As captured January 25, 2025

author: nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> 2025-01-25 04:59:55 -0800
committer: nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> 2025-01-25 04:59:55 -0800
commit: 8486e5f0acc526b4fcdf5b9f25902c3bb2db8e45 (patch)
tree: 46ffba63905dc1ccfbb97b208ec8ef5f8fafeee9
parent: 2cfda2b1fbb54eaee42dc8c7abdc0fa420f8333c (diff)
36 files changed, 22126 insertions, 11476 deletions
diff --git a/69489-0.txt b/69489-0.txt
index 86accaf..823a173 100644
--- a/69489-0.txt
+++ b/69489-0.txt
@@ -1,5138 +1,4769 @@
-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. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
-and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
-the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
-of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
-copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
-easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
-of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
-Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may
-do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
-by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
-license, especially commercial redistribution.
-
-START: FULL LICENSE
-
-THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
-PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
-
-To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
-distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
-(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
-Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
-Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
-www.gutenberg.org/license.
-
-Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic works
-
-1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
-and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
-(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
-the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
-destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your
-possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
-Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
-by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
-person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph
-1.E.8.
-
-1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
-used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
-agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
-things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
-even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
-paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this
-agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
-
-1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the
-Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
-of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual
-works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
-States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
-United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
-claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
-displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
-all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
-that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting
-free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm
-works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
-Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily
-comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
-same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when
-you share it without charge with others.
-
-1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
-what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
-in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
-check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
-agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
-distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
-other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no
-representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
-country other than the United States.
-
-1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
-
-1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
-immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear
-prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work
-on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the
-phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed,
-performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
-
-  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.
-
-1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is
-derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
-contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
-copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
-the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
-redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project
-Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
-either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
-obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm
-trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
-
-1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
-with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
-must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
-additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
-will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works
-posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
-beginning of this work.
-
-1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
-License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
-work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
-
-1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
-electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
-prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
-active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
-Gutenberg-tm License.
-
-1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
-compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
-any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
-to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format
-other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official
-version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website
-(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
-to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
-of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain
-Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the
-full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
-
-1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
-performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
-unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
-
-1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
-access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
-provided that:
-
-* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
-  the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
-  you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
-  to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has
-  agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
-  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
-  within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
-  legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
-  payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
-  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
-  Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
-  Literary Archive Foundation."
-
-* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
-  you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
-  does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
-  License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
-  copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
-  all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm
-  works.
-
-* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
-  any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
-  electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
-  receipt of the work.
-
-* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
-  distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
-
-1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than
-are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
-from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
-the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
-forth in Section 3 below.
-
-1.F.
-
-1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
-effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
-works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
-Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
-contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
-or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
-intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
-other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
-cannot be read by your equipment.
-
-1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
-of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
-Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
-Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
-Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
-liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
-fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
-LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
-PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
-TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
-LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
-INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
-DAMAGE.
-
-1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
-defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
-receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
-written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
-received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
-with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
-with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
-lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
-or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
-opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
-the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
-without further opportunities to fix the problem.
-
-1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
-in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO
-OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
-LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
-
-1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
-warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
-damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
-violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
-agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
-limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
-unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
-remaining provisions.
-
-1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
-trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
-providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in
-accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
-production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
-electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
-including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
-the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
-or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or
-additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any
-Defect you cause.
-
-Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
-electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
-computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
-exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
-from people in all walks of life.
-
-Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
-assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
-goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
-remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
-Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
-and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future
-generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
-Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
-Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
-www.gutenberg.org
-
-Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary
-Archive Foundation
-
-The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
-501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
-state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
-Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
-number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
-Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
-U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
-
-The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
-Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
-to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website
-and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
-
-Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
-Literary Archive Foundation
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without
-widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
-increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
-freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
-array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
-($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
-status with the IRS.
-
-The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
-charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
-States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
-considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
-with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
-where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
-DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
-state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
-
-While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
-have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
-against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
-approach us with offers to donate.
