara, it is.’</p> - -<p>‘It is Frau Wilhelmi’s evening at home. I shall go. And if I do, it is -time to get ready at once. Will you just go and get my dress?’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Ford! you are not fit to go out,’ exclaimed Ellen, desperation - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 86]</span> - -lending boldness to her.</p> - -<p>Sara looked at her, and repeated her order. Ellen, in distress, asked -which dress she would wear.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, any. The old black velvet–that will be best, for it is cold.’</p> - -<p>Ellen was perforce obliged to go and get out the dress, and help Sara -to make her toilette, feeling all the time that it was as if she -attired a ghost. When she was ready the young lady looked beautiful, as -usual, but it was with a kind of beauty which no sane person cares to -see. Face and lips were ghastly white; there was a deathlike composure -and calm in her expression; only those beautiful eyes looked restlessly -forth, dark and clouded, and full of a misery which surpassed the power -of words to utter, or tears to alleviate. Sara hardly knew herself -why she was going out; there was a vague consciousness that her own -thoughts and the horrible suffering they brought with them were - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 87]</span> - -becoming rapidly intolerable; that soon, if she did not see and speak -to some other beings, she would shriek aloud, or lose her reason, or -that something terrible would happen. She looked at herself in the -glass, and Ellen suggested that she wanted a little rouge.</p> - -<p>‘Rouge!’ repeated Sara, laughing drily; ‘why, I am in a fever. Feel my -hand!’</p> - -<p>Ellen took it, and incidentally felt as well, while her finger rested -on Miss Ford’s wrist, that her pulse was beating with an abnormal -rapidity. But the hand was burning as she had said.</p> - -<p>With a dark foreboding of evil, Ellen threw a cloak around the girl’s -shoulders, and put on her own shawl and bonnet to accompany her, for -the Wilhelmi’s house was hard by, and at Elberthal it was the custom to -walk to every kind of entertainment.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, how cool and refreshing!’ exclaimed Sara with a deep sigh, as the - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 88]</span> - -icy air struck upon her burning face.</p> - -<p>Ellen’s reply was a shiver. They soon stood at the Wilhelmis’ door, -and, as Ellen left her, Sara bade her return for her at half-past ten. -It was then after half-past eight.</p> - -<p>The door was opened. Ellen watched her mistress as she passed into the -blaze of light in the hall, and, standing there, unfastened her cloak. -Then the door was closed again. Repressing her forebodings as well as -she could, Ellen returned home, and set herself to counting the minutes -until it should be time for her to return to Professor Wilhelmi’s.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 89]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTERSV_II"> - <img src="images/p089_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II. -<br><br> -<small>‘YES.’</small><br></h2> - -<div class="poetry-container38"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘And I was a full-leav’d, full-bough’d tree,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Tranquil and trembling and deep in the night.</div> - <div class="verse">And tall and still, down the garden-ways,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">She moved in the liquid, calm moonlight.</div> - -<div class="stanza"></div> - - <div class="verse first-line">‘Her moonshot eyes, strained back with grief,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Her hands clench’d down, she pressed from sight;</div> - <div class="verse">And I was a full-leav’d, full-bough’d tree,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Tranquil and trembling and deep in the night.’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<br> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_s_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated Horizontal Rule."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Sara</span> laid her cloak -on a table, and followed the servant into Frau Wilhelmi’s -reception-room. The well-known scene smote upon her eyes with a weird -strangeness and sense of unfamiliarity; it was the same, with the -accustomed sounds of loud talking, merry laughter, and resounding - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 90]</span> - -music. Light and sounds blended together and beat upon her -brain in a combined thunder. She could distinguish nothing clearly or -distinctly, beyond the faces and the voices of those who actually came -up to her and addressed her.</p> - -<p>By a vast effort of will she kept her composed, impassive demeanour. -When she set out she had a vague idea that on finding herself in -the midst of a gay and animated company, she would be able to smile -and speak and do as they did, even if mechanically. But the effort -failed. Her lips felt stiffened, her tongue tied, so that smiling was -impossible, and only the merest ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ would pass her lips.</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Nun</i>, Miss Ford!’ exclaimed Frau Wilhelmi, taking her hand. ‘You look -ill, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">recht elend und leidend</i>. Have you got a cold?’</p> - -<p>‘No–a little headache. I thought it - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 91]</span> - -would do me good to come out,’ she murmured.</p> - -<p>Had she followed her own impulse, she would have turned and left the -house again instantly, but she had an underlying determination to go -through with the ordeal, having once braved it, albeit it proved more -scathing than she had expected.</p> - -<p>Then Luise came up to her, laughing, with some absurd story, -to which Sara listened, thankful that she was not expected to -speak–interruptions being received unfavourably by the volatile Luise. -Luise did not notice Miss Ford’s excessive pallor, or if she did was -too absorbed in her own affairs to observe it particularly, or be -shocked by it.</p> - -<p>Then came Max Helmuth, who saw instantly that something was wrong, but -did not feel himself on sufficiently intimate terms with Miss Ford to -ask any questions.</p> - -<p>To Sara, the whole thing continued to grow more and more like a hideous -dream. She thought she must have been there an hour, and that she - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 92]</span> - -might plead her headache as an excuse, and go away. Looking at a great -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Schwarzwälder</i> which hung against the wall of the hall, she saw that -it was just ten minutes since she had entered the house.</p> - -<p>The rooms were unusually full that evening, and less notice was taken -of her than usual; but several pairs of eyes were fixed upon her in -wondering astonishment, and she was collected enough to see it, and to -desire more strongly than ever to get away. But a mere trifle prevented -her–the idea, namely, of the surprise and pity she would see in -Frau Wilhelmi’s eyes if she went up to her now ten minutes after her -arrival, and took leave. She looked around for a chair, feeling like -some hunted creature which would escape, but is paralysed with fear -when most it needs all its power of wind and limb.</p> - -<p>And as she looked round, some one took her hand, and a voice said:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 93]</span></p> - -<p>‘Pardon me, Miss Ford–you look ill to-night. Would you like to sit -down?’</p> - -<p>It was Rudolf who addressed her. For a moment the horrible strain of -the nervous tension under which she was suffering relaxed; as she -looked up at him her eyes wavered; her lips and nostrils fluttered for -an instant, and she drew a long breath. The end of her endurance was -coming, she felt.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, please,’ she said, in a voice that did not rise above a whisper.</p> - -<p>He drew her hand through his arm, saying, ‘Let us go to the -hall–there is a bench there;’ and as he spoke, he glanced casually -and unthinkingly down at the hand which a moment ago his own had -covered–at Sara’s left hand. She wore a pair of old white-lace -mittens–one of the few relics of old prosperity which remained to her, -and this allowed her hands and their adornments to be fully seen. As -Falkenberg glanced at that hand, he missed something. He paused, as -they passed out; his eyes leaped to her face, to her hand; back to her - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 94]</span> - -face again. Sara’s eyes had followed his. The first flush of colour -that had touched her cheeks since Ellen had brought her message of -sorrow, rushed over her face now. She understood the look, the glance -which asked, ‘Your ring–where is it?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said, beneath her breath, and then, as if mastering a -momentary weakness, she recovered herself; her face took the same -marble whiteness again. She let him lead her to a cushioned bench near -a pyramid of ferns and a little fountain, which stood in the centre of -the hall. She sat down, but it was only for a moment. Then she started -up again, ‘Will you–would you mind taking me home again? I–I feel -ill,’ she faltered, her powers of endurance at an end.</p> - -<p>‘Surely I will,’ he answered, finding her cloak and wrapping it round -her.</p> - -<p>Sara gathered up her dress, took his arm, and they passed out of the -house.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 95]</span></p> - -<p>Five minutes’ walking brought them to the door of her home. Falkenberg -rang the bell, and as they waited, he said:</p> - -<p>‘Miss Ford, may I come in? There is something I want to say to you.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes! Come in and say what you like!’ she replied; and now that -she had found speech again, the impulse to reveal her agony was -uncontrollable–or, rather, the power of concealing it, of speaking of -other things, had disappeared. ‘Say what you like,’ she repeated. ‘If -you had come to say you had brought something to kill me with, I would -thank you on my knees.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I know you would, but I have not brought that,’ he answered, as -the door swung open from within, and they entered.</p> - -<p>Ellen started up on seeing them.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, sir, I am glad you have brought Miss Ford home!’ she exclaimed.</p> - -<p>‘Leave us, Ellen,’ said her mistress. ‘Herr Falkenberg wishes to speak -with me.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 96]</span></p> - -<p>Ellen left the room. Sara looked at her guest. He, too, was pale, -and his eyes full of a deep and serious purpose. His heart, too, was -aching, with a pain almost as intolerable as that of her own.</p> - -<p>He read the whole story; that which caused his pain was his own -powerlessness to help her. He knew her better than she knew herself. -He knew that it was not grief which gave the keenest sting to her -present agony, but her outraged pride–the blow which had been dealt -to her honour and her self-respect. It was upon that feeling that he -calculated now, in what he was about to do. It was upon that, that he -staked his whole hopes, as he threw. He had told her once that she -might, some day, do something which conventional people would call -outrageous. He was bent now upon persuading her to such a deed, and he -trusted chiefly to that infuriated pride to help him.</p> - -<p>‘Well?’ she said, with a harsh laugh,‘ have you come to talk about my - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 97]</span> - -missing ring, Herr Falkenberg? Do you want to know where it is, and who -has it now? I can inform you that it has gone back to the man who gave -it me–because–because he has sent me word that I am free. He thinks -of marrying some one else.’</p> - -<p>There was a discordant, grating sound in her voice, and she laughed -again. The laugh encouraged Rudolf in his purpose.</p> - -<p>‘I guessed it was something like that,’ he said, ‘when I saw that it -was gone. The man could neither appreciate nor understand you. I have -felt it for a long time.’</p> - -<p>‘Is that to console me?’ she asked sarcastically.</p> - -<p>‘It should console you, in time. Women of such stuff as you are made -of cannot grieve for ever for a coxcomb. If they do, they degrade -themselves to his level.’</p> - -<p>He saw the scarlet colour that rushed over her face and throat, and -the strangely mingled glance she threw towards him. He had not - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 98]</span> - -miscalculated.</p> - -<p>‘You did not know him. You have no right to call him a coxcomb,’ she -said. ‘You slight me by—’</p> - -<p>‘By supposing you capable of making a mistake? There you are wrong. -The only thing that can be infallibly predicted by one human being of -another, is that during his life he will make a great many mistakes. I -should slight you if I supposed you capable for a moment of breaking -your heart for Jerome Wellfield.’</p> - -<p>He had spoken the name advisedly. It had never passed between them -before. Its effect was to make her cover her face with her hands, and -cry faintly and pitiably.</p> - -<p>As Falkenberg saw this sight–saw this girl crouching and weeping, and -heartbroken and desperate in consequence of having been deceived and -deserted by Jerome Wellfield, his heart was hot within him. He went up - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 99]</span> - -to her, took her hands from before her face, and as she looked at him -she saw that his eyes were full of wrath, and his brow clouded with -angry feeling.</p> - -<p>‘Sara!’ he said abruptly, and almost sharply, ‘you demean yourself by -this behaviour. Listen to me: answer me: You will never cast a thought -to that man again. If he were at your feet to-morrow you would turn -away from him, for you are no patient Griseldis. Is not this true?’</p> - -<p>‘Of course!’ she exclaimed, brokenly; ‘why do you ask me such -questions? Do you wish to insult me?’</p> - -<p>‘No. I only wanted your word for what I felt to be true. Nothing–no -repentance on his part would induce you to—’</p> - -<p>‘I will not bear it,’ she exclaimed, passionately. ‘Let me go. You have -no right to—’</p> - -<p>‘Sara, I have no right to say any of these things to you. I know -it too well. Will you give me the right–not to ask any more such - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 100]</span> - -questions–but to protect you and stand by you in this and every other -trouble you may have? Will you leave Jerome Wellfield to reap what he -has sown, and let me try to prove to you that there are men left in -this world who know how to set a woman’s happiness higher than their -own convenience? Will you be my wife?’</p> - -<p>Falkenberg had once or twice tested the extent of his influence over -Sara, but he had never pushed the experiment so far as this; and he -felt that it was a crucial test: his power over her trembled in the -balance; with her final decision now it must stand or fall. As she did -not speak, but sat still, gazing at him, while he, stooping towards -her, held her hands, and looked intently into her face, he went on:</p> - -<p>‘You have been too absorbed to see that it was no mere “friendship” -I felt for you. But I tell you now, that I would wait for you to my - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 101]</span> - -life’s end–only, I cannot keep up this show of indifference. Choose -now, Sara. Promise to be my wife, or dismiss me once for all. It must -be one or the other.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, do not leave me here alone!’ she cried, involuntarily.</p> - -<p>‘Then consent to what I ask. You told me once that you had faith in me, -that you believed in me. Have you lost it all?’</p> - -<p>‘Not a jot.’</p> - -<p>‘Then take my word when I tell you that you shall not repent. Let me -call you my wife. Give me the duties of your husband; I ask for no -privileges. I will wait–wait twenty years, and never repent. Neither -shall you.’</p> - -<p>‘But you know–you must know–I do not love you. I am not sure that I -do not love him, even yet–may God help me!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I can understand it all. But decide, Sara, now–at once. Once -again I give you the alternative; it depends on you whether I go or - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 102]</span> - -stay.’</p> - -<p>This was intimidation, and he knew it. He used it because he had a -great end in view, and he saw no other way of gaining it.</p> - -<p>‘Speak!’ he added. ‘Do you consent?’</p> - -<p>A long pause, till she answered coldly, and turning, if possible, a -shade paler than before:</p> - -<p>‘Yes.’</p> - -<p>‘I thank you from my very soul,’ he answered, kissing first one and -then the other of the cold nerveless hands he held. ‘And now I will -leave you. You would prefer to be alone, I know. Good-night! Remember, -all I am and have are at your service.’</p> - -<p>She made no answer, and the deathly hue of her face never changed or -altered. She did not reply to his good-night, nor take any notice of -him, as he went out of the room. He found Ellen, and sent her into the - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 103]</span> - -room, saying:</p> - -<p>‘I think your mistress will be ill. If she is, send for me. She will -quite approve of it.’</p> - -<p>Wondering, Ellen went into the sitting-room, and her heart echoed -Falkenberg’s words when she saw her mistress. Ellen had come to feel -that the most utter breakdown–fever, delirium, or raving–would be -better than this prolonged conscious suffering. She could almost have -found it in her heart to pray for death or madness to come and relieve -her darling from this torture.</p> - -<p>‘May he be paid his just wages!’ she kept wishing within herself, -‘measure for measure–not a grain more or less; and he’ll have had -about as much as he can endure. I ask no more.’</p> - -<p>The end of that long-drawn agony came at last, as come it must. After -Falkenberg had gone, Sara began to pace about the room; once or twice -the consciousness of what had passed between her and him, crossed - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 104]</span> - -her mind, and a vague accompanying idea, which scarcely attained the -consistency of a positive intention–that when she was better, and -better able to reason, she would tell him that she had made a mistake; -that what he bargained for was out of the question; she would do him -no such wrong. His threat of leaving her had been the last straw; she -had been unable to face the alternative. She could not do without him; -for in crises like these we see every day the adage belied that ‘vain -is the help of man.’ It is man alone that can sustain and comfort man -in such an emergency; it is then that there is brought home to us the -utter powerlessness of supernatural aids to touch our woe.</p> - -<p>Ellen, in her room, towards morning, heard an abrupt pause in the -measured footsteps, and something like a long moaned-out sigh. She -hastened to the other room, and found that Sara had at last, dressed as -she was, flung herself upon her bed, and lay there motionless.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 105]</span></p> - -<p>When Ellen spoke to her she murmured some incoherent words, but it was -evident that she did not understand what was said to her.</p> - -<p>The woman felt a sensation almost of relief. At last she could take -matters into her own hands, and her first step of course was to send -for a doctor–a doctor to cure a strange disease. Where are such -physicians to be found? and when shall we cease our quest after them? -She sent for Falkenberg, too, as he had desired her to do; and she -heard what he said to the doctor who had come out of Sara’s room, -looking grave. Falkenberg asked him what was the matter–was the case a -serious one?</p> - -<p>The doctor looked from Rudolf to Ellen, and answered by another -question:</p> - -<p>‘Has the young lady any relations? If she has, they should be sent -for.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 106]</span></p> - -<p>‘I do not know how that may be,’ replied Falkenberg; ‘or whether -she would desire her relations to be sent for, even if she were in -extremity. But she is my promised wife, and that being the case, I beg -you will consider me responsible in every matter that concerns her.’</p> - -<p>The doctor–a grave man–bowed, also gravely, and said, that that being -the case, he might say that the lady was very dangerously ill, and -before deciding upon any measures, he would prefer to consult with his -colleague, Dr. Moritz.</p> - -<p>‘So be it,’ replied Falkenberg, repressing an impatient sigh.</p> - -<p>The note was written: the appointment made for an hour from that time. -Leaving directions for what was necessary to be done at once, the -doctor departed.</p> - -<p>‘Sir,’ said Ellen, turning with some agitation to Falkenberg, ‘excuse -me, but is it true what you said to the doctor, that my young lady had - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 107]</span> - -promised to marry you?’</p> - -<p>‘Quite true. I wrung it from her last night, by telling her that -she degraded herself by grieving for that other fellow. And if she -lives, my friend, I intend her to be my wife; therefore don’t distress -yourself on the subject. You will keep faith, and are her oldest -friend, therefore I wish there to be confidence between us.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you, sir. I hope indeed you may succeed. I wish you well with -all my heart,’ she said.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>The two doctors looked very grave. It was as Ellen had dreaded–they -feared for the permanent loss of her reason, after the long, -unendurable strain, and the cruel blow she had had. Falkenberg, without -naming names, inspired only by an intense desire for her recovery, -had judged it best to be tolerably explicit as to facts. One of -the doctors–he named Moritz–looked down at the unconscious face, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 108]</span> - -remarking:</p> - -<p>‘Ay! She has been betrayed, and there are natures to which betrayal is -death.’