-
-International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
-any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
-outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
-
-Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
-methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
-ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
-donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
-
-Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
-
-Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
-Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be
-freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
-distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of
-volunteer support.
-
-Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
-editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
-the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
-necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
-edition.
-
-Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
-facility: www.gutenberg.org
-
-This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
-including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
-Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
-subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69489 ***
+
+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 69489 ***
diff --git a/69489-h/69489-h.htm b/69489-h/69489-h.htm
index 424f659..562b00d 100644
--- a/69489-h/69489-h.htm
+++ b/69489-h/69489-h.htm
@@ -1,6338 +1,5881 @@
-<!DOCTYPE html>
-<html lang="en">
-<head>
-    <meta charset="UTF-8">
-    <title>
-      The Wellfields, Vol.III, by Jessie Fothergill—A Project Gutenberg eBook
-    </title>
-    <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover">
-<style>
-
-body {
-    margin-left: 15%;
-    margin-right: 15%;
-    width: 70%;
-}
-    h1,h2 {
-    text-align: center; /* all headings centered */
-    clear: both;
-}
-
-.p1 {text-indent: 10%;}
-
-.p2 {text-indent: 5%;}
-
-.pend {text-indent: 65%;
-       font-size: 75%;}
-
-p {
-    margin-top: .51em;
-    text-align: justify;
-    margin-bottom: .49em;
-}
-
-.topspace6  {margin-top: 6em;}
-
-.small       {font-size: 75%;}
-.smaller     {font-size: 90%;}
-.large       {font-size: 120%;}
-.xlarge      {font-size: 150%;}
-.xxlarge     {font-size: 175%;}
-.xxxlarge    {font-size: 175%;}
-.xxxxlarge   {font-size: 250%;}
-
-hr.tb   {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%; margin-bottom: 1em;}
-hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;}
-.x-ebookmaker hr.chap { display: none; visibility: hidden; }
-hr.full {width: 95%; margin-left: 2.5%; margin-right: 2.5%;}
-hr.r41 {width: 41%; margin-top: 1em; margin-left: 29.5%; margin-right: 29.5%;}
-
-div.chapter {page-break-before: always;}
-h2.nobreak  {page-break-before: avoid;}
-
-table {
-    margin-left: auto;
-    margin-right: auto;
-}
-
-.tdl      {text-align: left;}
-.tdr      {text-align: right;}
-.tdc      {text-align: center;}
-
-.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */
-    /*  visibility: hidden;  */
-    position: absolute;
-    left: 92%;
-    font-size: smaller;
-    text-align: right;
-    font-style: normal;
-    font-weight: normal;
-    font-variant: normal;
-    text-indent: 0;
-} /* page numbers */
-
-.blockquot {
-    margin-left: auto;
-    margin-right: auto;
-}
-
-.blockindent20  {margin-left: 20%; width: 60%; margin-right :20%; text-align:justify;}
-.blockindent25  {margin-left: 28%; width: 60%; margin-right: 18%; text-align:justify;}
-.blockindent30  {margin-left: 30%; width: 40%; margin-right: 20%; text-align:justify;}
-
-.sig-left5    {text-align:left; padding-left: 5%;}
-.sig-left10   {text-align:left; padding-left: 10%;}
-.sig-left30   {text-align:left; padding-left: 30%;}
-.sig-left35   {text-align:left; padding-left: 35%;}
-.sig-left36   {text-align:left; padding-left: 36%;}
-.sig-left40   {text-align:left; padding-left: 40%;}
-.sig-left70   {text-align:left; padding-left: 70%;}
-.sig-left80   {text-align:left; padding-left: 80%;}
-
-.upper-case {text-transform: uppercase;}
-
-.center   {text-align: center;}
-
-.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
-
-/* Images */
-
-img.drop-cap  {float: left; margin: 0 0.5em 0 0;}
-
-p.drop-cap:first-letter
-{
-  color: transparent;
-  visibility: hidden;
-  margin-left: -0.9em;
-}
-
-/*=== Image drop cap === */
-
-img.drop-cap
-{
-  float: left;
-  margin: 0 0.1em 0 0;
-}
-
-.x-ebookmaker img.drop-cap
-{
-  display: none;
-}
-
-p.drop-cap:first-letter
-{
-  color: transparent;
-  visibility: hidden;
-  margin-left: -0.9em;
-}
-
-.x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap:first-letter
-{
-  color: inherit;
-  visibility: visible;
-  margin-left: 0;
-}
-
-img {max-width: 100%; height: auto;}
-
-.figcenter {
-    margin: auto;
-    text-align: center;
-    page-break-inside: avoid;
-    max-width: 100%;
-}
-
-.caption {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 5em;}
-
-/* Poetry */
-
-.poetry .stanza     {margin: 1em auto; font-size: 90%;}
-.poetry .verse      {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;}
-.poetry .first-line {text-indent: -3.2em; padding-left: 3em;}
-.poetry-container33 {margin-left: 33%; width:63%;}
-.poetry-container38 {margin-left: 38%; width:63%;}
-.poetry-container40 {margin-left: 40%; width:63%;}
-.poetry-container41 {margin-left: 41%; width:63%;}
-.poetry-container43 {margin-left: 43%; width:63%;}
-.poetry .indent2    {text-indent: -2em;}
-.poetry .indent6    {text-indent: 2em;}
-
-.x-ebookmaker .poetry {display: block;}
-
-div.tnotes {background-color: #eeeeee; border: 1px solid black; padding: 1em;}
-.covernote {visibility: hidden; display: none;}
-.x-ebookmaker .covernote {visibility: visible; display: block;}
-
-  </style>
- </head>
-
-<body>
-<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Wellfields, by Jessie Fothergill</p>
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-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 <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&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdl">&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdr">PAGE</td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">I.&#160;</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.&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdl">A CONSUMMATION</td>
-<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">16</a></td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">III.&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdl">CONSEQUENCES</td>
-<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">36</a></td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">IV.&#160;</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">&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdc">&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdc">STAGE V.</td>
-<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdc">&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">I.&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdl">SARA</td>
-<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_I">76</a></td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">II.&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdl">‘YES’</td>
-<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_II">89</a></td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">III.&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdl">IRREVOCABLE</td>
-<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_III">113</a></td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">IV.&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdl">DOUBTS</td>
-<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_IV">125</a></td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">V.&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdl">MEIN GENÜGEN</td>
-<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_V">145</a></td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">VI.&#160;</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.&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdl">WELLFIELD</td>
-<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_VII">185</a></td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">VIII.&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdl">JEROME</td>
-<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_VIII">207</a></td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">IX.&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdl">A MYSTERY</td>
-<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_IX">220</a></td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">X.&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdl">CAUGHT</td>
-<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_X">233</a></td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">XI.&#160;</td>
-<td class="tdl">GEFUNDEN</td>
-<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_XI">250</a></td>
-</tr>
-<tr>
-<td class="tdr">&#160;</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. &amp; 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&#8212;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&#8482; electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG&#8482;
-concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
-and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
-the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
-of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
-copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
-easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
-of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
-Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away&#8212;you may
-do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
-by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
-license, especially commercial redistribution.