</p> - -<p>‘But Miss Sara was never one to give way,’ said Ellen, appealingly. -‘She was as strong as a man, sir, and as simple as a child, in her -mind.’</p> - -<p>‘Then she stands so much the better chance. From what you say I -conclude she was not a morbid subject,’ he answered, as he went away.</p> - -<p>Falkenberg’s visits were, of course, daily. Wilhelmi called many times. -His wife and daughter went once into the sick-room, and came out again; -Frau Wilhelmi with all her mother’s heart showing in the pity of her -eyes, Luise crying aloud, and vowing that she would never forget it -till her dying day. The sight of her proud and beautiful friend tossing -senselessly to and fro–of the great grey eyes gazing with meaningless -fixity at her–of the vacant stare and smile upon the face that had - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 109]</span> - -once beamed with intellect, had shaken her careless girl’s heart, and -given her a glimpse into depths she had never dreamed of before.</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Ach</i>, mamma!’ she murmured, as they went sorrowfully away: ‘I don’t -think Falkenberg will ever have his wish–<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">der Arme</i>!’</p> - -<p>‘Who knows?’ answered Frau Wilhelmi. ‘I am glad her mother cannot see -her.’</p> - -<p>It was a desperate battle, if not a very long one. For more than a week -life and reason in the one balance, death or madness in the other, -oscillated with a terrible uncertainty. But Sara Ford was not doomed -to lose either life or reason in the struggle. ‘Strong light,’ says -Goethe, ‘throws strong shadow.’ And a strong, intense nature makes a -strong, obstinate struggle against all kinds of adversities which ‘the -subtlety of the devil or man’ may bring about. There came an evening - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 110]</span> - -when the doctors, going away, pronounced her <em>safe</em>–sane, living, if -with no more strength than a two-weeks’ child may possess.</p> - -<p>It was after they had departed, and while the nurse kept watch over -her patient, that Ellen, after literally feasting her eyes upon her -‘child’s’ face, shrunk to a shadow of its former beauty, went into the -parlour for a few minutes, to take a moment’s rest, and to indulge -in the luxury of some thankful tears. It was quite late, yet she was -scarcely surprised to suddenly see Herr Falkenberg, who strode into the -room, and, standing before her, asked breathlessly:</p> - -<p>‘Is it true, what I heard outside–that she is <em>safe</em>?’</p> - -<p>‘It is quite true, sir, I thank God!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ he said, biting his lips, and drawing in his breath with a long -inspiration.</p> - -<p>The next moment he had cast himself upon a chair beside the table, and, -with his face buried in his hands, was sobbing aloud.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 111]</span></p> - -<p>Awe-struck, Ellen stood by for a few moments, till he looked up and -demanded to hear every particular of this recovery, this conquest, this -triumph over death, which, though they had always professed themselves -so sure of it, came upon him at last with a sense of joy and relief -that was almost overwhelming.</p> - -<p>‘I must see her as soon as she can see or speak to anyone,’ he said. -‘You said you were my friend, Ellen, and you must manage this for me. -If she gets well and strong, she will try to break off her compact, out -of mistaken consideration for me–you understand?’</p> - -<p>Ellen did not understand, but she had an intense desire to know her -mistress Rudolf Falkenberg’s wife, because she was convinced he was -good. She knew, from innumerable stories, that he was rich, and, in -his way, as great a man as some great nobleman, and therefore a - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 112]</span> - -suitable husband for Miss Ford, though not at all beyond her claims. -But firstly and chiefly she wished it from a feeling, vulgar enough, -and natural enough too, to one of her position, up-bringing, and mental -calibre–she wished it as a kind of revenge upon Jerome Wellfield–to -show him that a man worth a hundred of him in every respect was only -too glad and eager to win the prize which he had cast aside.</p> - -<p>From this motive, if from no other, she would strain every nerve -to forward Falkenberg’s cause. Therefore, when he said to her ‘You -understand?’ she affirmed that she understood perfectly, and so let him -go.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 113]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTERSV_III"> - <img src="images/p113_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III. -<br><br> -<small>IRREVOCABLE.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_m_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated First Letter."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Many</span> days elapsed -before Sara was permitted to see anyone. Then, one afternoon, Frau -Wilhelmi was allowed to call, and sat for a few moments talking of the -most commonplace and least agitating topics. On the afternoon following -that, Ellen cautiously began to prepare the way for Falkenberg. As soon -as she mentioned his name, her mistress said:</p> - -<p>‘If Herr Falkenberg calls, I should like to see him.’</p> - -<p>This was when she was so far recovered as to be dressed about noon, or -one o’clock, and, half carried, half walking, to make a pilgrimage to - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 114]</span> - -the couch or <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">chaise longue</i> in her parlour, there to remain until the -authorities intimated that it was time to go to bed again.</p> - -<p>Falkenberg did call, half an hour after those words had passed between -Ellen and her mistress. Ellen repeated them to him, and ushered him -into the parlour, where Sara lay on the couch, looking infinitely weak -and exhausted, and scarcely able to lift a hand, or to smile faintly, -when the tall, strong man came softly up to her; his face working, his -eyes dim.</p> - -<p>‘You have been very good–unspeakably good,’ she said weakly, as he -bent speechlessly over her hand. ‘Ellen has told me of your great -goodness,’ she added, in a stronger voice.</p> - -<p>‘There is no goodness–there has been nothing but the pleasure I have -felt in gratifying my own wishes,’ he said, in a husky, broken voice.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 115]</span></p> - -<p>‘It is good to see your face again, and to hear your voice, after the -Valley of the Shadow of Death,’ she replied, her hollow eyes dwelling, -with an expression of something like curiosity, upon his face.</p> - -<p>‘Do not let us speak of that. You are here once more in the light of -life–to work, and hope, and make us glad again.’</p> - -<p>She shook her head slowly.</p> - -<p>‘You are far wiser than I am,’ she answered, ‘so I will not contradict -you.’</p> - -<p>‘But in the meantime, you disagree with me from beginning to end,’ he -said, regaining his composure gradually. ‘You feel that hope and work -are over for you.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I feel as if I did not want to see the light of the sun any more.’</p> - -<p>‘Nor to talk or think about anything again?’ he suggested, and his -voice trembled; he trembled himself–his heart was in his throat.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, just so,’ was the languid reply.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 116]</span></p> - -<p>‘And I am here, brutally to disturb and deny that wish of yours. I am -here to give you something to think about, and to tell you of something -I want you to do.’</p> - -<p>‘And what is that?’</p> - -<p>‘When I say I <em>want</em> you to do it, that is a poor, inadequate word. I -pray and implore you to keep your promise to me, and as soon as may -be–to-morrow, or the day after–to become my wife. I have arranged all -the preliminaries. In consequence of your serious illness, the usual -notice has been dispensed with. I have nothing to do but intimate to -the Bürgermeister the day and the hour for the ceremony, and he, or his -representative, will come here to perform it.’</p> - -<p>‘But–but–surely you have reconsidered it?’ she said, flushing -painfully.</p> - -<p>‘I have considered it again and again, with the same result always. Mr. -Wellfield’s marriage is in the <cite>Times</cite> this morning, to Miss Bolton of -Wellfield Abbey.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 117]</span></p> - -<p>Sara winced, and he went on:</p> - -<p>‘The Wilhelmis know. The Professor and the Frau Professorin have -promised to act as witnesses.’</p> - -<p>‘You have told them?’ she ejaculated.</p> - -<p>‘Yes–because I know that <em>you</em> are not a person to go back from your -word,’ he answered steadily, and he knew that he had conquered–whether -because she was weak and feeble, and he strong and determined, or from -what cause soever–he knew the game was his when she said, slowly:</p> - -<p>‘You know what people will say of me–that I tried very hard for you, -and married you for your money, and so on.’</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Herrgott!</i> yes. I know the whole of the jargon they will gabble -amongst themselves. Let them, if they like.’</p> - -<p>She looked utterly weary, exhausted and worn out. When she spoke her -voice was scarce audible. He had to lean towards her to catch the -faltering words:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 118]</span></p> - -<p>‘If I do–will you–settle everything–no questions–no thinking? I -<em>cannot think</em>.’</p> - -<p>‘You shall hear no more about it until the Bürgermeister comes to marry -us. A few words then, and the signing of your name, and all will be -over.’</p> - -<p>‘Very well. Arrange it all as you wish, and I will do it,’ said she, -and turned her head away, and shut her eyes, as if too tired ever to -open them again.</p> - -<p>‘You shall not repent it. I promise that you shall not repent it,’ he -said, carrying her passive hand to his lips.</p> - -<p>Then he left the room. Outside he saw Mrs. Nelson, and took her aside -into Sara’s atelier.</p> - -<p>‘We shall be married to-morrow, Ellen,’ he observed.</p> - -<p>‘Thank God, sir! I believe it will be the saving of my mistress.’ She -paused, and added: ‘I hope you don’t think of separating us, sir–Miss - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 119]</span> - -Ford and me. It would be sorely distressing to us both.’</p> - -<p>‘Never, while you both live, believe me. I shall have to leave her in -your hands for a long time to come yet.’</p> - -<p>With that he hastened away, leaving Ellen in a more contented frame of -mind than she had enjoyed for a long time.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>It was afternoon of the following day. Sara was much in the same -state–no stronger, no weaker. She saw, with something like apathy, how -Wilhelmi, his wife, and Luise came into her room together, spoke to -her, and seated themselves side by side.</p> - -<p>She had a faint remembrance that Rudolf had said something about -witnesses; she was not quite sure what it all meant, but no doubt it -was right. Falkenberg was there too, seated beside her, and, in an -unconscious appeal to his protecting power, she had moved her hand into -his, and then lay back in her chair, silent and indifferent. He said - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 120]</span> - -something to her, an explanation, it seemed, of the circumstances; -something about–</p> - -<p>‘In cases like this, Sara, they dispense with the usual notice, so -there has been no difficulty about getting it done at once.’</p> - -<p>She looked rather blankly at him, and in her own mind wondered vaguely -what it meant.</p> - -<p>Then some strangers entered–the Bürgermeister and his clerk. Words -were read. Something was brought to her to sign, which deed, with -Rudolf’s assistance, she accomplished. Questions were asked as to her -age, her name, parentage, and occupation. At each of these she looked -helplessly at Falkenberg, or at Ellen, who stood at the other side of -her couch. Then more reading; then a wedding-ring was put upon her -finger, and would have rolled off again had not Rudolf caught her hand -and held it fast in his.</p> - -<p>Then the Bürgermeister and his clerk took - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 121]</span> - -their hats, murmured severally, ‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Empfehle mich zu gnaden</i>,’ bowed -to the assembled company, and were gone.</p> - -<p>Frau Wilhelmi and Luise came up and kissed her tenderly, and she saw -that their eyes were full of tears. Then the Professor came up and took -her hand–the good Wilhelmi–and she remembered his generous kindness -to her, and smiled what was intended for a grateful smile at him, -whereat his eyes too filled with tears, and he too stooped, and kissed -her forehead, and said something incoherent about a <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">geliebtes Kind</i>, a -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">beste Schülerin</i>.</p> - -<p>Then they were all gone, and she was left alone with Ellen and Rudolf. -And then Ellen left the room too, while he still sat beside her holding -her hand, till at last a little pressure from her fingers caused him to -turn and look at her.</p> - -<p>She saw that his eyes were moist, and she paused as she beheld the -expression upon his - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 122]</span> -face–the love that transfigured it. At last she asked:</p> - -<p>‘Are we married now?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, we are married.’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid I have done you a great wrong in consenting.’</p> - -<p>‘Are you? It is rather early to begin with such forebodings. What makes -you think so?’</p> - -<p>‘I feel as if I should never be worth anything again, and that if I -were I should not make you happy.’</p> - -<p>‘My child, it was not happiness I wanted, but you, glad or sorry, -“loving or loth.” Rest content. I shall never repent.’</p> - -<p>‘Promise me that.’</p> - -<p>‘I promise it fully and freely.’</p> - -<p>‘Then I am more satisfied.’</p> - -<p>‘That is all I ask of you.’</p> - -<p>They became silent, and he still sat beside her, her hand locked in -his; and as the short December afternoon closed in, she shut her - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 123]</span> - -eyes, worn out even with this quiet excitement, and he could not tell -whether she slept or not. In the quiet room there was utter peace and -stillness–a wasted, pallid-looking woman, with eyes wearily closed, -and breathing so lightly her bosom scarce seemed to move; a man -watching beside her, whose strong, calm face never lost its expression -of assured contentment, and whose eyes were full of peace: surely no -very remarkable scene. But the whole of the gossip-loving town of -Elberthal was ringing with the names of that man and that woman.</p> - -<p>It happened to be Frau Wilhelmi’s reception night, and great was the -disappointment felt because neither she, nor her husband, nor her -daughter would enlarge upon the subject of the marriage they had -witnessed that afternoon–would say nothing more than that <em>if</em> Miss -Ford recovered, they were sure it would be an excellent thing.</p> - -<p>Max Helmuth found his Luise very subdued, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 124]</span> - -and very tender. No sarcasm and no coquetries greeted him that night. -When he asked her why she was so quiet, tears filled her eyes, and she -answered:</p> - -<p>‘Ah, if you knew, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Schatz</i>! I cannot think of anything but this -afternoon. It was like a beautiful legend. Do you know that little -picture of papa’s, which he shows to very few people, and then he -generally tells them it is a head of St. Ignatius Loyola?’</p> - -<p>‘I know it–yes.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes. But to me he always calls it “The Human Face <em>Divine</em>,” and so it -is. Falkenberg had just the same look this morning, in his eyes, and on -his mouth. When I think of that, and then hear these wretches gossiping -about it, it makes me feel–I don’t know how. I know I will never talk -gossip again, Max.’</p> - -<p>‘Till the next time, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Liebchen</i>! But I hope Miss Ford will recover, and -make him happy, as he deserves to be.’</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 125]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTERSV_IV"> - <img src="images/p125_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV. -<br><br> -<small>DOUBTS.</small><br></h2> - -<div class="poetry-container41"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘I pray you, is death or birth</div> - <div class="verse">The thing that men call so weary?’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<br> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_p_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated First Letter."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">The</span> days of her -convalescence passed to Sara like a long, vague dream. Slowly, very -slowly, she recovered strength–as if some inner instinct made her -unwilling to return to her place amongst that common humanity which -had lately dealt her so bitter a blow. December was waning–Christmas -was close at hand–before she had gained sufficient strength to walk -from one room to the other. That feat was first accomplished with the -assistance of Rudolf’s - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 126]</span> - -arm. Then she was able to do it alone. It was after this that she -gained strength daily, and with physical strength also returned -mental strength. She had drifted on, seeing no visitors save one, and -even that one, Rudolf, had been absent for some days, on the plea of -business. He had left no word as to when he should return, or what his -plans were.</p> - -<p>It was the 22nd of December. Falkenberg had been absent for five days, -and it was now that doubts and fears began to distress Sara’s soul. -For the last few days she had been reflecting, deeply and uneasily, as -Ellen saw, watching the face she loved. She dreaded the result of those -meditations. Falkenberg’s cause was her cause, and she wished he would -return. But this afternoon she had a duty to perform, and, seeing Sara -sitting lost in thought, and that thought apparently of no pleasant -nature, she said:</p> - -<p>‘You look a deal better, ma’am, this afternoon. Do you think you would - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 127]</span> - -be equal to looking at the letters that have come for you while you -were ill?’</p> - -<p>‘Letters! Are there any letters for me?’ she demanded eagerly, her -whole aspect changing. ‘Bring them at once. Why did you not tell me -before?’</p> - -<p>‘The doctor said you had better not have them, and Herr Falkenberg said -I was on no account to give you them till you were stronger,’ said -Ellen, unlocking a drawer, and taking them out. Her back was turned to -Sara, or she might have seen the sudden start of the latter at this -decided mention of Falkenberg’s name, and this close connection of him -and his orders with her and her affairs. Her colour changed, and she -bit her lip. But she did not speak as Ellen put the letters into her -hand. Her cheek flushed as she turned them over. There was one with -the postmark Nassau upon it, and a countess’s coronet on the flap. -That was from Frau von Trockenau. And there was one directed in Avice - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 128]</span> - -Wellfield’s hand. Her face changed as she looked at them, and observed -the dates on the postmarks. They had both been written lately–the -countess’s since her marriage, for it was addressed–Sara turned hot -and cold and trembled as she saw the superscription–to Frau Rudolf -Falkenberg. She opened this letter first, and read it:</p> - -<div class="blockindent20"> -<span class="smcap sig-left5">‘DEAREST SARA,</span><br> - -<span class="sig-left10">‘How can I describe the feelings</span> -with which I have heard of the strange things that have happened to -you–of your illness (thank God that you are now restored to us!)–and -of your marriage to Rudolf Falkenberg? I knew he loved you. I flatter -myself that I was the very first to discover how suitable and -delightful such a marriage would be. I can only offer to both of you my -most hearty, unmixed - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 129]</span> - -congratulations. <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Ja, ich gratulire vom ganzen Herzen, und mein Mann -auch.</i> I think, if ever there was a noble, generous, good fellow, it -is the man you have married. I should say he was perfect if I were -speaking to an ordinary person, but I know you agree with me that -perfect people must be so very horrid, and it always sounds to me more -of an insult than anything else to call a person perfect. But it is a -perfect arrangement all the same. How seldom, dear Sara, do we find -the ways of Providence exemplified thus clearly and simply–everything -working together for good in so palpable a manner that he who runs -may read.’ [The countess’s moral reflections had been wont, in former -days, to excite Sara’s intense amusement. Even now, in the tumult of -her feelings, she could not help smiling at this specimen of them.] -‘It does my heart good–it does indeed. I feel as happy as I did -myself when I had just been married to Fritz. Write, or get your - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 130]</span> - -husband to write, as soon as possible, to tell me how soon you will -come to see us, and what your movements are going to be. How I long to -see you both!<br> - -<span class="sig-left30">‘Yours,</span><br> -<span class="smcap sig-left40">‘CARLA VON TROCKENAU.’</span><br> -</div> - -<p>Sara drew a long breath as she finished reading this effusion, and the -colour rushed over her cheeks and brow and throat. Now, for the first -time, she began to realise what the step meant that she had taken.