-</div>
-
-<div style='margin-top:1em; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE</div>
-<div style='text-align:center;font-size:0.9em'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE</div>
-<div style='text-align:center;font-size:0.9em'>PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-To protect the Project Gutenberg&#8482; mission of promoting the free
-distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
-(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase &#8220;Project
-Gutenberg&#8221;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
-Project Gutenberg&#8482; License available with this file or online at
-www.gutenberg.org/license.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
-Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg&#8482;
-electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
-and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
-(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
-the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
-destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works in your
-possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
-Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
-by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
-or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.B. &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; is a registered trademark. It may only be
-used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
-agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
-things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
-even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
-paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
-Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works if you follow the terms of this
-agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg&#8482;
-electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&#8220;the
-Foundation&#8221; or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
-of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works. Nearly all the individual
-works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
-States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
-United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
-claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
-displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
-all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
-that you will support the Project Gutenberg&#8482; mission of promoting
-free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg&#8482;
-works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
-Project Gutenberg&#8482; name associated with the work. You can easily
-comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
-same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License when
-you share it without charge with others.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
-what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
-in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
-check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
-agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
-distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
-other Project Gutenberg&#8482; work. The Foundation makes no
-representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
-country other than the United States.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
-immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License must appear
-prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg&#8482; work (any work
-on which the phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; appears, or with which the
-phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; is associated) is accessed, displayed,
-performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
-</div>
-
-<blockquote>
-  <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-    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 <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>
-</blockquote>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work is
-derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
-contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
-copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
-the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
-redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase &#8220;Project
-Gutenberg&#8221; associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
-either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
-obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg&#8482;
-trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work is posted
-with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
-must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
-additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
-will be linked to the Project Gutenberg&#8482; License for all works
-posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
-beginning of this work.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg&#8482;
-License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
-work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg&#8482;.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
-electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
-prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
-active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
-Gutenberg&#8482; License.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
-compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
-any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
-to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg&#8482; work in a format
-other than &#8220;Plain Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other format used in the official
-version posted on the official Project Gutenberg&#8482; website
-(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
-to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
-of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original &#8220;Plain
-Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other form. Any alternate format must include the
-full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
-performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg&#8482; works
-unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
-access to or distributing Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
-provided that:
-</div>
-
-<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'>
-    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
-        &#8226; You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
-        the use of Project Gutenberg&#8482; works calculated using the method
-        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
-        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg&#8482; trademark, but he has
-        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
-        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
-        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
-        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
-        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
-        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
-        Section 4, &#8220;Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
-        Literary Archive Foundation.&#8221;
-    </div>
-
-    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
-        &#8226; You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
-        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
-        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg&#8482;
-        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
-        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
-        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
-        works.
-    </div>
-
-    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
-        &#8226; You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
-        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
-        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
-        receipt of the work.
-    </div>
-
-    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
-        &#8226; You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
-        distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482; works.
-    </div>
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
-Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work or group of works on different terms than
-are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
-from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
-the Project Gutenberg&#8482; trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
-forth in Section 3 below.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.F.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
-effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
-works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
-Gutenberg&#8482; collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg&#8482;
-electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
-contain &#8220;Defects,&#8221; such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
-or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
-intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
-other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
-cannot be read by your equipment.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the &#8220;Right
-of Replacement or Refund&#8221; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
-Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
-Gutenberg&#8482; trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
-Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
-liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
-fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
-LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
-PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
-TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
-LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
-INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
-DAMAGE.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
-defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
-receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
-written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
-received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
-with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
-with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
-lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
-or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
-opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
-the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
-without further opportunities to fix the problem.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
-in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you &#8216;AS-IS&#8217;, WITH NO
-OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
-LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
-warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
-damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
-violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
-agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
-limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
-unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
-remaining provisions.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
-trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
-providing copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works in
-accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
-production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
-electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
-including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
-the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
-or any Project Gutenberg&#8482; work, (b) alteration, modification, or
-additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg&#8482; work, and (c) any
-Defect you cause.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
-Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-Project Gutenberg&#8482; is synonymous with the free distribution of
-electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
-computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
-exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
-from people in all walks of life.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
-assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg&#8482;&#8217;s
-goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg&#8482; collection will
-remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
-Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
-and permanent future for Project Gutenberg&#8482; and future
-generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
-Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
-Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
-Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
-501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
-state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
-Revenue Service. The Foundation&#8217;s EIN or federal tax identification
-number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
-Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
-U.S. federal laws and your state&#8217;s laws.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-The Foundation&#8217;s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
-Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
-to date contact information can be found at the Foundation&#8217;s website
-and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
-Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-Project Gutenberg&#8482; depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
-public support and donations to carry out its mission of
-increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
-freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
-array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
-($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
-status with the IRS.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
-charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
-States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
-considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
-with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
-where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
-DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
-visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
-have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
-against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
-approach us with offers to donate.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
-any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
-outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
-methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
-ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
-donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
-Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
-Gutenberg&#8482; concept of a library of electronic works that could be
-freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
-distributed Project Gutenberg&#8482; eBooks with only a loose network of
-volunteer support.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-Project Gutenberg&#8482; eBooks are often created from several printed
-editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
-the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
-necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
-edition.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
-facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>.