</p> - -<p>In vain she tried to reassure herself by recalling Rudolf’s promise -that she should not repent, and that he would never repent. She could -not be calm; she could not view the matter indifferently. She could -not rid herself of the idea that she had hurried and hastened to take -an irrevocable step; that in her agony of outraged pride and love -repulsed, she had promised, and in her after state of helpless weakness -and weary indifference she had done that which might mar a good man’s - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 131]</span> - -life, and make her own even more miserable than she had expected it -would be.</p> - -<p>What was she to do? How to meet him? When he came she must brace -herself to the task of coming to some explanation, and she shrank in -anticipation from what must be so intensely painful an interview.</p> - -<p>Thus meditating, her eye fell upon Avice’s letter. At first she could -only look at it, she could not open it. With the sight of that familiar -handwriting there came rushing over her mind a vivid recollection of -all the past sweetness and bitterness connected with Avice and those -belonging to her. There came the recollection of Jerome–a memory -which had slumbered since her illness, and which she had never allowed -to awaken. Now it sprang forth again, irresistible, strong, and -overpowering. Again she felt his influence, recalled to mind the love -she had borne him, the–what was this feeling she experienced even now? -Surely she did not love him yet? ‘No!’ cried every voice within her. - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 132]</span> - -And yet, beyond them all, was a whisper, more potent than any of them, -asking what it was that she felt, demanding to know the meaning of this -eager longing, this <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Sehnsucht</i>, this yearning.</p> - -<p>‘I am sure I have done wrong. I have made a horrible mistake!’ she -repeated to herself. ‘What am I to do? How shall I repair it?’</p> - -<p>With an effort she opened Avice’s letter, and read it with a throbbing -heart. The girl gave a full account of her arrival at home, and of -all that had happened since. She implored Sara to remember that she -had known nothing of all that was going on, and not to punish her for -Jerome’s sin. She related how the marriage was over, how Jerome and -Nita were away, and she was at the Abbey with Mr. Bolton and Miss -Shuttleworth as her companions; how Mr. Bolton was going to live at -Monk’s Gate, ‘when they came home,’ but that she, Avice, was to live - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 133]</span> - -at the Abbey with ‘them.’</p> - -<p>With beating heart Sara read Avice’s description of Nita, and -understood at once that it must have been Wellfield throughout, who had -played a double game, and had deceived both the woman he loved, and the -woman whom he had married.</p> - -<p>This was no case of a vulgar heiress who was anxious to ally herself -with a man of old name; it was the case of a very simple-hearted loving -girl, who had lost her heart irrevocably, and who would evidently -suffer as intensely in her way, if not so passionately, as Sara Ford -herself had suffered, if ever she knew the truth.</p> - -<p>Avice betrayed again and again her liking for her new surroundings–a -liking which she uneasily felt that she could not gratify without some -disloyalty to her friend. As for Jerome–such had been the revulsion -of feeling caused by his conduct, that Avice could not write of - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 134]</span> - -him without a certain tinge of bitter sarcasm cropping up through -her words; and more than once occurred a kind of apology for even -mentioning his name in a letter to Sara.</p> - -<p>‘Tell me what to do,’ she concluded. ‘You have been my guide for so -long; I trust you so implicitly that I feel lost without you. Send me -one word, Sara, for whatever you say or do must be right.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor child!’ thought her friend, sorrowfully. ‘This must be answered -at once. I must set her mind at rest. And, I suppose, when I tell her -what <em>I</em> have done, she will change her opinion as to all I do and say -being right. Perhaps it is as well that her illusion should come to an -end betimes.’</p> - -<p>She determined to make her first essay in letter-writing since her -illness, and began by writing that afternoon to Avice and to Frau von -Trockenau. To Avice she wrote explaining why she had not been able to - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 135]</span> - -answer her letter earlier. Then she told her of her marriage, calmly, -and in a matter-of-fact way, with the remark that she could not enter -into her reasons for the course she had taken, and that Avice would -probably not understand them if she did. Of Jerome she made not the -slightest mention, but she urged Avice to do all in her power to love -and be kind to her sister-in-law. ‘From what you tell me, I am sure she -is good. In being her friend, and doing all you can to make her happy, -you will grow happier yourself. It is the only thing you can do–the -only right thing, that is.’</p> - -<p>She felt that she had at least been right in urging this upon Avice; -and then she wrote a brief note to Countess Carla, thanking her for her -good wishes, and adding that she knew absolutely nothing of any plans -for the future–she left everything to Herr Falkenberg; she excused the -brevity of her letter on the plea of illness, and fastened it up.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 136]</span></p> - -<p>She had expected to be exhausted by this exertion, but found to her -surprise and pleasure that she was less tired than before. Ellen had -lighted the lamp, and the room was warm and cheerful. Sara began slowly -to pace up and down the room, her thoughts running intently on the -letters she had received, and the ideas they had conjured up. Her long, -plain dress hung loosely upon the once ample and majestic figure, now -wasted to a shadow of its former beauty.</p> - -<p class="center">‘The loose train of her amber-dropping hair’</p> - -<p>was gathered up into a knot upon her neck; there was a faint glow–the -harbinger of returning health–upon her wasted cheek. While she thus -slowly promenaded to and fro some one knocked at the door.</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Herein!</i>’ she answered, turning to see who it was, and confronting -Rudolf Falkenberg.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 137]</span></p> - -<p>She stood suddenly still, colouring highly.</p> - -<p>‘You did not expect me,’ he said, pausing, with the door-handle in his -hand. ‘Perhaps I intrude!’</p> - -<p>There was a look of disappointment in his eyes, which she saw, and made -a hasty step forward.</p> - -<p>‘Indeed you do not. Only this afternoon I was wishing that I could see -you, for I have many things to ask you. Please come in,’ she added, -holding out her hand.</p> - -<p>Rudolf took it, and looked at her.</p> - -<p>‘You are better,’ he said. ‘You have been writing. I hope you have not -been doing too much?’</p> - -<p>‘No, I assure you I have not. I feel better for it. If you will let me -take your arm, I think I could walk about a little longer.’</p> - -<p>He gave her his arm, and they paced about for a short time, slowly and -in silence.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 138]</span></p> - -<p>‘I have much to say to you, Herr–I mean Rudolf,’ she began.</p> - -<p>‘Have you? I also have something to say to you. Well?’</p> - -<p>‘To-day Ellen gave me my letters. I had not had them before.’</p> - -<p>‘And you have answered them at once?’ he said, smiling. ‘I like a -prompt correspondent. This augurs well for the future, Sara.’</p> - -<p>‘I–I wish you to read them,’ she said, with a heightened colour. ‘Read -this of Avice Wellfield’s first.’</p> - -<p>She gave it to him, and he read it; then said:</p> - -<p>‘Poor little girl! she is in great distress. Is it allowable to ask -what you replied, and whether you intend to keep up the correspondence?’</p> - -<p>‘Not if you object in the least,’ said Sara, hastily.</p> - -<p>‘I? No. I would not insult you with such an objection if you wrote to - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 139]</span> - -and heard from her twice a day,’ he replied, with a rather proud smile.</p> - -<p>‘Thank you. And now this from Countess Carla. It has disturbed me very -much.’</p> - -<p>He read that too, and his countenance also changed.</p> - -<p>‘This disturbed you–why?’ he asked.</p> - -<p>Sara withdrew her hand from his arm, and sat down.</p> - -<p>‘I ought to speak about something,’ she faltered; ‘about the future. -Everyone–all the world knows that I am married to you. I cannot go on -living here just as if nothing had happened, and yet—’</p> - -<p>‘What business had you to be thinking about things?’ he asked, with a -half smile. ‘Part of the bargain was that I was to do the thinking, as -you must remember. You cannot surely suppose that I have let all this -time elapse without thinking upon the subject as well?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 140]</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh! if you would decide, and tell me what is best, I would so gladly -do it!’ she exclaimed.</p> - -<p>‘I have decided everything. The plan is ready, and only waits your -approval to be carried out.’</p> - -<p>‘And what is it? If I could <em>only</em> get away from here!’</p> - -<p>‘You remember Lahnburg, and my house there?’</p> - -<p>‘Where we spent the day when I was at Nassau? <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Mein Genügen</i>–oh yes, I -remember it.’</p> - -<p>‘You are so much stronger than I had dared to hope or expect, that I -think you could bear the journey there at any time almost, if I have -a special carriage for you, and take care that you don’t get cold. -Christmas will be here, you see, directly. To-morrow is the last day -before the festivities begin.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes. And people will come and want to see me, and I shall not be able - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 141]</span> - -to refuse some of them; and yet it would almost kill me, I think.’</p> - -<p>‘Of course it would. Well, Lahnburg is a quiet, out-of-the-way place -enough. If I took you there to-morrow, and settled you there with -Ellen, you would avoid all the bustle here. It is a beautiful place. -You don’t care to go out, and are not fit for it if you did. I don’t -think you will find it duller than this, and certainly less painful; -for you will not be under the constraint of feeling that you are known -and observed. What do you think?’</p> - -<p>‘I should like that,’ said Sara, slowly; and then, after a long pause, -she asked in a low voice:</p> - -<p>‘And you?’</p> - -<p>‘I,’ replied Falkenberg, with an assumption of indifference, ‘oh, I -never <em>live</em> in the country in winter. I detest it. Frankfort must -be my <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Hauptquartier</i>. My manager is loading me with reproaches -for my neglect of money-matters, and I feel there is justice in - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 142]</span> - -his complaints. I shall be very much engaged for at least a couple -of months to come. I may find time to run over to Lahnburg and see -you, once or twice; but you must not expect me to be very attentive. -You know,’ he concluded, smiling, and glancing at her again, ‘six -weeks–or, rather, two months ago, I did not suppose I should be -married to you, and I made all sorts of engagements, public as well as -private–the former at least must be kept. Well, what do you say to my -plan?’</p> - -<p>‘What do I say?’ she repeated, in a voice full of emotion; ‘I say that -you are too generous, Rudolf, too chivalrous. Believe me, if I had not -so lately gone through what I have done, I would offer you more than -words of gratitude–I would lay my very life at your feet.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t agitate yourself; that is forbidden,’ he replied, trying to -smile with cheerful indifference. Perhaps a ray of hope had inspired - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 143]</span> - -him–some faint idea that she might say, ‘Are not you also coming to -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Mein Genügen</i>?’ If that had been the case, he promptly repressed the -feeling, and added:</p> - -<p>‘All I ask of you is to get well, and try to be contented, <em>in your own -way</em>. Do not think of me. Perhaps that may come in the future. Nay, do -not cry, Sara. I cannot bear to see <em>that</em>.’</p> - -<p>‘Do not scold me. I almost think I begin to see my way now. They say -that much is granted to those who watch and pray.’</p> - -<p>She spoke the last words half to herself.</p> - -<p>‘That is true, in a sense, if not literally,’ he replied. ‘Well, I -will see after a carriage to take you by the noon train to-morrow to -Lahnburg; so tell Ellen to have everything ready. Now I must go. I will -take your letters, if they are ready.’</p> - -<p>Sara wished he would not go at that moment, but something prevented - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 144]</span> - -her from speaking out her wish, and he departed.</p> - -<p>‘I must be in some wonderful dream,’ she repeated to herself, when -she was alone. ‘It is too wildly impossible to be true. And yet, how -well I know that he has been here. He never comes without bringing -with him a purer, rarer atmosphere. He looks at things, and tells you -how he sees them, and they are never quite the same afterwards. Now -with Jerome–Hyperion to—’ She paused abruptly, biting her lip, and -thinking, ‘After all, I never saw which was Hyperion. I have no right -to sneer. Shall I ever love him? Surely, at any rate, the remembrance -of that other love will wear off enough for me to be able to say to my -husband, “Come, let us travel hand in hand at last!” Heaven send it, at -least!’</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 145]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTERSV_V"> - <img src="images/p145_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V. -<br><br> -<small>MEIN GENÜGEN.</small><br></h2> - -<p class="blockindent30"> -‘There is the outside visible progress–the progress which may be -seen, striding perceptibly onwards, superficial generally, noisy, -clamorous–likest to some wild pea, some quickly-growing parasite, -blowing brilliantly, and fading rapidly; there is the inward, -invisible progress too–the deep, unseen stream: the plant that grows -in darkness, most nourished when all around seems least propitious: -it becomes visible in the end–one perfect bloom–beauty crowning -beauty–Clytie springs from the sunflower at last, answering the -summons of the god.’ -</p> - -<br> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_t_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated First Letter."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">The</span> journey to -Lahnburg was accomplished in safety. Just before -Christmas Eve, with its guests and its letters, its noise and its -bustle, arrived, Sara found herself in her new home.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 146]</span></p> - -<p>Lahnburg is always a secluded, retired spot, somewhat in the style of -‘the world forgetting, by the world forgot;’ and now, in the depth -of winter, when tourists had fled, and winds were bleak, it was more -silent and quiet than ever. It suited Sara that it should be so–suited -all her ideas and wishes.</p> - -<p>Yet it was with strange feelings that she found herself again here, on -a bleak, sad December afternoon. There was no snow, but the temperature -had been falling all day; a bitter east wind was blowing; a sullen, -leaden sky, against which the body of the cathedral and the rugged -shape of the old Heidenthurm showed out black and mournful. The hills -looked dark and sad; the aspect of the whole fair land was changed.</p> - -<p>It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when they arrived. Sara, -very weary, stayed in her room to rest. When at last she came -downstairs, she found the salon empty. There was a large glowing fire -in the English open grate; the lamp was turned down; the dancing - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 147]</span> - -blazes flickered upon all the objects in the quaint old room, and the -first thing that caught Sara’s eye was a panel on that old painted -spinet on which Falkenberg had been leaning when they were all laughing -at the mistake she had made in crediting him with being possessed of a -wife and children.</p> - -<p>‘Where is Herr Falkenberg?’ she hastily asked of Ellen, who came in -just then.</p> - -<p>‘He’s gone, ma’am. He told me not to disturb you, but to tell you when -you came down that he had an engagement at Frankfort to-night, and he -didn’t know when he would be able to come over here again, but he would -write.’</p> - -<p>Sara was silent; her mind filled with various emotions. It was very -good of him–what wonderful tact and delicacy he had! and yet, she -wished he had left a note behind. She wished he had not been so afraid -of disturbing her. He might have given her the chance of thanking him - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 148]</span> - -for his goodness, and all this provision of luxury and thoughtful care -for her comfort and convenience. But no! It was doubtless best left as -it was. After all, if she had seen him, what could she have said? So -she decided in her own mind, and ten minutes afterwards was wondering -how soon he would write, and what he would say when he did so.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>From this day her life went on in an even monotonous tenor. In her -home, and around it, was everything that heart could desire in the way -of beauty, of rare and costly things. The winter proved to be a hard -one, and the old town of Lahnburg lay for months under a mantle of -frost and snow. The air was cold, clear and keen; the hills around were -white; the river flowed black through a plain of spotless white; the -skies overhead were generally of a deep scintillating crystal blue. All -the beauty that winter ever has or can have, lay around her, and she - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 149]</span> - -could enjoy it by going out into her own garden and grounds.</p> - -<p>She did not grow happy in the place, nor contented in it, but she -grew used to it, and unwilling to move away from it. She grew almost -unconsciously to love the deep and profound retirement of it–it was so -quiet, so undisturbed, that sometimes she caught herself thinking of -‘After life’s fitful fever,’ and then, with a half-smile, remembering -that that applied to death, not life.</p> - -<p>Very few persons knew of her being there, save her old friend Countess -Carla, who had made a pilgrimage from Nassau, and burst upon her one -day unexpectedly, and fortunately alone. She came full of wishes of -joy, and of eager congratulations.</p> - -<p>Sara–how, she hardly knew, but by a few words far from -explicit–managed to convey to the lively little lady something like -the true state of the case. The countess was appalled, her face fell, -she could hardly speak. At last:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 150]</span></p> - -<p>‘Sara, there was some one else, you mean.’</p> - -<p>Sara assented.</p> - -<p>‘Was it–do forgive me–but was it Mr. Wellfield?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ replied Sara, with a voice and a face like stone.</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Du mein Himmel!</i> And–was it from pique that you married Falkenberg?’</p> - -<p>‘It was something like that–and because he made me do it,’ said Sara, -the anguish she felt breaking uncontrollably forth in her trembling -voice. ‘Don’t let us speak of it. <em>Perhaps</em> it may sometime come right. -But meantime, my dear Carla, don’t tell everyone as if it were the most -joyful news imaginable.’</p> - -<p>‘What must you have thought when you got my letter?’ exclaimed the -countess.</p> - -<p>The little lady looked thoughtful, but parted from Sara with a tender -embrace, and asked if she might come again, ‘quite alone.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, if you would!’ cried Sara. ‘It would be so kind, and–and I know - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 151]</span> - -Rudolf would approve of it.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I have little doubt on that point. I believe I may safely say -that he has a high opinion of me,’ replied Countess Carla, darting a -keen side-glance from under her drooped eyelids at her friend, while -she appeared absorbed in fastening her glove.</p> - -<p>‘Indeed he has!’ echoed Sara, fervently.</p> - -<p>‘Well, we shall be at Trockenau for some little time now, and I will -drop you a line to say when I am coming again.’</p> - -<p>They parted. Frau von Trockenau shook her head several times as she -waited with her servant at the Lahnburg station, for the train to Ems.</p> - -<p>‘What a complication!’ she thought. ‘But I am not hopeless. Does -she imagine I did not see how she blushed when she informed me that -“Rudolf” would approve?’</p> - -<p>Such an odd sound issued at this moment from the lips of the countess -that her old man-servant, saluting, advanced a step and said:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 152]</span></p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Zu Befehl, gnädige Frau.</i>’</p> - -<p>‘It’s nothing, Fritz. I was only laughing at something I was thinking -of.’</p> - -<p>Frau von Trockenau was the only one of her former friends whom Sara saw -in this manner. Of course, in so small a place as Lahnburg, it was soon -known that Herr Falkenberg was married, and that his wife was living -at present at the old schloss. No doubt there was speculation on the -subject, but, if so, it never reached Sara’s ears.</p> - -<p>She never entered the town, but, as she grew stronger, would take -rambles alone, or with Ellen, along the high upland roads which -branched off in all directions, at a short distance beyond <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Mein -Genügen</i>, and which led by all manner of ways into the interior, -across the moors, or through woods and thickets, or between hedges, or -straight and poplar-planted, beside the river.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 153]</span></p> - -<p>On such excursions they seldom met any but country people and peasants; -rough but civil folk, who were not curious, but who always exchanged -greetings–giving her a nod and a ‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Grüss’ Euch Gott, gnädige Frau</i>,’ -and receiving in exchange a ‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Guten Tag, ich danke</i>,’ from her.</p> - -<p>As for Ellen Nelson, her mental attitude was one of some uncertainty. -There was a mingling of satisfaction and dissatisfaction. She rejoiced -in the changed position of her mistress, in the luxury and lavish -plenty of all their surroundings; she considered that now her beloved -child had just what she was entitled to and no more, but she mourned -over the incompleteness of a fate which, in the midst of all this -outward prosperity, withheld the inward peace which alone could make it -enjoyable. Why could not her mistress be herself again? She liked Avice -Wellfield well, but she misliked the letters which so frequently came -from her; the long, thick letters which Sara read with such avidity, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 154]</span> - -and which had the effect of giving brightness to her eye, a flush to -her cheek, new animation to her whole aspect for many hours after she -had received them. Often, after such a letter had come, Ellen would -see her lady’s lips move as they walked together–would see her eyes -suddenly flash, or her cheek flush, and all this she misliked; nor did -she take any more delight in seeing the letters which Sara always made -her post with her own hand, directed to Miss Wellfield. Ellen wished -that any distraction might come, in the shape of society, friends, -anything, to divert her mistress’s thoughts from that topic.</p> - -<p>‘She’ll never come to think as she ought of Herr Falkenberg,’ the old -servant decided within herself, ‘while she can sit here alone and brood -over the past, and have long letters from Miss Wellfield. If she would -only take to her painting again, or anything.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 155]</span></p> - -<p>For Sara did not again begin to take to her painting. Of course, -for some time the winter weather formed an excuse. It was much too -intensely cold to go out taking sketches or painting landscapes. She -had once made an attempt, and tried to catch the effect of a crimson -and daffodil sunset behind some naked trees, which sunset she could -see from one of the side-windows of the salon. But she had not even -finished it. There was no life and no pleasure in it.</p> - -<p>Ellen fretted, and wished she would begin, little knowing in her -ignorance that her lady would have given all she was worth if she could -have begun again; that she had begun to wonder despairingly if all that -artistic power in which she had once rejoiced, and concerning which -she had been so ambitious, were quenched and gone. It seemed as if -those powers had received some paralysing blow. It was in vain that she -attempted to resume her art, seeking, with a natural, healthy impulse - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 156]</span> - -after some occupation which should divert her mind from the things it -incessantly dwelt upon. Ellen did not know how, when one attempt after -another had failed; when she had tried, and no charm, no interest -dawned, nothing but dull, dead, mechanical strokes, without meaning or -inspiration, she had thrown down her palette, and wept scalding tears -of grief and mortification, wondering bitterly if it were always to be -thus. She read some words one day which sent a chill to her heart–what -if they were prophetic?</p> - -<div class="poetry-container33"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Dark the shrine, and dumb the fount of song thence welling,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Save for words more sad than tears of blood, which said:</div> - <div class="verse"><i>Tell the King, on earth has fallen the glorious dwelling</i>,</div> - <div class="verse indent2"><i>And the water springs which spake, are quenched and dead.</i></div> - <div class="verse"><i>Not a cell is left the god, no roof, no cover.</i></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><i>In his hand the prophet-laurel flowers no more.</i>’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>Thus the winter slowly passed away, and she grew more and more - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 157]</span> - -despondent, thinking miserably that she was failing in every way: -unable to paint, convinced that she felt no return of the generous love -which had taken her by the hand when she was verily ‘friendless and an -outcast;’ conscious, with a feeling of guilty shame, that the chief -interest of her life lay in those letters from Avice Wellfield, in -which the girl poured out the whole history of her every-day life–all -her hopes and fears, and her impressions of those around her–lamenting -that there was one person, and one only, who seemed to be, as she said, -‘above suspicion of being either morbid, or unhappy, or an impostor, or -a victim,’ and that one John Leyburn, over whose deficiencies of manner -the fastidious young lady made constant moan.</p> - -<p>Rudolf, during the whole winter, came very seldom, and stayed for a -very short time–never longer than a couple of hours. Each time that -she saw him, Sara felt more constrained, more guilty, knew less what - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 158]</span> - -to say, or how to look, while his composure remained as imperturbable -as ever.</p> - -<p>And thus, after what had seemed an almost endless winter, spring -appeared.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 159]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTERSV_VI"> - <img src="images/p159_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI. -<br><br> -<small>EINE REISE IN’S BLAUE.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_i_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated First Letter."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">It</span> was May, and the -whole land smiled under the consciousness of thraldom removed–of winter -finally passed away. The old house was beautiful in the sunshine; -its grey walls set in a frame of trees, all bursting into the first -exquisite spring foliage–of hyacinths and primroses, late daffodils -and early wallflowers, all nodding their heads in the borders and on -the flower-beds, and singing, most plainly to be heard by those who -understand their language–</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 160]</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container43"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Der Lenz ist gekommen,</div> - <div class="verse">Der Winter ist aus!’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>Sara, after breakfast this sunshiny morning, threw a shawl around -her shoulders, and went out into the garden to read a letter. As she -paced about the sheltered, sunny south terrace, it was plain to see -that she was at least restored to bodily health. There was almost -all the splendid beauty of former days, yet somewhat paler and more -refined. But the face was perceptibly changed. It was an older, sadder -face–grander, but, as it looked now, far more sorrowful; for there was -not the inner contentment which gives the outward expression of peace. -The eyes, which now and then were raised to survey the smiling spring -landscape, were not filled with a deep, secure content. They were -troubled, clouded, dissatisfied.</p> - -<p>But presently she became absorbed in her letter. We may look over her -shoulder and read. It was one of those English letters, whose advent - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 161]</span> - -Ellen did not love.</p> - -<br> - -<div class="blockindent20"> -<p class="smcap sig-left5">‘MY DEAR SARA,</p> - -<p class="p1">‘At last the day comes round on which I may write to you. No doubt -you were perfectly right to say I must not write oftener than once a -fortnight, and I am sure, by doing so, you saved yourself from being -fearfully bored; but it makes me wild with impatience sometimes. It is -such a comfort to feel as if I were almost speaking to you–to feel -that in a few days you will be holding this that I have written in -your hand, and that for a time at least you will be <em>obliged</em> to think -of me.</p> - -<p>‘Since I wrote, something very sad has happened. Poor Mr. Bolton is -dead. He died last week, very suddenly, of heart disease. You may -imagine that it has been a fearful blow to poor Nita, unhappy as she - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 162]</span> - -is already. Even Jerome felt it, I think, or believed he did. Mr. -Bolton has always been so good to him, and I defy anyone not to have -respected him. It made me very sad, too. I had got so fond of him. -Some of my happiest hours were spent with him at Monk’s Gate, helping -him with his Italian. He did so want to finish his translation of the -“Inferno,” and have it published. Nita liked me to go there. Jerome -always wanted her to stay in in the evening, and I think she did not -want her father to see how sad she looked sometimes. She is goodness -itself, but oh! so altered, so subdued, and so sad! I am sure she -knows by some means–though how, I can’t imagine–how dreadfully -Jerome had deceived her all the time she thought he loved her. At -least, I know that now she knows he does not love her as she loves -him, and as he <em>ought</em> to love her. I know I am a fool sometimes. I -say such fearfully indiscreet things every now and then. The other - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 163]</span> - -day, when Nita told me that she hoped she would have her baby before -next winter, I exclaimed, “Oh, Nita, how glad I am! That will make -it all right.” She looked at me so strangely for a few minutes, and -then burst into tears, and said, “Who knows? who knows? It is as God -shall dispose it.” I am glad she can think so. To me it seems very -strangely disposed, but then, as you know, I never could say, “Thank -God!” for the things that make everyone unhappy all round, and I don’t -believe they are providential at all. I believe they happen because -people are wicked and selfish. But Nita is very good, though she never -talks about it. I know she thinks people don’t have troubles without -deserving them, and she is under the impression that she must in some -way deserve her troubles, though even she cannot say how.</p> - -<p>‘But I was telling you about Mr. Bolton’s death. Everything seems very -strange without him. Do you know, only the day before he died he gave - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 164]</span> - -me a lovely pearl ring, which he said was to be in remembrance of <em>my -kindness to him</em>! How I did cry when I thought of it. And poor Mr. -Leyburn, who, I am sure, never <em>will</em> learn when to speak, and when to -be silent, said that I ought to be glad, and not sorry, to know that I -had been of any comfort to him. Now, <em>did</em> he expect me to burst into -a fit of delighted laughter? But of course he means well.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Bolton’s death has made Nita, and I suppose Jerome too, <em>very</em> -rich, of course; though I don’t understand anything about the -circumstances of it.</p> - -<p>‘We are not so quiet here as I should have thought we should be. All -the people round ask us out. Just before Mr. Bolton’s death, Jerome -and I dined at Mrs. Latheby’s. Nita, of course, was invited too, -but she will not go out at present, and she would not let us stay -at home. So we went. There was Mrs. Latheby, and her niece, Miss - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 165]</span> - -Paulina Bagot–a Roman Catholic heiress, who is intended to marry -young Latheby. He was there too, with Father Somerville, who had -come with him from Brentwood, Jerome and myself. We were the only -heretics. Jerome sang, and I played, and young Mr. Latheby applauded -wildly. Then Miss Bagot played, which she does exceedingly well. Mr. -Somerville, as usual, made himself <em>very</em> agreeable. He really is one -of the most delightful people I ever knew. I know you don’t like him, -but I call him charming. Both he and Mrs. Latheby are very polite to -us. Mr. Somerville comes a great deal to the Abbey.</p> - -<p>‘Nita is like you–she dislikes him. At first when he came she used to -sit with him and Jerome, and so did I; but she felt so uncomfortable, -she said, that now we always leave them in the library, and we go and -sit in the drawing-room. Very often Mr. Leyburn is there too, for he - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 166]</span> - -does not like Father Somerville either, and has not the good manners -even to pretend to do so, which annoys me very much. Sometimes Mr. -Bolton used to come, and then I used to read to him about the savage -tribes of South America. We were reading the “Naturalist’s Voyage -Round the World,” which Mr. Leyburn brought for us, about the only -thing in which his taste is unimpeachable. Of course he listened with -respect to that, but all the other books he calls “travellers’ tales.” -He professes to go in for natural history himself, or to be, as he -calls it, “a bit of a naturalist,” and he was always interrupting -our reading, finding fault with the botany, or the zoology, or the -something ology of the writers, which is a most exasperating habit. -It is so annoying, just as you are reading a thrilling account of -something, to be suddenly interrupted, “Incorrect! Where did the -fellow get his facts? Not from accurate personal observation, I’ll -wager.”</p> - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 167]</span> - -<p>‘Miss Shuttleworth is just as amusing as ever, but I don’t think she -has done any thing <em>very</em> remarkable since I last wrote.</p> - -<p>‘Jerome still goes to business every day, though I know Nita wants him -to give it up. I wonder that Nita never reproaches him! But then he -looks almost as miserable as she does. It is a depressing household, -dear Sara, though I have nothing to complain of. They let me do -anything I like, and I believe I might even come and see you if I -chose. But I have learnt a great many things from the troubles I have -seen since I came here, and amongst others I have learnt that I am of -some comfort to Nita, therefore I will not leave her.</p> - -<p>‘I must conclude. You will be tired of all this. Do not be long in -writing to me, if it is only two sides of a sheet of paper.</p> - -<span class="sig-left70">‘Ever your grateful</span><br> -<span class="sig-left80">‘A. W.’</span> -</div> - -<br> - -<p>Sara still walked to and fro, but in profound and painful reverie. - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 168]</span> - -Her very soul pitied her unhappy little successful rival. She felt as -if she would have liked nothing better than to take Nita to her bosom -and soothe and comfort her, so intensely she felt for the girl in her -pain and desolation. Could she by a word, even by some sacrifice on her -own part, have given Nita her husband’s love, and wiped from her mind -all knowledge of his past transgressions, how gladly she would have -done it! for Sara, in her solitude at <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Mein Genügen</i>, had scaled higher -moral summits than she herself knew–she thought she had not completely -cast away the old love, or the effects of it–she did not realise that -the substance of it had been burnt away; what remained was a shadow, -a heap of ashes, retaining the shape of that which was in reality -consumed. It was well that she saw the evil which remained, and not the -good which was accomplished, else had she been in danger of succumbing - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 169]</span> - -to that ‘palsy of self-satisfaction’ which has a trick of seizing upon -and blighting the finest natures.</p> - -<p>But she knew that no word of hers could give to Nita Wellfield her -husband’s love. She felt, she had gathered from a hundred unconscious -little touches and admissions in Avice’s letters, that Jerome, like -herself, was not free. He loved her–Sara: yet sometimes she could -weep, and wish it were not so. Oftener she felt a half-contemptuous -satisfaction in the knowledge that he had not been able to cast aside -her power over him with his promises to her. But oftener still she had -the feeling, which she instinctively felt to be a far more dangerous -one, of a restless wonder what would happen if they were to meet; a -wonder that sometimes grew into something nearly akin to a longing. -Before this feeling she trembled, trying to release herself from it, -but it had a trick of seizing her unawares, and mastering her. And it - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 170]</span> - -was in such moments that she felt what a slight division lay between -her present calm, monotonous existence, and the great abyss opening -under the feet of those who yield to reckless impulses, or to what are -euphoniously called ‘ungovernable passions.’</p> - -<p>Such thoughts, and her meditations upon Avice’s letters, ran like -a key-note through her mental life at that time–tinctured all her -thoughts, her reading, her work; for since she had begun to believe -that she was never to paint again, she had had resort to needle-work, -and was copying some curious old Flemish lace, under the tutelage of -a nun from a neighbouring cloister. Under her auspices, too, she had -discovered some poor in and around the town, and not only poor, but -ignorant; and she found some occupation in helping and teaching them.</p> - -<p>‘That high-and-mighty Miss Ford turned lace-maker and sister of -charity–buried alive in the dullest place in the world, and crying - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 171]</span> - -her eyes out from pure <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Langeweile</i>, because she has displeased her -husband, who is jealous, and has shut her up there!’</p> - -<p>Such was the account given by Frau Goldmark (who had a cousin in -Lahnburg, with whom she corresponded) to that very Fräulein Waldschmidt -who had been disabled by scarlet fever from taking a share in the -<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">tableaux vivants</i>. When it is remembered what language Frau Goldmark -had formerly used in speaking to Sara Ford of this very young lady, it -becomes almost impossible for an impartial mind to acquit her entirely -of a spirit of time-serving.</p> - -<p>Sara had been pacing about the terrace for a long time, now and then -reading over again portions of Avice’s letter, and anon lost in her -own mournful reflections. At last, raising her eyes as she turned in -her walk, she saw Falkenberg’s figure advancing towards her. The first -impulse that rushed across her mind was to conceal the letter she held -in her hand, after which she found herself blushing hotly at the idea - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 172]</span> - -of doing so, and thinking, with a sudden prophetic fear, that it would -be an evil day–if ever it should dawn–on which she could not meet his -eyes. The uncomfortable sensation remained, however, that she had been -cherishing wrong thoughts–thoughts best described by the hackneyed -term ‘improper.’</p> - -<p>She advanced to meet Falkenberg, and held out her hand to him. She -wished she could have smiled and looked glad to see him, in answer -to the long and wistful look he gave her; but she felt more unhappy, -more constrained in his presence than ever, and it was with a look of -profound gravity that she greeted him.</p> - -<p>‘You did not expect to see me?’ said he.</p> - -<p>‘I always feel that you may or may not come any day,’ said Sara.</p> - -<p>‘You are better. So your letters have told me–so you look,’ said he.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 173]</span></p> - -<p>‘Better–I am well in body,’ she rejoined; and as she spoke, the same -look of deep dejection returned–to her eyes the same cloud as that -which of late had constantly been there.</p> - -<p>‘Not in mind?’ asked Rudolf, gently.</p> - -<p>She shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘I wish I could say that I even felt as if I were becoming better. -Everything seems as dark, or darker than it was before. Do you see this -letter?’</p> - -<p>She held it up, and her face was dark as she spoke.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, of course.’</p> - -<p>‘It is from Avice Wellfield. I will tell you the truth. It cannot be -more bitter to you than it is to me. These letters are the events of my -life, the only things I really care for. I look forward to them with an -eagerness I cannot express, and when they have come, I live upon the -recollection of them. I cannot find my place in this new life. I will -not deceive you,’ she added, with a vehemence almost passionate. - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 174]</span> - -‘I have not sunk so low as to even wish to do that; but I feel degraded, -humiliated, miserable, to think that I cannot cast aside my weakness, -that it dwells with me. And as for returning to my old pursuits–to -my painting–to the joy I used to have in even holding a brush in my -hand–I do not believe it will ever return to me again. I believe it is -destroyed. I have heard of such things happening after a great shock or -a serious illness. I have had both; why should it not be so with me?’</p> - -<p>She spoke bitterly, though composedly, and beat her hand with Avice’s -letter.</p> - -<p>‘And you do care for those letters?’ he asked.</p> - -<p>‘Yes–oh, if–do you object, Rudolf? Would you like me to give over -writing?’ she asked, with something like a ray of hope dawning upon her -face.</p> - -<p>‘Give it up–my dear child, I would not deal such a blow to your - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 175]</span> - -poor little friend, or offer such an insult to you, as even to hint -such a thing. To me, you are above suspicion, Sara. If I heard you -were corresponding with Jerome Wellfield himself, I should feel no -uneasiness. I know you and your pride and simplicity too well.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, if only you had not been so chivalrous and so mistaken as to marry -me, Rudolf. I fear it has been a terrible error on both sides.