-</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-This website includes information about Project Gutenberg&#8482;,
-including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
-Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
-subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
-</div>
-
-</div>
-</body>
-</html>
+<!DOCTYPE html>
+<html lang="en">
+<head>
+    <meta charset="UTF-8">
+    <title>
+      The Wellfields, Vol.III, by Jessie Fothergill—A Project Gutenberg eBook
+    </title>
+    <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover">
+<style>
+
+body {
+    margin-left: 15%;
+    margin-right: 15%;
+    width: 70%;
+}
+    h1,h2 {
+    text-align: center; /* all headings centered */
+    clear: both;
+}
+
+.p1 {text-indent: 10%;}
+
+.p2 {text-indent: 5%;}
+
+.pend {text-indent: 65%;
+       font-size: 75%;}
+
+p {
+    margin-top: .51em;
+    text-align: justify;
+    margin-bottom: .49em;
+}
+
+.topspace6  {margin-top: 6em;}
+
+.small       {font-size: 75%;}
+.smaller     {font-size: 90%;}
+.large       {font-size: 120%;}
+.xlarge      {font-size: 150%;}
+.xxlarge     {font-size: 175%;}
+.xxxlarge    {font-size: 175%;}
+.xxxxlarge   {font-size: 250%;}
+
+hr.tb   {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%; margin-bottom: 1em;}
+hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;}
+.x-ebookmaker hr.chap { display: none; visibility: hidden; }
+hr.full {width: 95%; margin-left: 2.5%; margin-right: 2.5%;}
+hr.r41 {width: 41%; margin-top: 1em; margin-left: 29.5%; margin-right: 29.5%;}
+
+div.chapter {page-break-before: always;}
+h2.nobreak  {page-break-before: avoid;}
+
+table {
+    margin-left: auto;
+    margin-right: auto;
+}
+
+.tdl      {text-align: left;}
+.tdr      {text-align: right;}
+.tdc      {text-align: center;}
+
+.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */
+    /*  visibility: hidden;  */
+    position: absolute;
+    left: 92%;
+    font-size: smaller;
+    text-align: right;
+    font-style: normal;
+    font-weight: normal;
+    font-variant: normal;
+    text-indent: 0;
+} /* page numbers */
+
+.blockquot {
+    margin-left: auto;
+    margin-right: auto;
+}
+
+.blockindent20  {margin-left: 20%; width: 60%; margin-right :20%; text-align:justify;}
+.blockindent25  {margin-left: 28%; width: 60%; margin-right: 18%; text-align:justify;}
+.blockindent30  {margin-left: 30%; width: 40%; margin-right: 20%; text-align:justify;}
+
+.sig-left5    {text-align:left; padding-left: 5%;}
+.sig-left10   {text-align:left; padding-left: 10%;}
+.sig-left30   {text-align:left; padding-left: 30%;}
+.sig-left35   {text-align:left; padding-left: 35%;}
+.sig-left36   {text-align:left; padding-left: 36%;}
+.sig-left40   {text-align:left; padding-left: 40%;}
+.sig-left70   {text-align:left; padding-left: 70%;}
+.sig-left80   {text-align:left; padding-left: 80%;}
+
+.upper-case {text-transform: uppercase;}
+
+.center   {text-align: center;}
+
+.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
+
+/* Images */
+
+img.drop-cap  {float: left; margin: 0 0.5em 0 0;}
+
+p.drop-cap:first-letter
+{
+  color: transparent;
+  visibility: hidden;
+  margin-left: -0.9em;
+}
+
+/*=== Image drop cap === */
+
+img.drop-cap
+{
+  float: left;
+  margin: 0 0.1em 0 0;
+}
+
+.x-ebookmaker img.drop-cap
+{
+  display: none;
+}
+
+p.drop-cap:first-letter
+{
+  color: transparent;
+  visibility: hidden;
+  margin-left: -0.9em;
+}
+
+.x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap:first-letter
+{
+  color: inherit;
+  visibility: visible;
+  margin-left: 0;
+}
+
+img {max-width: 100%; height: auto;}
+
+.figcenter {
+    margin: auto;
+    text-align: center;
+    page-break-inside: avoid;
+    max-width: 100%;
+}
+
+.caption {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 5em;}
+
+/* Poetry */
+
+.poetry .stanza     {margin: 1em auto; font-size: 90%;}
+.poetry .verse      {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;}
+.poetry .first-line {text-indent: -3.2em; padding-left: 3em;}
+.poetry-container33 {margin-left: 33%; width:63%;}
+.poetry-container38 {margin-left: 38%; width:63%;}
+.poetry-container40 {margin-left: 40%; width:63%;}
+.poetry-container41 {margin-left: 41%; width:63%;}
+.poetry-container43 {margin-left: 43%; width:63%;}
+.poetry .indent2    {text-indent: -2em;}
+.poetry .indent6    {text-indent: 2em;}
+
+.x-ebookmaker .poetry {display: block;}
+
+div.tnotes {background-color: #eeeeee; border: 1px solid black; padding: 1em;}
+.covernote {visibility: hidden; display: none;}
+.x-ebookmaker .covernote {visibility: visible; display: block;}
+
+  </style>
+ </head>
+
+<body>
+<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69489 ***</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&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdr">PAGE</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">I.&#160;</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.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">A CONSUMMATION</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">16</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">III.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">CONSEQUENCES</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">36</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">IV.&#160;</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">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdc">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdc">STAGE V.</td>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdc">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">I.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">SARA</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_I">76</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">II.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">‘YES’</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_II">89</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">III.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">IRREVOCABLE</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_III">113</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">IV.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">DOUBTS</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_IV">125</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">V.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">MEIN GENÜGEN</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_V">145</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">VI.&#160;</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.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">WELLFIELD</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_VII">185</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">VIII.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">JEROME</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_VIII">207</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">IX.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">A MYSTERY</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_IX">220</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">X.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">CAUGHT</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_X">233</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">XI.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">GEFUNDEN</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_XI">250</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</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. &amp; 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>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69489 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