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think so? We had better give it a little longer trial, I think, -hadn’t we?’ he asked composedly, while he glanced rather keenly at her -face. ‘Do you, perhaps, feel tired of this place? Would you like change -of scene or company? Is there no one you would like to have with you? -Miss Wellfield, for example?’</p> - -<p>‘No. Avice has found a life at home. It is astonishing how she -develops, how quickly she is growing into a woman, and a thoughtful -one. She finds that her sister-in-law needs her presence greatly, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 176]</span> - -and I gather from her letters, though she evidently has no idea of it -herself, that she also will marry before long, and that happily.’</p> - -<p>‘Then you will not ask her to come and see you?’</p> - -<p>‘No, thank you. I have thought about it, and I am sure that this is the -best place for me. Solitude will not drive me mad. Let this be <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Mein -Genügen</i>–I will make it so for a time longer, if you will allow me. If -I am to find peace anywhere, and a path through life, it will be here.’</p> - -<p>‘So be it. And since such is the decision you have come to, I may tell -you the more freely that I have come to-day to say good-bye for a long -time. I am going on a journey, and before I go I want to have a little -talk with you on business, if you don’t mind.’</p> - -<p>‘Going away!’ uttered Sara, startled. ‘Where?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, to wander about indefinitely–<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">auf eine Reise in’s Blaue</i>, as - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 177]</span> - -my own people would say. I am not going alone. A friend of mine, an -artist, Rupert Schwermuth, goes with me, or rather, I offered to join -him when I heard he was intending to travel and study. He means to -go to Greece amongst other places, China, and Japan: he raves about -Japanese art. I am going to rough it with him, by way of a change.’</p> - -<p>Sara found she had absolutely nothing to answer to this. To object -would, she felt, be worse than absurd; to say she was glad would not -be true, for with the knowledge that he was going so far away, came a -sudden chill sense of prospective loneliness and desolation; yet she -must say something, she felt, and at last managed to stammer out:</p> - -<p>‘I think you do wisely. I hope you will enjoy your tour. But ... will -you write to me?’</p> - -<p>‘If you wish it,’ he said. ‘You seem tired; take my arm. Do you mean -just bulletins from the successive stages of the journey, or do you - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 178]</span> - -mean something more like letters?’</p> - -<p>‘I mean letters. I should like them exceedingly. I hope you will write.’</p> - -<p>‘I will write. And you–will you answer my letters?’</p> - -<p>‘What news can I possibly have to send from here?’ said Sara, slowly.</p> - -<p>‘Tell me what you do every hour, from the time you get up till the time -you go to bed, if you have no other news. It is not fair that it should -be all on one side. And if you are anxious for letters, what shall I -be, do you suppose?’</p> - -<p>‘I will write,’ said Sara, in a rather low tone.</p> - -<p>‘That is decided, then. Now, do you mind coming into the house, for my -time is short, and I want to tell you something about money-matters.’</p> - -<p>They went into the house, sat down at the writing-table, and Herr - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 179]</span> - -Falkenberg from his breast-pocket drew forth a cheque-book.</p> - -<p>‘Do you see this?’ he said. ‘I have left directions with them at -the bank to honour all your cheques, so long as you don’t overdraw -my private account,’ he added, smiling. ‘And this little book is to -procure you the means of subsistence while I am away.’</p> - -<p>‘I will not be extravagant,’ said Sara.</p> - -<p>‘No, don’t, or I shall of course be exceedingly displeased. “Freely, -but not extravagantly,” is an excellent motto; and you were born to -devise and carry into execution schemes of economy.’</p> - -<p>‘Now you are laughing at me,’ said Sara.</p> - -<p>‘Sometimes I cannot help it.’</p> - -<p>‘But why do you do it?’ she asked, piqued.</p> - -<p>‘Heaven forbid that I should tell you why. You would never give me the -chance of doing it again, and that would afflict me sorely. Now I must - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 180]</span> - -go,’ he added, looking at his watch, and rising.</p> - -<p>‘Go! No, you will stay for the Mittagessen, at least. You have never -taken a meal in this house since I came into it–you, the master of it.’</p> - -<p>‘I wish I could stay. But you see, Rupert was to meet me—’</p> - -<p>‘Let him wait!’ said Sara, with a heightened colour. ‘Rudolf, I beg -you to remain. You are not starting off to-day. Please do remain till -afternoon.’</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Wie du willst</i>,’ he replied, using the <em>du</em> for the first time, as -Sara instantly noticed.</p> - -<p>‘Thank you,’ she answered; ‘and here they are to say that lunch is -ready. Shall we go to the dining-room?’</p> - -<p>‘I shall have to go directly afterwards, though,’ said he, ‘for poor -Rupert will be cooling his heels at my house, wondering what has become -of one who <em>never</em> fails to keep an appointment.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 181]</span></p> - -<p>‘On which day do you think of setting off?’ asked Sara, as they sat -down to the table.</p> - -<p>‘To-morrow,’ he replied.</p> - -<p>‘To-morrow! There is something remorseless about to-morrow.’</p> - -<p>The meal was not a long one. Sara was somewhat flushed and excited. She -hardly knew what had prompted her to insist so strongly upon Rudolf’s -remaining, but she was glad she had done it.</p> - -<p>He sat grave and composed as ever. Having made up his mind to the -wrench of parting from her, he felt it rather increased his difficulty -than otherwise when she displayed this sudden momentary gleam of– -what was it?–a latent tenderness, or an amiability called forth by the -fact that she was on the point of being rid of him for some months to -come, and felt that the least she could do was graciously to ‘speed the -parting guest.’</p> - -<p>Very soon after lunch was over he said, very decidedly this time, that -he must go.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 182]</span></p> - -<p>‘Must you, really? And–from what place will you first write to me?’</p> - -<p>‘Suppose we say from Trieste?’</p> - -<p>‘From Trieste–very well. I shall expect a letter from there.’</p> - -<p>Both were speaking composedly, but Sara was on the verge of tears, and -he was not unmoved, though he successfully concealed the fact.</p> - -<p>‘Good-bye, then,’ he said.</p> - -<p>There was a pause.</p> - -<p>‘I have a horror of saying good-bye,’ said Sara at last, forcing -herself to speak with an appearance of calm.</p> - -<p>‘Have you? It is one of the pains that attend the pleasures of life, I -suppose.’</p> - -<p>‘Pleasures?’</p> - -<p>‘The pleasure of travelling, I mean. You can’t go abroad without saying -good-bye, unless you wish to be thought a monster.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 183]</span></p> - -<p>‘Ah, you can joke about it. I cannot. And in a case like this, when you -are going such a very long way off. Suppose–anything happened in which -I wanted advice.’</p> - -<p>‘In that envelope you will find full directions, and the address of my -confidential manager and head man–indeed he is more than that, and as -he is a gentleman in every respect, you will be able to apply to him as -you would to me.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed I shall not, Rudolf!’ she exclaimed, almost sharply.</p> - -<p>Another pause.</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid my going will vex you; upset you. Would you like me to -give it up?’ he asked slowly.</p> - -<p>‘Oh no! no!’ she answered hastily. ‘Not for worlds! It was but a -momentary folly. Let it pass! I hope you will have every kind of -enjoyment on your journey.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, Sara, I wish that momentary folly would recur oftener! But there! -don’t distress yourself. Remember this’–he clasped both her hands, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 184]</span> - -and looked with an earnestness that was almost solemnity into her -eyes–‘<em>wherever</em> I may be, however I may be, so that I am able to move -at all, one word from you will summon me back. <em>Here</em>, in this house, -or wheresoever you are, is <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">mein Genügen</i>–my joy and my pleasure and -contentment.’</p> - -<p>Sara could not speak. As their eyes met, she could not tell whether -it was a great joy or a great sorrow which that long, earnest look -foreboded. Falkenberg stooped and kissed her forehead, said to her, -‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Lebewohl!</i>’ and was gone.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 185]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTERSV_VII"> - <img src="images/p185_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII. -<br><br> -<small>WELLFIELD.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_t_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated First Letter."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">The</span> feelings were varied, the emotions complicated which, that spring -and summer, held sway in the hearts of the household at Wellfield Abbey.</p> - -<p>At the time of Nita’s marriage, Mr. Bolton had retired to Monk’s Gate, -with his <cite>Dante</cite>, and his books of voyages and travels; and there Avice -Wellfield had been of great solace to him, as she had unconsciously -betrayed in her letters to Sara.</p> - -<p>John Leyburn generously divided his attentions between Monk’s Gate and -the Abbey; a plan which made little real difference in the amount of - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 186]</span> - -his company bestowed upon either place, for often the Abbey party would -be at Monk’s Gate, or Monk’s Gate would go to the Abbey; and thus they -all met nearly as much as before.</p> - -<p>At the Abbey, Nita was, as she always had been, the mistress. Jerome -and Avice were the new elements. Jerome, probably by way of blunting -disagreeable reflections, had taken in good earnest to business; and if -he did not care to reflect upon the means by which he had arrived at -his present position, he had perhaps some comfort in the knowledge that -<em>in</em> that state of life he was doing what approximated, at any rate, to -his duty, so far as he knew how.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton went seldomer to the office, and had begun to trust more -power and responsibility into the hands of his son-in-law. He had -privately told John that his health was not all he could wish, but - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 187]</span> - -that he desired not to alarm Nita, and he therefore confided to him -alone that his heart was wrong. He had privately consulted a great -doctor or two, and they all said the same thing. He therefore desired -gradually to retire from the business. Thus more and more work fell -upon Jerome’s shoulders, and yet they were not overloaded. He went -eagerly and readily to work: in this employment, which a year ago -would have been utterly distasteful to him, he found some distraction; -for the atmosphere at home was not altogether cheering. When a man -has acted in a base and cowardly manner, but yet has sufficient moral -sensitiveness left to desire that his surroundings may think well -of him, it is a galling thing when one who is a portion of those -surroundings tacitly shows him that she knows he has not been all that -he ought to have been–to her and to others; and that, judging, not -by some superlative code of high morality, but by the common hacked -and hewed standard of honesty and decency patronised by the ordinary, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 188]</span> - -unremarkable man, that he has not even washed his hands in the common -brown soap and water of this working-day world, let alone cleansing -them in the finer and more subtle essences of chivalry.</p> - -<p>For some months after their marriage Nita continued to worship her -husband with a silent, intense passion of devotion which soothed -and pleased him, even while he was uneasily conscious of a certain -volcanic, sulphurous sort of atmosphere, while he had the idea that -he was as it were standing on the edge of a crater–a position not -without its discomforts. Nita never asked him any question as to that -other love of which he had spoken to her; she appeared satisfied with -his emphatic assurance that it was ‘over, gone, passed away’ entirely, -and she rejoiced in what he did give her of tenderness and affection. -He never knew what it was that caused the change in her. He never - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 189]</span> - -asked, for he dared not, or Nita might perhaps have been able to tell -him that one evening when he was away, Father Somerville had called -to see him, and finding him out, had kindly bestowed his society upon -her for half an hour. As it was, she never mentioned the interview -except in the most casual way, merely saying that Mr. Somerville had -been disappointed to find Jerome out. She did not mention that she -had learnt during that half hour her own true position with regard -to her husband, and his with regard to her–that she had heard about -it without moving a muscle, and had sent Father Somerville away -entirely disappointed of his hope to turn that position to his own -advantage. The holy father came and went as before; Mrs. Wellfield -never condescended to express any dislike to his visits. Jerome knew -nothing of this; what he did know was that Nita’s whole manner and -being had sustained a nameless yet palpable change; she did not show - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 190]</span> - -him coldness, nor aversion, but there was a wistful sadness, which -gradually grew into a dejection–a quiet sorrow which at times tortured -him.</p> - -<p>It was very soon after she had learnt that she was to become a mother -that this change became apparent in Nita. It was in vain that he -lavished upon her every outward care and attention; that he watched -her footsteps, and hung upon her looks, and attended her wherever she -went. It was in vain that he would refuse invitations and tell her he -did not care to go out until she could go out again too; in vain that -he gratified, and even tried to anticipate her every wish: she faded -and drooped before his eyes. And he dared not go beyond this outward -form of devotion. He dared not ask the reason of the inward grief -that consumed her, because he knew what the answer would be. He was -perfectly satisfied that she knew something–how much he knew not, and - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 191]</span> - -that again he dared not ask–but something she knew of the deceit he -had practised towards her; that he had taken her for his wife holding -a lie in his right hand. The position grew terrible, even ghastly to -him. Sometimes he wished that she would reproach him; tell him what she -knew, ask him why he had treated her so–then he could at least have -promised that since they were bound together, he would never deceive -her any more, but would honestly devote his life to making her happy. -But Nita never did anything of the kind. She was most gentle, and -seemed to shrink in every way from giving him pain. With unstinting -hand and ample generosity she asserted his rights in everything, -and showed the most boundless confidence in him; making a point, if -anything of the slightest importance were referred to her, of saying -that she knew nothing about it, they must ask Mr. Wellfield. She never -appeared to shrink from being alone with him, though, when it happened - -<span class="pagenum">[192]</span> - -that they were alone, she would sit for hours silent, unless he spoke. -When he talked to her she always tried to keep up the conversation. But -she was woefully and mournfully changed. Between her and Avice existed -a great, if not a demonstrative friendship. Jerome was thankful for -it, and that his wife and his sister had no unseemly disputes. The -only times when Nita was really bright, or at all like her old self, -were those occasions on which her father was with them. Then she would -collect her energies (and Jerome painfully felt that her gaiety was -the result of such a collecting of energy, and not spontaneous), and -be even merry, and that so exactly in her old manner that her father -never suspected anything wrong, and put down her somewhat wan face and -languid movements to her physical condition.</p> - -<p>‘Are you happy, my child?’ he asked one afternoon, when he and she - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 193]</span> - -were strolling beside the river. This was very shortly before his death.</p> - -<p>‘Quite happy, papa,’ she answered, and he concluded that the tears -which filled her eyes as she looked up at him were tears of happiness.</p> - -<p>‘And Jerome is all he should be–eh?’</p> - -<p>‘You may see for yourself what Jerome is to me,’ replied Nita, in a -vibrating voice, and with a heightened colour. ‘Surely no wife was ever -treated with the attention that he gives to me!’</p> - -<p>‘Well, well, I was but joking,’ he answered, with profound -satisfaction. ‘When I bought the Abbey, Nita, years ago, I often -thought to myself that the Wellfields were a proud, extravagant race, -and that their inheritance had passed away from them for ever, into -hands that were honester than theirs, and better able to look after -it. Then comes this youngster, and will have my daughter. It is - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 194]</span> - -strange–almost like a romance, I think, sometimes. It seems that a -Wellfield is to have the old place again; it is not to be a Radical -stronghold, as I had once fancied it would be. Better so, perhaps. At -any rate, it was best that you should marry the man of your choice, be -he rich or poor, Wellfield or Smith–and be happy with him. When I do -go, I shall go in peace, knowing that you are settled in the home you -love, with the man you love.’</p> - -<p>‘There never was anyone who had such a good father as I have. But -he is very wicked when he says anything about “going,” in peace or -otherwise,’ replied Nita, with something like her old smile.</p> - -<p>After this they went into the house, and John came down to supper, -for they still kept up the old hours, in every-day life, at least. -Mr. Bolton also remained, and to all outward semblance a very happy, -united family group was gathered there. Jerome offered to accompany - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 195]</span> - -his father-in-law to Monk’s Gate, as he had wished to speak with him on -a matter of business. The business was soon settled, and then, as they -stood at the garden-door of Monk’s Gate, Mr. Bolton suddenly said:</p> - -<p>‘Nita and I had a stroll by the river this afternoon. I was talking to -her about you.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes?’ said Jerome, his heart giving a sudden throb as he wondered -<em>what</em> they had talked about him.</p> - -<p>‘When you were married, I had some fears. Now I have none. I can see -that my girl is happy. I wish you could have seen her face as she said -to me, “You can see for yourself what Jerome is to me.” Sometimes I -think I shall not last very long——’</p> - -<p>‘God forbid that you should be right in your idea, sir.’</p> - -<p>‘Anyhow, Nita is all I have, and I thank you, Wellfield, for making her -happy. It gives to my old age all that it needs to make it contented.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 196]</span></p> - -<p>He wrung Wellfield’s hand, who answered, in a voice of some emotion:</p> - -<p>‘My wife is an angel. I do not deserve her.’</p> - -<p>‘Pooh! “An angel not too bright and good–” What is it? I know I am -quoting it wrong, but it comes to the same thing. Good-night, boy! God -bless you!’</p> - -<p>Jerome, as he walked home, bit his lips, and his heart seemed burnt up -within him with shame.</p> - -<p>‘Gad! what a blackguard I feel when this sort of thing happens!’ he -muttered, as he went in.</p> - -<p>Avice had gone to bed. John Leyburn had departed. Nita was in her -dressing-room, where Jerome found her.</p> - -<p>‘You are tired?’ he asked, a new emotion in his face and eyes, as he -bent over her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 197]</span></p> - -<p>‘A little, dear. Nothing much. I suppose you are busy?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes. It is only a quarter-past ten. I am going to read for an hour. I -have been–I mean your father has been speaking to me about you. He has -been thanking me for making you <em>happy</em>. My God, Nita! How can I look -at you and confess it! But some day’–he clasped her hand–‘some day, -you shall be happy–you shall, my wife.’</p> - -<p>He dared not trust himself to say any more, but left her.</p> - -<p>Nita sat still in the same position, not weeping–she did not very -often weep now–but looking down at the wedding-ring on her hand, and -wondering if that <em>some day</em> would ever come.</p> - -<p>It was but a very few days after this that Mr. Bolton’s death took -place. Nita was very quiet, and apparently not much disturbed about -it. She spoke about it to no one, except that when she first saw John - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 198]</span> - -Leyburn after it, she thanked him for all he had been to her father; -and she one day said to Jerome that now the Abbey belonged to him, she -wished very much that he would settle Monk’s Gate upon Avice for her -own, unless he objected.</p> - -<p>‘And there is another thing,’ she added; ‘I believe Avice and John are -very fond of one another, and I want you, if he proposes for her, to -give your consent.’</p> - -<p>‘Avice and John! My dear child, you are dreaming!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no, I am not. I know all about it as well as if they had told me; -and oh, Jerome, don’t come between them, please.’</p> - -<p>‘I think you are match-making a little; but if it should turn out so, I -shall certainly not oppose it, and I will see about Monk’s Gate being -settled upon Avice at once.’</p> - -<p>Nita thanked him, and the subject dropped.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton’s will was much applauded by all who heard of it, as - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 199]</span> - -being very just and righteous–a pattern of a will. Needless to go -into details. The property was left to Nita and her husband on trust, -subject to certain restrictions, for their lifetime, when the bulk of -it went to a prospective elder son, proper provision being made for -what other children there might be, and for Nita, if she were left a -widow.</p> - -<p>Having left behind him these right and equitable provisions, Mr. Bolton -was laid away to his rest in Wellfield churchyard, and allowed to sleep -out his long sleep in peace.</p> - -<p>After this the household at the Abbey went on much as usual. Nita, -though subdued, did not look utterly unhappy. Yet she was a most -unhappy wife, and Jerome knew it well, and felt the unhappiness to -be beyond his power of curing. Nothing would restore her happiness -now, and nothing give her full contentment, except the knowledge that -he loved her–perhaps not even that, if she knew all of his conduct - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 200]</span> - -towards Sara–for Nita was tender-hearted. In the meantime, there was -that unalterable fact–the past, the one thing that no power in the -heavens above or in the earth beneath could make different, or cause to -be as if it had not been.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton was gone. John and Avice continued to bicker and squabble in -a polite way, and were as much engrossed in one another as two really -unselfish persons can be. Nita, as time progressed, kept more in the -house, spent more hours on her sofa, with book and work, with Avice by -her side, or Jerome, or alone with her dog Speedwell. She often sent -them away, telling them she liked to be alone, and did not wish them to -be tied to her. Jerome once uneasily inquired of Avice:</p> - -<p>‘Are you sure Nita really prefers to be left with her book? What book -is that she reads in so much?’</p> - -<p>For Nita always closed the book when he approached, and laid it beside - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 201]</span> - -her in a manner which did not permit him to take it up.</p> - -<p>‘It is the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Imitatione Christi</i>, Jerome; and I think she does like to -be left with it,’ said Avice, abruptly.</p> - -<p>The one other intimate visitor beside John Leyburn, was Father -Somerville. Nita saw very little of him. She now never offered -the slightest remark upon his visits, almost ignoring them. Both -Jerome and Avice imagined that her dislike to him had merged into a -neutral feeling. Somerville himself, and he alone, was conscious how -completely he was held at arm’s length by the lady of the house, by -the insignificant girl whom he had covertly sneered at many a time, -even while he was advising Wellfield to marry her. He did not speak of -it to anyone, but Nita’s treatment of himself galled him, and it is -to be feared that his bosom was not inhabited solely by that angelic -mildness, that indifference to all slights and injuries which Father - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 202]</span> - -Ravignac, at any rate, would have us believe animates the breast of -every true Jesuit. Father Somerville had expected that Mrs. Wellfield -would be unhappy; he had even taken active steps for making her -unhappy, and he had expected that her unhappiness would cause her to -take counsel with some one, perhaps with him, who so well knew how -to invite confidence. But that unhappiness had had quite a different -effect. It had transformed the ‘insignificant girl’ into a perfectly -dignified, self-possessed woman–a very sad woman, certainly, but one -who wore her crown of sorrow without cries or appeals–one whose grief -was confessed, if at all, as between herself and her God–not to him, -or to any like him. He was bitterly mortified, and while his keen -insight told him the truth, he could not help admiring and wishing the -more that he could gain any influence over her.</p> - -<p>He had the more power over Jerome–a power which he valued, though - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 203]</span> - -he would as a matter of taste have preferred the other, since there -was assuredly more glory in being able to influence a pure and exalted -soul, than one weakened by selfishness and enervated by a feeling of -self-contempt. He had not failed to probe Jerome Wellfield’s heart, -as opportunity was afforded. One day, in a fit of almost intolerable -remorse, when he had just heard the news of Sara’s having been at the -point of death, and of her marriage with Falkenberg, and when, as it -seemed to him, his wife was fading away before his eyes, consumed with -her sorrow, Jerome had confessed–it could be called nothing else. The -temptation of confiding in one whom he felt to be so much stronger and -more self-sufficing–one whose hold on life and the things of life -was so much firmer than his own, had proved too strong. Wellfield had -told him the whole story of his love for Sara Ford–of his conduct -towards her, and that, when he dared to think of it, he loved her - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 204]</span> - -yet. For a short time it gave him relief, then Somerville let him -know, by degrees, that he had fastened a chain about his wrists–that -he was, to a certain extent, in his power; he hinted, in short, that -Mrs. Wellfield might take umbrage at the story, if it were related -to her. Wellfield cursed his own weakness for a time, and soon began -to long inexpressibly for some change of scene, however fleeting. He -had deteriorated–that goes without saying. Deterioration–mental -and moral–is as natural, as inevitable a consequence of a series of -actions such as his had lately been, as the sequence of the seasons, -the rhythm of seedtime and harvest, of reaping and garnering is -inevitable, as, to use the hackneyed scripture, to sow the wind and -reap the whirlwind is inevitable.</p> - -<p>But of course the deterioration had scarcely yet begun visibly to -manifest itself. His wife’s state had more influence with him than his - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 205]</span> - -own restless longings. His place was beside her–every voice of nature -and of duty told him so, and he obeyed their mandate. The summer passed -on. Nita did not expect her confinement until the end of October–and -until that was over he must assuredly remain with her.</p> - -<p>Things were, then, in this state at the beginning of October, when one -of those things happened which do happen sometimes–little things in -seeming, and which yet make grim sport with the greater things which -seem of so much more importance.</p> - -<p>A commercial house in Frankfort failed–a house with which Mr. Bolton’s -firm had always done a large amount of business. A meeting of creditors -was called, at which it was highly desirable that principals should -be present. Wellfield wished to remain at home and let it pass, but -Avice having incautiously spoken about it, Nita insisted, with a -determination that was almost vehement, that he should go. It was - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 206]</span> - -ascertained that he could easily go and return in a week, and as a -telegram requesting his presence came to add to the pressure, he went -one morning in the first half of the month.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 207]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTERSV_VIII"> - <img src="images/p207_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII. -<br><br> -<small>JEROME.</small><br></h2> - -<div class="center smaller"> -‘There is nothing more galling than to receive pity<br> -where we would fain inspire love.’ -</div> - -<br> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_t_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated First Letter."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">There</span> had been a long and stormy meeting of creditors–fierce disputes -over the accounts which were brought forward, much vituperation, much -gesticulation, and Jerome Wellfield had sat through it all, like a man -in a dream, scarcely hearing a word.</p> - -<p>He leaned back in his chair, his hands in his pockets and his face set, -his eyes fixed frowningly upon the green leather top of the table at -which he sat. Two sentences which he had heard, earlier in the day, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 208]</span> - -exchanged between two gentlemen in the coffee-room of his hotel, had -banished all other subjects from his mind.</p> - -<p>‘When is Falkenberg going to be back from that immense <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Reise in’s -Blaue</i> that he undertook in May? and has he left his wife alone all -this time?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I fancy no one knows when he will be back. His wife is at his -place at Lahnburg. She is very quiet, they say, and people think they -have had a quarrel. Don’t know how much of it is true, I am sure.’</p> - -<p>He had heard every word of it. The two speakers had sat at the next -table to his as he breakfasted that morning. Ever since, heart and head -alike had been in a tumult. Not an hour’s journey distant from him, and -alone! Of course he must not go to see her, it would be the height of -folly and presumption and wickedness; but could he not get one glimpse -of her, take one glance into her face unseen by her; have a view of - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 209]</span> - -her, perhaps, as she walked in her garden–or behold some outline of -her form at the window. That would be enough. There would be nothing -wrong in that; he could see her, and she would not see him; having seen -her, he could return home with a quieter heart.</p> - -<p>The mention of her name, the knowledge of her proximity to him, had -revealed, as such incidents do reveal, his own inmost soul to himself, -and shrined there he found Sara Ford still, and knew not whether to -rejoice that he yet loved her whose equal he had never seen, or whether -to mourn that he could not cast that love aside, and content himself -with the things that were his.</p> - -<p>Thus he debated and debated within himself, endeavouring to find -reasons why he should go to Lahnburg, while all the time, deep in -his heart there was the full consciousness that he ought on no -consideration to go near the place, that to do it would be an insult - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 210]</span> - -to Sara and to his own wife, and could bring nothing but misery to -himself.</p> - -<p>The meeting had been held at Frankfort in the forenoon, and was over by -two o’clock. Jerome, when it was over, went into the hall of his hotel, -and looking round, found what he had come for, though he had not even -in his own mind confessed so much–a railway time-table fixed against -the wall. He studied it, and saw that there were many trains on the -Lahnburg line; one at five o’clock from Frankfort, arriving at Lahnburg -at six. Three hours were before him in which to decide, and he said -within himself:</p> - -<p>‘I will have some lunch, and think about it, but I don’t think I shall -go.’</p> - -<p>Yet, when he had ordered some lunch and sat in the coffee-room waiting -for it, he caught himself thinking what a long time it would be before -the time came to set out for the station.</p> - -<p>Should he go, or should he not? He ate and drank something, and - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 211]</span> - -strolled out of the hotel into the town, and passed by the people who -wanted to show him the sights, and he thought he was trying to decide -not to go. He repeated to himself all the arguments against going, and -they were numerous and cogent. Then he caught himself wishing ardently -that he had something to keep him in Frankfort–some engagement that -would prevent his leaving the town that evening. Then he went back to -the hotel and compared the clock there with his watch. A quarter before -five. The station was close at hand–must he go, or must he stay? A -man came up to him–one of the merchants who had been present at the -meeting, and with whom he had a slight acquaintance, and said politely:</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Wellfield, if you are staying in the town, and have no other -engagement to-night, will you do me the honour of dining at my house? -we are having some friends, and I should be delighted to introduce you - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 212]</span> - -to my wife and daughters.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you,’ replied Wellfield, after a scarcely perceptible pause; -‘you are very kind, and I should have been delighted, but I have an -engagement out of town, and must go to the station now, if I am to -catch my train.’</p> - -<p>The die was cast, and he went quickly out of the hotel, and down the -street to the station. Ten minutes later, he was in the train, on his -way to Lahnburg.</p> - -<p>When he arrived there it was dusk, as it is in October at six o’clock. -He knew the place well, though he had not been of the party on that day -of Sara Ford’s first visit there. He knew the way, too, to Falkenberg’s -house, and quickly he walked there, and pushed open the gate, stood -in the garden, and surveyed the old mansion. Behind one or two of the -blinds he saw lights. Everything was very still in the dank, sad air -of the autumn evening. Not a sound came from the house. The trees - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 213]</span> - -stood drooping and motionless, saturated with the autumnal dew, which -is heavy and soaking and dank, not lying lightly like a gossamer mist -as that of summer does. He could see the lights of the town twinkling -here and there, and a faint hum came up from that direction; but to -the right and straight before him there was only a great veil of mist, -hiding field and hill, river and distance, alike.</p> - -<p>He went up to the door, and rang the bell. A man-servant opened the -door, and Wellfield began:</p> - -<p>‘Is–’ but his tongue refused to say Falkenberg’s name. ‘Is the -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">gnädige Frau</i> at home?’</p> - -<p>She was at home, he was told; and Wellfield entered, and told the man -his name. The servant perhaps did not catch the sound of the strange -name, but seeing a gentleman, composed and calm, asking for his - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 214]</span> - -mistress, he concluded it was right, and opening the door of the salon, -announced:</p> - -<p>‘A gentleman asks to see the gracious lady.’</p> - -<p>Wellfield saw the lighted room, the figure seated, writing, at a table. -A moment afterwards he was alone with her; she had risen and stood -looking at him with a strange, alarmed, alien expression, which sent a -dismal chill to his very heart. She did not speak. She stood looking at -him, and, as he could not help seeing, with an expression of aversion, -of shrinking distaste. Her hand grasped the back of the chair from -which she had risen, as if for support.</p> - -<p>His voice first broke the silence:</p> - -<p>‘Have I startled you, Sara? Forgive me, but I—’</p> - -<p>She drew a long sigh, as if then first realising that she was not in -some strange dream.</p> - -<p>‘What–what brings you here?’ she asked in an almost inaudible voice.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 215]</span></p> - -<p>‘I was in Frankfort,’ he said. ‘By accident I heard your name, and -heard that you were here and alone. I tried to fight against it, but -the impulse was too strong. I felt as if I should repent it all my life -if I did not see you once more, while I could.’</p> - -<p>‘You seem to forget that your visit must be very unwelcome to me; and -that you had no right to come. Had I known of your intention I should -have ordered my servant not to admit you. You must know that you are -acting very wickedly.’</p> - -<p>‘<em>Wickedly!</em>’ he repeated, scornfully and bitterly, ‘of course I am -wicked. Have I not been wicked all along? Do you suppose I do not know -it?’</p> - -<p>‘I do not know, I am sure,’ she repeated, in the same low, almost -frightened voice, and with the same look of aversion in her eyes, and a -sort of alarmed wonder, which expression galled him beyond what words -can express; ‘I do not know how wicked you have been, but I think you - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 216]</span> - -forget yourself strangely in thus forcing your presence upon me. Will -you go away, please, and leave me? You can have nothing to say to me -that I can listen to, and I have nothing at all–not one word–to say -to you.’</p> - -<p>‘Not one? Have you no feeling for me, Sara? Do you suppose that I am -happy–that I enjoy my life? Look at me! I look happy, do I not?’</p> - -<p>‘I pity you from my soul!’ she replied. ‘And if my pity can be of the -least use to you, take it. I should indeed be inhuman if I withheld it.’</p> - -<p>She spoke very gently, never losing her expression of pain and -aversion. Wellfield saw it; saw that she was bewildered, tortured by -his presence. The scorn and the withering contempt he had expected were -not there. What was there was far more hopeless for him–much harder -for him to bear. He had had wild visions of falling at her feet and - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 217]</span> - -forcing her to own that she, too, loved him as he loved her. Such a -course was now out of the question. He felt degraded and humbled, and, -worse than that–a fool–ridiculous and absurd.</p> - -<p>‘At least hear me when I tell you that I shall never cease to repent -what I did in my madness. I shall never know happiness again, in -feeling that I have destroyed yours, Sara.’</p> - -<p>‘You are quite mistaken,’ she replied, suddenly and clearly, as she -stood up without support, folding her hands before her, and looking him -full in the face. ‘You have not destroyed my happiness; it is out of -your power to do so. You turned it into bitter wretchedness for a time, -I own. I am not superhuman. I loved you devotedly, and trusted you -implicitly; and when you betrayed me, I suffered as I hope few women do -have to suffer. But you did not destroy my happiness, for that consists -in loving and trying to do what is good and noble and honest, and you - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 218]</span> - -are none of them. But you cannot destroy those things, nor my joy in -them, do what you will. Surely that is enough. Please leave me now, or -I must ring the bell and ask them to show you out.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean to tell me that you will be happy married to Rudolf -Falkenberg? how do you account for that?’ he asked, unheeding her -words, and advancing a step nearer to her, with eyes fixed upon her -face, and breath coming and going eagerly.</p> - -<p>Sara drew herself up, recoiling a step from before him. Then, looking -at him with a glance devoid of the slightest feeling for him, she -replied, in a deep, calm voice:</p> - -<p>‘Because he is all those things that you are not; he is good and noble -and honest; he is faithful, and would be faithful unto death–because -he saved me when you had almost killed me and quite driven me mad–and -because he is my husband, and I love him.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 219]</span></p> - -<p>‘You love—’ he began, and stopped abruptly; then, with a short, -miserable laugh, said: ‘After that I will go, certainly. And for the -future I beg you will spare me your pity. I do not need it. Good-night.’</p> - -<p>He turned on his heel and left the room. He did not know how he groped -his way to the door and opened it, for he could see nothing. At last he -found himself in the dank, soft, misty outside air again, just entering -the market-square of Lahnburg, repeating her last words to himself over -and over again, blankly, vacantly, and mechanically: ‘Because he is my -husband, and I love him.’</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 220]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTERSV_IX"> - <img src="images/p220_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX. -<br><br> -<small>A MYSTERY.</small><br></h2> - -<div class="poetry-container40"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Oh snows so pure, oh peaks so high!</div> - <div class="verse">I shall not reach you till I die!’</div> - <div class="verse indent6"><cite>Songs of Two Worlds.</cite></div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<br> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_w_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated First Letter."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Wellfield</span> found his way somehow to the station, and waited for the -train to Frankfort, pacing about the little asphalted platform with -feelings of the most horrible shame and humiliation–a longing to quit -the place, to lose the recollection of it–a sensation that he belonged -to a different world, a lower order of creature than she did, and that -to approach her was folly, and must necessarily result in disaster, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 221]</span> - -in singed feathers and maimed pinions. Blended with this was a sudden -yearning, stronger than he had ever felt before, to see once more the -gentle eyes of the wife who, he knew, would never love any other than -him, let his shortcomings or the nobility of the other be never so -strongly contrasted. Truly, could his moral stature, his innermost -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">ich</i>, have been disrobed then and placed naked before the eyes of men, -it must have presented but a sorry, grovelling kind of figure.</p> - -<p>The slow, jog-trot train came rumbling in, and bore him in leisurely -fashion past all the little stations, till at last, long after -half-past eight, they arrived at Frankfort.