diff --git a/old/69489-0.txt b/old/69489-0.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..800de5a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-0.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,5138 @@
+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. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
+and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
+the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
+of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
+copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
+easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
+of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
+Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may
+do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
+by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
+license, especially commercial redistribution.
+
+START: FULL LICENSE
+
+THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
+PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
+
+To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
+Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
+www.gutenberg.org/license.
+
+Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+
+1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
+destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your
+possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
+Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
+by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
+person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph
+1.E.8.
+
+1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
+paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this
+agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
+
+1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the
+Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
+of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual
+works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
+States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
+United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
+claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
+displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
+all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
+that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting
+free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm
+works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
+Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily
+comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
+same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when
+you share it without charge with others.
+
+1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
+in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
+check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
+agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
+distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
+other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no
+representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
+country other than the United States.
+
+1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+
+1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
+immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear
+prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work
+on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the
+phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed,
+performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
+
+  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.
+
+1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is
+derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
+contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
+copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
+the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
+redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
+either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
+obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm
+trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
+additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
+will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works
+posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
+beginning of this work.
+
+1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
+
+1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm License.
+
+1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
+any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
+to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format
+other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official
+version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website
+(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
+to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
+of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain
+Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the
+full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+
+1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+provided that:
+
+* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+  the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
+  you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
+  to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has
+  agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
+  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
+  within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
+  legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
+  payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
+  Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
+  Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
+  Literary Archive Foundation."
+
+* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+  you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+  does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+  License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
+  copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
+  all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm
+  works.
+
+* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
+  any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+  electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
+  receipt of the work.
+
+* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+  distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than
+are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
+from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
+the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
+forth in Section 3 below.
+
+1.F.
+
+1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
+Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
+contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
+or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
+intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
+other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
+cannot be read by your equipment.
+
+1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
+of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+
+1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
+with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
+with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
+lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
+or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
+opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
+the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
+without further opportunities to fix the problem.
+
+1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO
+OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
+LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+
+1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
+damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
+violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
+agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
+limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
+unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
+remaining provisions.
+
+1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in
+accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
+production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
+including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
+the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
+or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or
+additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any
+Defect you cause.
+
+Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
+computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
+exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
+from people in all walks of life.
+
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future
+generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
+Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
+www.gutenberg.org
+
+Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation
+
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
+U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
+
+The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
+Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
+to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website
+and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
+
+Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without
+widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
+DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
+state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+
+Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
+donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be
+freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
+distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of
+volunteer support.
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
+the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
+necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
+edition.
+
+Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
+facility: www.gutenberg.org
+
+This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
diff --git a/69489-0.zip b/old/69489-0.zip
index 0e8b11b..0e8b11b 100644
--- a/69489-0.zip
+++ b/old/69489-0.zip
diff --git a/69489-h.zip b/old/69489-h.zip
index 7024d22..7024d22 100644
--- a/69489-h.zip
+++ b/old/69489-h.zip
diff --git a/old/69489-h/69489-h.htm b/old/69489-h/69489-h.htm
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..f9544f4
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/69489-h.htm
@@ -0,0 +1,6338 @@
+<!DOCTYPE html>
+<html lang="en">
+<head>
+    <meta charset="UTF-8">
+    <title>
+      The Wellfields, Vol.III, by Jessie Fothergill—A Project Gutenberg eBook
+    </title>
+    <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover">
+<style>
+
+body {
+    margin-left: 15%;
+    margin-right: 15%;
+    width: 70%;
+}
+    h1,h2 {
+    text-align: center; /* all headings centered */
+    clear: both;
+}
+
+.p1 {text-indent: 10%;}
+
+.p2 {text-indent: 5%;}
+
+.pend {text-indent: 65%;
+       font-size: 75%;}
+
+p {
+    margin-top: .51em;
+    text-align: justify;
+    margin-bottom: .49em;
+}
+
+.topspace6  {margin-top: 6em;}
+
+.small       {font-size: 75%;}
+.smaller     {font-size: 90%;}
+.large       {font-size: 120%;}
+.xlarge      {font-size: 150%;}
+.xxlarge     {font-size: 175%;}
+.xxxlarge    {font-size: 175%;}
+.xxxxlarge   {font-size: 250%;}
+
+hr.tb   {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%; margin-bottom: 1em;}
+hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;}
+.x-ebookmaker hr.chap { display: none; visibility: hidden; }
+hr.full {width: 95%; margin-left: 2.5%; margin-right: 2.5%;}
+hr.r41 {width: 41%; margin-top: 1em; margin-left: 29.5%; margin-right: 29.5%;}
+
+div.chapter {page-break-before: always;}
+h2.nobreak  {page-break-before: avoid;}
+
+table {
+    margin-left: auto;
+    margin-right: auto;
+}
+
+.tdl      {text-align: left;}
+.tdr      {text-align: right;}
+.tdc      {text-align: center;}
+
+.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */
+    /*  visibility: hidden;  */
+    position: absolute;
+    left: 92%;
+    font-size: smaller;
+    text-align: right;
+    font-style: normal;
+    font-weight: normal;
+    font-variant: normal;
+    text-indent: 0;
+} /* page numbers */
+
+.blockquot {
+    margin-left: auto;
+    margin-right: auto;
+}
+
+.blockindent20  {margin-left: 20%; width: 60%; margin-right :20%; text-align:justify;}
+.blockindent25  {margin-left: 28%; width: 60%; margin-right: 18%; text-align:justify;}
+.blockindent30  {margin-left: 30%; width: 40%; margin-right: 20%; text-align:justify;}
+
+.sig-left5    {text-align:left; padding-left: 5%;}
+.sig-left10   {text-align:left; padding-left: 10%;}
+.sig-left30   {text-align:left; padding-left: 30%;}
+.sig-left35   {text-align:left; padding-left: 35%;}
+.sig-left36   {text-align:left; padding-left: 36%;}
+.sig-left40   {text-align:left; padding-left: 40%;}
+.sig-left70   {text-align:left; padding-left: 70%;}
+.sig-left80   {text-align:left; padding-left: 80%;}
+
+.upper-case {text-transform: uppercase;}
+
+.center   {text-align: center;}
+
+.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