</p> - -<p>He trailed his steps slowly up the street to the hotel. What he had -just gone through mentally–the moral scourging he had just sustained, -had exhausted him more than the hardest day of physical exertion could -have done. He felt used up–<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">todtmüde</i>, as he dragged himself up the - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 222]</span> - -steps into the dazzling light of the hall, filled with piles of luggage -and groups of visitors–men smoking, girls flirting with them, parties -of people taking their coffee, an incessant passing to and fro, and -cheerful bustle.</p> - -<p>It seemed that there was to be no pause, no reprieve in the sequence of -his calamities just then. A waiter came up to him, and asked if he were -the person to whom ‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">dieses telegram</i>’ was addressed.</p> - -<p>Mechanically he took it; his apprehension dulled with the moral -castigation from which he was freshly come, and opened it, dully -wondering from whom it came, and what in the world it was about.</p> - -<div class="blockindent25"> -<p class="sig-left5">‘<i>John Leyburn</i>,<br> -<span class="sig-left10"><i>Wellfield.</i></span><br> - -<span class="sig-left35"><i>To Jerome Wellfield, Esq.</i>,</span><br> -<span class="sig-left36"><i>–Hotel, Frankfort-am-Main.</i></span><br><br> -‘Your wife has a son. She is very ill. Return at once, or you may be<br> -too late.’ -</p> -</div> - -<br> - -<p>For the first moment this seemed the one drop too much. With a kind of - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 223]</span> - -faint groan, he dropped into a chair that stood hard by, and propped— -his throbbing head upon his hands, feeling as if to move another step -would be impossible.</p> - -<p>But this was but for a moment. He raised his head at last, and saw that -one person had been compassionate enough to come forward, and speak -to him–a stout, comely English matron, who, bravely overcoming her -insular reserve, said:</p> - -<p>‘I fear you are ill. Is there nothing we can do for you?’</p> - -<p>He raised so haggard a face, such wretched eyes towards her, that she -half-started; but Jerome, touched inexpressibly by the one drop of -sympathy of this motherly-looking woman, answered brokenly:</p> - -<p>‘I am not ill, madam, I thank you. I–my wife–you may see—’</p> - -<p>He put the paper into her hand, and went upstairs to put up his things, -and hasten to the night train for Brussels and Calais, which he knew - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 224]</span> - -left in about half an hour’s time. When he came down again, and had -paid his bill, and was going out into the night with his wretchedness, -the same kind-looking matron stepped up to him, and said, all her -stiffness melted away:</p> - -<p>‘I hope you will find your wife better, and not worse, when you -get home. I can feel for you, and I shall think of you, for I have -daughters of my own.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you for your goodness–you are very kind,’ he said quickly, his -voice breaking, as he hurried away.</p> - -<p>‘Poor young fellow! I wonder if his wife will get better,’ said the -prosperous-looking matron to her husband.</p> - -<p>‘Pooh, my dear! A perfect stranger! The thing is sure to be in the -<cite>Times</cite> if she does die. That “poor young fellow” must be young -Wellfield of Wellfield. I wonder how he came to be here.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 225]</span></p> - -<p>‘He has a great trouble of some kind, and I hope his poor wife will not -die,’ repeated the lady.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>The kindly words of the strange lady put a momentary warmth into his -heart, and he thought of them more than once on his journey home.</p> - -<p>We all know what a journey from such a place to London is. Jerome, -inquiring on the way, found that with the best will in the world he -could not be in Manchester before nine o’clock the following night, -and from Manchester how was he to get to that out-of-the-world place -Wellfield? He dared not stop to think of it, but made his way onwards -as fast as he could. The twenty-four hours of travelling and waiting, -and waiting and travelling, seemed an eternity. He knew how they must -all be waiting for him, and Nita–he stopped that thought instantly - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 226]</span> - -–it never got so far as the wonder whether she were dead or alive.</p> - -<p>Manchester at last–after time, on a clear moonlight night. Into a -hansom, with urgent demands for speed, from the London Road Station, -down the long length of noisy Piccadilly and Market Street, up the hill -to the Victoria Station. He breathlessly asked the porter who strolled -up to him, ‘The train for Wellfield–how long?’</p> - -<p>‘Last train left twenty minutes ago, sir–the slow one–doesn’t get in -till eleven.’</p> - -<p>‘I <em>must</em> be there to-night,’ he repeated, mechanically.</p> - -<p>‘There’s an express to Bolton, sir, in five minutes. If you took that, -you might perhaps have a special on from there.’</p> - -<p>This was the only plan, and he took it. He was in Bolton in half an -hour. A few inquiries there. Yes–they would send him on with a special -if he liked, but not for an hour. The line was blocked, and it could - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 227]</span> - -not be done before then.</p> - -<p>A sudden thought struck Jerome. One of his horses had been sent to -Bolton two days before he left, for a certain dealer to dispose of: he -knew it must still be there, for he had left orders that nothing was -to be concluded about it till his return. The man’s place was close to -the station, and it was but ten o’clock. It was a twenty miles’ ride -to Wellfield, but with a swift horse he might be there sooner than by -waiting an hour for a special train.</p> - -<p>How it was settled he knew not. His white intent face, and something of -a silent urgency in his whole manner, caused the men to hasten their -work. In little more than ten minutes he rode out of the town along the -great north-eastern road.</p> - -<p>It was a moonlight night, and bitter cold–a contrast to that of -twenty-four hours ago. He settled himself into his saddle, set his - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 228]</span> - -teeth, and tried to think it was a short way. He never confessed the -feeling to himself, but he had little hope–his feeling was, not -that he hastened to give Nita the comfort of his presence as soon as -possible, but that he rode a race to speak to her and hear her speak to -him before she died.</p> - -<p>The horse was fresh, was ready, and willing for the work; he shook his -head, stretched his long legs and lean flanks, and ‘his thundering -hoofs consumed the ground.’ Bending his head before the bitter air, -Jerome gave him rein, and they flew quickly past village and farm -and town, through one great dingy mass of square buildings and tall -chimneys after another; through streets dazzling with lights, and -flaring gin-palace windows, into a long stretch of quiet country, with -the moon shining serenely on the silent fields.</p> - -<p>It seemed an eternity till he came to Burnham, the last great town -before Wellfield, and some six miles away from it. Outside the town, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 229]</span> - -beside a brook, he paused to water his horse; then, with a word of -encouragement, and a pat on the neck, the good beast resumed its long, -swinging stride, and there at last, in the moonlight, he sees the -first home landmark, the great shape of Penhull, grey and ghast in the -moonbeams. Nearer and nearer to that well-known shape, till he saw the -long wooded ridge on which Brentwood stands, and then down a hill, -betwixt thick woods; there stands the old white church at the end of -the street, here he is on the stones of Wellfield village–up its whole -length in a moment’s space, in at the Abbey gate–his horse’s hoofs -sound hollow on the turf of the river walk. The gate stands open; his -eye scans the windows. That was Nita’s room, and a light shone behind -the blind.</p> - -<p>He flung himself off his horse, and almost staggered into the house. -The drawing-room door stood wide open, and as he entered a man came - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 230]</span> - -out; he looked desperately into the face of Nita’s old friend.</p> - -<p>‘Leyburn–my wife–is–is she—’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, she is living still,’ said John, putting his arm within his, -and leading him to the foot of the stairs. ‘In her own room,’ added -Leyburn. ‘Miss Shuttleworth and your sister are—’</p> - -<p>‘Yes–thanks!’ he answered, running up the stairs and finding himself -at last in the subdued light of Nita’s room, hearing Avice’s voice -exclaim:</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Jerome! Thank God!’</p> - -<p>He neither saw nor heeded anyone, but strode to Nita’s side, and knelt -by her bed, controlling himself with a great effort.</p> - -<p>‘Is it you, Jerome?’ said a feeble changed voice. Avice and Miss -Shuttleworth had left them, the latter sobbing uncontrollably.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t speak, Nita, my darling! I am here, I shall never leave you till -you are well again!’ he murmured.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 231]</span></p> - -<p>‘I must speak, Jerome. I want to say–you will love my baby–oh!’ She -began to weep pitifully.</p> - -<p>‘Hush, hush!’ he implored her. ‘Nita, hush! Let me love <em>you</em>, my -child.’</p> - -<p>‘And you will not let him forget that <em>I</em> was his mother, and should -have loved him dearly if I had stayed with him,’ she went on, in a -voice ever fainter and fainter.</p> - -<p>‘You shall teach him yourself, my wife. Ah, Nita, you must not leave -me! God knows how I need you and your love and your forgiveness!’</p> - -<p>‘Jerome,’ with a sudden flicker of life and strength, ‘do you love me a -little?’</p> - -<p>‘As God is above us, Nita, I love you dearly,’ he answered; and he -spoke what was the truth at the moment, at least.</p> - -<p>‘I am glad that I was able to speak to you,’ she said. ‘But if—’</p> - -<p>These were the last words. When, alarmed by the long silence, Avice -and Miss Shuttleworth entered the room, they found Wellfield kneeling - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 232]</span> - -still beside his dead wife, holding her cold hands to his breast, and -motionless almost as herself.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 233]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTERSV_X"> - <img src="images/p233_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER X. -<br><br> -<small>CAUGHT.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_a_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated First Letter."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">A few</span> days later, -Nita was laid to her rest in the churchyard at -Wellfield, beside the father who had loved her so well, hard by the -paved footpath leading to the church-door. Many feet would daily pass -beside her grave: lovers walked through the churchyard; the old people -strolled there to sit on the bench by the porch at sunset; the feet of -those who were full of life and business hastened constantly to and -fro; for the gates were always open, and the churchyard path was a -much-used thoroughfare.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 234]</span></p> - -<p>When it was all over, Avice put her hand through her brother’s -arm, and turned to the two other persons who had come with them as -mourners–John Leyburn and Father Somerville.</p> - -<p>‘I think we will go home alone, if you do not mind,’ she said, offering -her hand first to one, and then to the other of them.</p> - -<p>Wellfield did not speak; his gaze was blank, and he scarcely knew or -saw who was there, or what had passed.</p> - -<p>‘I will come this evening and ask after you,’ said John; ‘and you can -see me if you choose.’</p> - -<p>With which, and with a mute inclination of the head to the others, he -went away to his home. A new love, fresh and strong, had sprung up in -his heart. But he had loved Nita well, too, with faithful, brotherly -love, and his heart was heavy. Her going made a great blank space in -his life.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 235]</span></p> - -<p>Somerville turned to Avice, and said in a low voice:</p> - -<p>‘If it gets too much for you, Miss Wellfield’–he glanced significantly -at Jerome–‘send for me, and I will come instantly.’</p> - -<p>With which he, too, turned and left them.</p> - -<p>Slowly they walked from the churchyard, in at the Abbey gate, up the -river walk, and towards the house.</p> - -<p>It was a soft, mild October noontide. The sun shone with mellow, -tempered warmth; the hues were varied of the fading leaves and the -autumn flowers; birds chirped here and there, and the river rushed, as -the two figures, black, and, as it seemed, incongruous, paced slowly up -the walk. As they entered the house, Avice said pleadingly:</p> - -<p>‘Jerome, won’t you go and see Nita’s baby? He is such a lovely child. I -am sure it would make you less grieved.’</p> - -<p>‘No, no! not yet, at any rate.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 236]</span></p> - -<p>‘Do you know, that when he was born we thought he would die? Father -Somerville called to ask about you–he did not know you were away–just -as they were about to send for the vicar to baptise him; and he offered -to do it, so they let him, for fear it should be too late if they -waited–for his poor little life seemed to hang by a thread.’</p> - -<p>‘Why do you say <em>they</em>?’ asked her brother.</p> - -<p>‘Simply because to me it seemed absurd–as if it made any difference to -the poor little darling whether he was baptised or not! Will you not go -and see him, Jerome?’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps–presently. So <em>Somerville</em> baptised him!’ he said dreamily; -and then added:</p> - -<p>‘I am going upstairs to her sitting-room.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t stay there too long, Jerome. It makes me so unhappy to think of -you.’</p> - -<p>‘You must not mind me,’ was all he said, as he slowly took his way -upstairs.</p> - -<p>Passing the rooms which had been set apart as nurseries, he heard a - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 237]</span> - -child’s feeble cry, and started, shuddered, and hastened his steps -till he came to what had of late been Nita’s favourite room–a little -boudoir opening from her bedroom. There was a dimness, subdued and -faint. He stood on the threshold, looking round, and by degrees began -to distinguish things more clearly. They had not drawn up the blinds -here since Nita had last been in the room, the evening before she was -taken ill. Everything was as she had left it. There was the couch -on which she had spent so many weary hours, and the little table -beside it, on which lay one or two books, and her writing-case, and a -work-basket. Another book had fallen upon the floor, and something lay -beside it, in which Jerome, looking intently, recognised Nita’s great -dog, Speedwell, stretched upon the ground beside the couch, waiting, -no doubt, for her return, and watching the book which had fallen; it -was the book she had read in so much of late–her little ‘Imitation of -Christ.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 238]</span></p> - -<p>The old dog looked up, with a wistful expression, whined a little, -and waved his tail to and fro, as Jerome looked at him. With an -inarticulate sound, which ended in a heavy sob, the young man dropped -upon one end of the couch, covering his face with one hand, while the -other hung down, and the dog licked it, and sat up, and whined again, -asking where she was.</p> - -<p>His anguish at this moment amounted to torture, as he realised how -completely everything had come to an end. Here, as he sat alone, with -his own miserable thoughts–here and in this moment his wages were paid -to him; measure for measure–no more and no less; wages which could -not be refused, could not be transferred, must be accepted and counted -over, and tasted to the bitter end.</p> - -<p>Let the future hold what it might, this hour could never be wiped out. - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 239]</span> - -In his then state of mind, he could not see any future at all; he could -see nothing but the past–could realise nothing except that he had -played a dishonest game, and had lost; and that at every turn in his -mental path he was confronted by an ‘if.’ ‘If I had done this!’ ‘If I -had told her that!’</p> - -<p>He did not know how long he remained in Nita’s room, feeling the -tokens of her recent presence on every side like whips of fire, but -when he left the room and went out of the house, it was dusk, and he -mechanically took his way towards a field-path by the river, along -which one could wander for two or three miles uninterrupted by gate or -stile, or barrier of any description. It was lonely and beautiful; it -had been one of Nita’s favourite haunts.</p> - -<p>The path led sometimes through a kind of lane, with a high hedge on -either side, and again through broad, level fields beside the river, - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 240]</span> - -towards Brentwood, with glorious views of hill and wood on every side.</p> - -<p>Between those hedges and through those fields Wellfield wandered as -one distraught–not with any outward appearance of disorder, but with -inwardly such an agony of remorse and self-reproach as was rapidly -gaining the ascendency over his judgment and reason. Long fasting, -and watching beside that cold mask which had been all that remained -of Nita’s countenance, and upon whose placid features he had thought -to detect a fixed and marble reproach, silent but terrible, and which -haunted him ceaselessly–all this had combined to raise him into a -wild, excited frame of mind, in which he was scarce master of his -impulses or actions. As he watched, in the rapidly-gathering dusk, the -deep and swiftly-running river, the desire presented itself again and -again to quench therein this unabating torture of mind: each time the -temptation came more insidiously, and the plausible excuse incessantly - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 241]</span> - -recurred, that he had proved himself unfit to manage his own affairs, -and that those who were left behind would much better manage those of -his child–his child whom he had not yet been able to look upon.</p> - -<p>It went so far that at last he stood beside the river, and looked and -looked, until to his morbid perceptions it seemed to shape its murmurs -into words that invited him to come. Deep down in his nature he was -profoundly superstitious. There was an old record of a Wellfield -who had been unhappy, and had destroyed himself in this very river. -Jerome thought in his madness, ‘Well, wherever he is, I may go too, I -suppose. There can be nothing in the future–on the other side, as bad -as this.... I believe all I have gone through has been sent to show me -that I have no right to remain here any longer ... besides, a life for - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 242]</span> - -a life! I have taken Nita’s, and...’</p> - -<p>He stood on the very edge of the stream towards which he had -unconsciously drawn, and was looking down into it as it hurried past, -with a vague, fascinated gaze. Would it ever have come to the point of -throwing himself in? Probably not. Suicides are not such as he. His -remorse doubtless was horrible. But if he <em>had</em> taken that cold plunge, -it would have been, not from a sense that he was too unworthy a wretch -to live, but because life was so intensely uncomfortable–to <em>him</em>. Be -that as it may, he stood on the brink, in a dreamy ecstasy–a luxury, -as it were, of grief and self-reproach, interspersed with vague wonder -why women would fall in love with him, when:</p> - -<p>‘You walk late beside the river, Wellfield,’ said Somerville’s voice, -while at the same moment the priest laid his slender, fragile-looking, -yet muscular fingers upon his arm.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 243]</span></p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ breathed Wellfield, with a kind of prolonged sigh; and then, -looking up, he could see, even through the gathering darkness, the -calm, clear, commanding eyes which were fixed upon his face. The -stronger nature subdued him–subdued everything about him: his anguish -of remorse; his poignant grief; his wild desire to bring his misery -to an end in some way or other, but to put it to an end. He felt that -Somerville had read his half-formed wish, nor did the latter hesitate -to avow it.</p> - -<p>‘You had no good purpose in your mind?’ he said, composedly.</p> - -<p>For all answer, Wellfield gave a half-groan, and propped himself up -against an ancient, gnarled crab-tree which overhung the stream. Then, -after a pause, he said:</p> - -<p>‘I had no purpose at all, except to end my wretchedness. I tell you I -cannot live through much more of this. Why did you come in my way?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 244]</span></p> - -<p>‘Because another lot is appointed to you than to make an end of -yourself in that river,’ was the reply; ‘and I–I recognise it -distinctly–was sent to tell you of that different lot.’</p> - -<p>‘Then give me peace–give me ease from these torments that I am -enduring,’ said Wellfield, fiercely, his sombre eyes, clouded over with -his anguish, flashing suddenly. ‘You it was who first put the cursed -idea into my head of marrying that girl; you told me then, when I -hesitated, that if I belonged to you–you could make it all smooth and -right for me. Make it right now–now that I have murdered her and got -her money.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I will do so,’ was the rejoinder, in a tone of such perfect -assurance, such calm conviction, that his hearer felt it strike -something like conviction to his heart. ‘You are in a labyrinth, but I -can guide you out of it, for I have the clue. Yield yourself only to my -guidance. That is all I demand. And for me to guide you, I must know - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 245]</span> - -<em>all</em>, unreservedly–every secret of your heart, every thought that -distracts you. Then I can help you.’</p> - -<p>Who shall deny the healing virtue of confession now and then? The -temptation to confess now was irresistible to Jerome; to Somerville -it suddenly gave the power he so ardently desired; suddenly, and far -more easily than he had expected. It was not the first case, by many, -of remorse gone mad, which he had had to deal with. A dullard, an -unsympathetic nature might have driven the patient to worse lengths. -Somerville was neither the one nor the other, and by this time he -thoroughly understood the nature he had to deal with–the hot southern -impetuousness which raged and rebelled under misfortune, which met -grief as a hated foe, to be wrestled with–not as a fact inseparable -from life itself, to be accepted; the half-hysterical remorse, the -stinging, intolerable sense of humiliation and degradation which - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 246]</span> - -so tortured the man who loved to see things smooth, and to find -circumstances bland. Somerville’s hand was at once light and firm. -Walking with Wellfield to the Abbey, he heard out the whole miserable -story; the confession of all that had happened from the time Jerome had -left Wellfield for Frankfort, up to this very day, when he had gone -into Nita’s room and found her old dog watching beside her couch.</p> - -<p>It was an opportunity which the priest did not fail to turn in a -masterly manner to the very best advantage. Already he saw the Abbey -and its wealth once more in the hands of firm adherents of the Roman -Catholic Church–of the Society of Jesus. Had not the child been, by -his own hand, baptised into that Church? He distracted Jerome’s mind -from its purely emotional pain, by reminding him that Nita and her -father had left things behind them–the one land and money, the other a -life–for the disposal of which things he alone was now answerable.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 247]</span></p> - -<p>He found Wellfield only too ready to own that he wanted guidance, only -too eager to clasp the first helping hand extended to him. Somerville -remained all night at the Abbey, with every hour binding his silken -chain more firmly and more intricately around his–penitent. He sent -word to the Superior at Brentwood on what mission he was engaged, and -during the long vigil he kept with the broken man, he succeeded in the -most vital part of the work which he had set himself. He convinced -Wellfield that he was indispensable to his peace of mind, and he -promised not to desert him.</p> - -<p>In the morning, before leaving for Brentwood, after promising that he -would return again, Somerville, passing through the drawing-room, found -Avice standing there, with the motherless baby in her arms. She held it -tenderly, with a motherly, protecting gesture, and looked down with - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 248]</span> - -love and pity into its face. He paused, smiling, and said:</p> - -<p>‘I have forgotten to ask how your charge goes on, Miss Wellfield?’</p> - -<p>‘Both nurse and the doctor say he is going to thrive, father. Look into -his dear little face–he looks rosy and healthy. Poor little darling, -how I love him! and how I wish Jerome would take to him!’</p> - -<p>‘I will do what I can to persuade him when I call again. At present he -is utterly worn out with grief and watching.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Avice, tears dimming her violet eyes. ‘Do you know, I did -not think Jerome cared so much for my sister as it seems he does. I -have done him an injustice.’</p> - -<p>‘One naturally cares more or less for the person who is of most -importance to one,’ replied Somerville, with a sweet and polished -smile. He looked again at the child, whose dark eyes dwelt -unconsciously and with the vague, meaningless gaze of infancy upon his - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 249]</span> - -face, and bending over it, he blessed it, slow and solemnly. ‘Since I -baptised him, I may do that?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Surely!’ replied Avice; and added, with a musing look, ‘Oh, if Nita -could have but lived to see him like this, I think mere love would have -given her courage to fight her way back to life again, and she would -have struggled through.’</p> - -<p>‘It may be so,’ replied Somerville, wishing her good-morning, -and wondering within himself, as he went away, how long it would -be–whether he should be still living, and still teaching, when that -baby should be a student at Brentwood. ‘For that he will be,’ he said -within himself. ‘What strides I have made in this affair! and how truly -providential that the mother died at that precise time! Had she lived, -we should never have had the child ... and if he marries again, we must -see that the woman is a Catholic.’</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 250]</span></p> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTERSV_XI"> - <img src="images/p250_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XI. -<br><br> -<small>GEFUNDEN.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_w_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated First Letter."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">When</span> Wellfield left her, -Sara sat down, trembling and unnerved. But -that sensation was not of long duration. Soon she recovered, and was -astonished at the sudden lightsomeness of heart which she felt. It -was as if some thunder-cloud had burst, had discharged its flood of -storm-rain, and dispersed, leaving a sky behind of a blue etherealised -and idealised. It was not the effect she would have expected–the very -reverse; it gladdened her as unexpected joy does gladden. She did not -mention, even to Ellen, the visitor she had had. She had a plan in her - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 251]</span> - -mind, which came there spontaneously; she found it there; it gladdened -her, thrilled her, filled her eyes with happy tears. She would make it -the pretext for telling Rudolf that she loved him; she would so tell -the incident of Jerome’s unlucky and reckless visit to her, that no -doubt should remain in her husband’s mind as to what she meant, for as -to speaking out the words to him which she had said with such boldness -and composure to Wellfield–the very idea of it was impossible.</p> - -<p>Ellen, as she helped her mistress to undress, wondered greatly what -could cause the frequent smile, and the brightened eyes which she -instantly noted.</p> - -<p>The next morning was a clear, glorious autumnal one; a white mist -enveloped the valley, and covered the river and the fields which -bordered it, and the long rows of poplars between which it flowed, -while the tops of the hills stood out, clear and distinct, bathed in - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 252]</span> - -a flood of golden sunshine, and the sky above was like a sapphire for -clearness and depth of hue.</p> - -<p>Sara drank in deep draughts of the sweet, bracing air, and as she -looked around, her heart swelled within her, and an impulse which for -months had slumbered–had been as though it had never inspired her, -animated her once more–the desire, namely, to take her brush in her -hand, and picture that scene as once she would have had great joy in -doing. But after first arriving at <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Mein Genügen</i> she had had such an -impulse often, and nothing had come of it; when she had tried to reduce -it to action, she had been so disheartened with the dulness, the utter -absence of life, of the old strength and craft, that it was now long -since she had renewed the attempt. This morning, though the impulse was -at first strong within her, she shook her head, and decided not to make -an attempt which must end in disappointment. She opened her book, and - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 253]</span> - -tried to be interested in that.</p> - -<p>Soon the effort succeeded. It was an Italian history, which she had -found amongst Falkenberg’s books, and the page at which she opened -it pictured that scene in which <i xml:lang="it" lang="it">il rè galantuomo</i>, contrary to the -advice of his great minister, and other wise and potent counsellors, -had insisted on preserving in the speech from the throne which he was -to utter on opening parliament, an allusion to the sufferings of his -people, and his own sensibility to them. That ‘cry of anguish’–that -<i xml:lang="it" lang="it">grido di dolore</i> of which the King spoke, has now become historical. -Sara did not remember even to have read of it before, or, if she had, -she had passed it by, and forgotten it. What drew her attention to -it on this occasion was a mark in pencil beside the sentence, and -at the foot of the page, on the margin, the words, in her husband’s -handwriting:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 254]</span></p> - -<div class="blockindent25"> -<p class="p2">‘Surely a fine subject for a picture, treated either allegorically or<br> -literally.–R. F.’</p> -</div> -<br> - -<p>Sara’s hands, with the book in them, sank gradually, and she raised her -face, full of musing and reflection, towards the clear hill-tops, whose -bases and all beneath were swathed in mist.</p> - -<p>‘It <em>would</em> make a grand picture,’ she mused, ‘for all who knew the -allusion. <i xml:lang="it" lang="it">Il grido di dolore</i>.... When Victor Emmanuel spoke those -words they were prophetic of the release of his people–of their -salvation. There spoke the deliverer. The scene should not be all a -cry of anguish; there should be a tone of hope as well. It would be -best treated allegorically, I believe. I suppose, if I treated it as -I should wish, I should be called narrow and feminine in my idea. No -doubt I should make it personal–turn Italy into a human being–bring -my own experience to bear upon it–what has my language been of late - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 255]</span> - -but a <i xml:lang="it" lang="it">grido di dolore</i>; more shame for me, no doubt! I wonder how -<em>he</em> thought of its being represented. I wish I knew. Surely any real -representation of the thing should show not only the lower creature -crying aloud in its agony, but the strong spirit which has heard its -cry and will raise it up.’</p> - -<p>Again she looked across towards the hills. The mist had almost all -cleared away. The river was now perceptible, winding in silver links -towards Coblenz; the poplars and the fields, the red-roofed villages -and the peaceful homesteads, all came into view. Upon her spirit, -too, fell a peace which it was long since she had experienced. -She went into the house, and found that the post had come in, and -that breakfast awaited her. There was one letter for her, and that -was from Falkenberg. Throwing off her hat and shawl, she eagerly -opened and read it. It was from Rio–so far had they progressed in - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 256]</span> - -their wanderings–and it gave her a graphic account of their recent -expeditions, of the glowing beauty of the Brazilian scenery, and of the -odd, eccentric habits of his companion.</p> - -<p>‘I think you would like him, though. He has real original genius -beneath all his whimsicalities, and some of his sketches are masterly.’ -Then he went on to say that their movements were undecided; they did -not know whether to make a further journey or to return to Europe.</p> - -<p>He made many inquiries after her health, her pursuits, her happiness, -and begged her to write very soon. ‘You cannot tell with what eagerness -I look for your letters. You will not quarrel with me for saying this, -since I am such a long way off. Sometimes the longing to see your -face is so intense that I feel as if I must start up, and be off then -and there–<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">auf der stelle</i>; but do not be dismayed. The aberration, -when it comes, is only temporary. You need not dread my bursting in - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 257]</span> - -upon you suddenly, without preparation; that is, if you will keep me -pacified by some more letters like your last one.’</p> - -<p>She finished it breathlessly, and, as if by a sudden, irresistible -impulse, pressed the paper again and again to her lips, with passionate -earnestness.</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ she murmured to herself, ‘would that you were here! Will anything -step between us? anything come to keep you and me apart <em>now</em>? I cannot -think that the end of this story will be all that it should be. And now -I shall tremble always, till I see you–and–perhaps even then. Who -knows?’</p> - -<p>Later in the forenoon, she felt again irresistibly impelled to try once -more if her old craft had not come back to her. She took a canvas, and -her palette and brushes, and tried to sketch in some representation of -the scene which had haunted her ever since she had seen the pencilled -words at the foot of the page. Again she opened the book, and again - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 258]</span> - -read the words: ‘I am not insensible to the cry of anguish–<i xml:lang="it" lang="it">il grido -di dolore</i>–which arises from my faithful people in all parts of my -kingdom.’ As she drew, her heart beat ever faster and faster. It was a -man’s figure that she outlined; the figure of a king, it was intended -for–of one who, by nature and by circumstance, was a ruler. Her crayon -moved more slowly as she tried to infuse into this figure some of the -royalty of bearing and look with which, in her own mind, she invested -the form of this ‘deliverer.’ When, after a couple of hours’ diligent -drawing, the outline stood out clearly before her, she looked at it, -and saw that it was good; it <em>was</em> kingly, dignified; majestic and -benevolent too. She had not failed. She was not to be robbed for ever -of her old power. Her art had been restored to her.</p> - -<p>That, she felt, was enough for one day. She had not been aware with -what intense eagerness she had longed that she might prevail–that - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 259]</span> - -life and skill might be restored to her hand, until, when she at last -saw that ‘it was so,’ she broke down, and burst into a passion of -tears–but tears which, if stormy at first, soothed and healed in the -falling.</p> - -<p>It was evening of the same day. Sara sat down in the quaint old salon, -in the flickering firelight. There was an open English grate in which -pine-logs were burnt, for the appearance of comfort; and there was -likewise a porcelain stove to produce the reality of it. She had sent -away the servant who came with lights, saying she would ring when she -wanted them; and now, with her cheek propped on her hand, she sat and -gazed into the fire–into the red map of the land of dreams. It was -indeed a vague, aimless dream in which she was lost; and yet there was -an undercurrent of passion about it, a solid basis to the vision. That -letter from Rio, which she had had that morning, which lay open in -her hands now, which she had just been reading, and which had wafted - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 260]</span> - -her on its thin pages away from this place altogether. She pictured -to herself tropical climes and South American forests. Could he be -perhaps wandering with his friend in the solemn, desolate splendour -and luxuriance of such a forest, even now? At least, wherever he was, -he was hundreds of leagues away from her. She had visions of stately -vessels borne onwards by soft south-western gales–gentle gales. -So, equally, she could see, in the map that was constantly changing -its boundaries by a process of crumbling, visions of fair and busy -cities–foreign cities, full of pleasure and gaiety, most beautiful to -behold, but all a very long way off–hundreds, yea, thousands of miles -away.</p> - -<p>The great distance, the feeling that if anyone asked her, ‘Where is he -now?’ she could only answer, ‘I know not!’ weighed her down with an -unspeakable despondency. Then, like a flash of fire across this chill - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 261]</span> - -mood of resignation, darted a longing, intense and uncontrollable, to -have him there, at that very moment. Oh, if he would but come! If he -would but come! Could he not understand the meaning her last letters -had tried to convey? Could he not read, ‘I love you,’ between the -lines? This intense, concentrated longing for the bodily presence -of some deeply-loved personality is a painful thing when one longs -and goes on longing in spite of the secure knowledge that no amount -of longing will bring that person to one. Thus it was with her. She -covered her face with her hands presently, and her heart throbbed. Did -he in this moment experience half of the same feeling? If she could -have thought it, she would have felt almost satisfied. But how could -he? She raised her head, and looked round the room–her favourite, -because it was into it that he had led her and Countess Carla, on that -far back, happy red-letter day whose full worth and meaning she had - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 262]</span> - -only within the last weeks began really to realise.</p> - -<p>‘Could not a miracle happen?’ she thought; ‘could not he have followed -quickly on the footsteps of his letter, and–but heaven forgive my -presumption! Why should such notice be taken of <em>me</em>?’</p> - -<p>Even as she thought it, a cloud seemed to come before her eyes; her -very breath to stop. Yet she was rising from her chair, advancing to -meet the ghost–to prove the miracle, which seemed to waver and flicker -before her eyes; if she touched it, if she stretched out her hand, -or found her voice, would it not melt away? Surely it would. He was -in South America. She unsteadily moved out a hand, as one who gropes -in the dark. But that was no ghost’s touch–no phantom fingers which -captured it, drew it, her other hand, all of her, into a close embrace; -nor was it any unearthly voice which said:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 263]</span></p> - -<p>‘The aberration conquered at last, Sara. Your last letter came -immediately after I had posted mine to you. I took it to mean that I -might come.’</p> - -<p>‘You understood, Rudolf, at last?’</p> - -<p>‘At last, thickhead that I am, I thought I understood.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said Sara, ‘when I saw you come in, I thought you were of the -same nature as a phantom–a dead man, who visited me last night, an -evil spirit which I exorcised by the use of your name. I thought I saw -your ghost, Rudolf.’</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[Pg 264]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTERSV_XII"> - <img src="images/p264_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak"><small>L’ENVOI.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_s_cap.png" width="80" height="80" alt="Decorated First Letter."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Six</span> months later -Jerome Wellfield was formally received into the Roman -Catholic Church, in the large chapel at Brentwood; and six years later -Nita’s child was sent to the college of that name, there to begin his -studies under the polished and accomplished supervision of the Fathers -of the Society of Jesus.</p> - -<p>Green wave the trees to this day over the river walk of Wellfield -Abbey, and placidly that stream flows past the ruined cloisters, and -under the wooded ‘Nab.’ The Abbey farms are as fat, and the Abbey lands -as productive now, as they were in the days of its proudest fame. - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 265]</span> - -Once, years after these things had happened, a carriage, with a lady -and a gentleman in it, drove through the village of Wellfield, over the -bridge, away from John Leyburn’s house. The persons in the carriage had -been to pay a flying visit to John Leyburn’s wife. As their carriage -drove slowly up a steep hill just outside the village, they saw below -them to the right the whole of the Abbey–the river, the avenue, even -the ancient, hoary front of the house, and the lawn before it. It was -a brilliant July evening, and they saw, slowly walking about that -garden, three figures–that of a tall man, who held the hand of a -slender, graceful-looking boy, whose face was turned towards his guide, -and beside them, the figure of a priest, who appeared to be speaking -earnestly, and who raised his hand now and then, as if to enforce his -argument. The two travellers looked long at this group, and at the -slender shadows they cast upon the dazzling green of the grass–as - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 266]</span> - -long as they could see it, until a bend in the road shut it all -abruptly from their view: and then they looked, each into the other’s -face.</p> - -<p>‘What a life! What an ignominious slavery!’ observed Falkenberg, with -more than a tinge of contempt in his tone.</p> - -<p>‘If he finds peace in it, Rudolf?’</p> - -<p>‘<em>He!</em> And what about the poor child whom your friend was telling us -about–what about his wife?’</p> - -<p>‘I have often asked myself that question, and I can find nothing that -gives me any answer to it–neither religion, nor irreligion, nor faith, -nor unfaith. I told you long ago that Jerome Wellfield was as a dead -man to me. And think of what he must feel himself dead to, before he -could come to this. But he had no deliverer.’</p> - -<p>They became silent until they drove into Burnham, from which town they -were to take the train to London, on their homeward way. This was the - -<span class="pagenum">[Pg 267]</span> - -last glimpse into Jerome Wellfield’s life which Sara ever obtained or -asked for.</p> -</div> - -<br> -<br> - -<p class="center">THE END.</p> - -<br><br> - -<hr class="r41"> -<p class="center small">BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD.</p> - -<p class="pend"> -<i>J. S. & Sons.</i><br> -</p> -<br> -<hr class="chap"> -<br> -<div class="tnotes"> -<p><span class="smcap">Transcriber’s Notes.</span></p> -<p> 1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical - errors.</p> -<p> 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="full"> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELLFIELDS ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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