+
+/* Images */
+
+img.drop-cap  {float: left; margin: 0 0.5em 0 0;}
+
+p.drop-cap:first-letter
+{
+  color: transparent;
+  visibility: hidden;
+  margin-left: -0.9em;
+}
+
+/*=== Image drop cap === */
+
+img.drop-cap
+{
+  float: left;
+  margin: 0 0.1em 0 0;
+}
+
+.x-ebookmaker img.drop-cap
+{
+  display: none;
+}
+
+p.drop-cap:first-letter
+{
+  color: transparent;
+  visibility: hidden;
+  margin-left: -0.9em;
+}
+
+.x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap:first-letter
+{
+  color: inherit;
+  visibility: visible;
+  margin-left: 0;
+}
+
+img {max-width: 100%; height: auto;}
+
+.figcenter {
+    margin: auto;
+    text-align: center;
+    page-break-inside: avoid;
+    max-width: 100%;
+}
+
+.caption {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 5em;}
+
+/* Poetry */
+
+.poetry .stanza     {margin: 1em auto; font-size: 90%;}
+.poetry .verse      {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;}
+.poetry .first-line {text-indent: -3.2em; padding-left: 3em;}
+.poetry-container33 {margin-left: 33%; width:63%;}
+.poetry-container38 {margin-left: 38%; width:63%;}
+.poetry-container40 {margin-left: 40%; width:63%;}
+.poetry-container41 {margin-left: 41%; width:63%;}
+.poetry-container43 {margin-left: 43%; width:63%;}
+.poetry .indent2    {text-indent: -2em;}
+.poetry .indent6    {text-indent: 2em;}
+
+.x-ebookmaker .poetry {display: block;}
+
+div.tnotes {background-color: #eeeeee; border: 1px solid black; padding: 1em;}
+.covernote {visibility: hidden; display: none;}
+.x-ebookmaker .covernote {visibility: visible; display: block;}
+
+  </style>
+ </head>
+
+<body>
+<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Wellfields, by Jessie Fothergill</p>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+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 <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&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdr">PAGE</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">I.&#160;</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.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">A CONSUMMATION</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">16</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">III.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">CONSEQUENCES</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">36</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">IV.&#160;</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">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdc">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdc">STAGE V.</td>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdc">&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">I.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">SARA</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_I">76</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">II.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">‘YES’</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_II">89</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">III.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">IRREVOCABLE</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_III">113</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">IV.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">DOUBTS</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_IV">125</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">V.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">MEIN GENÜGEN</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_V">145</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">VI.&#160;</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.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">WELLFIELD</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_VII">185</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">VIII.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">JEROME</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_VIII">207</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">IX.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">A MYSTERY</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_IX">220</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">X.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">CAUGHT</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_X">233</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">XI.&#160;</td>
+<td class="tdl">GEFUNDEN</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTERSV_XI">250</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr">&#160;</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. &amp; 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&#8212;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&#8482; electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG&#8482;
+concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
+and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
+the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
+of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
+copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
+easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
+of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
+Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away&#8212;you may
+do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
+by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
+license, especially commercial redistribution.
+</div>
+
+<div style='margin-top:1em; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE</div>
+<div style='text-align:center;font-size:0.9em'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE</div>
+<div style='text-align:center;font-size:0.9em'>PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+To protect the Project Gutenberg&#8482; mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase &#8220;Project
+Gutenberg&#8221;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; License available with this file or online at
+www.gutenberg.org/license.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
+destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works in your
+possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
+by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
+or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.B. &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; is a registered trademark. It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
+paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works if you follow the terms of this
+agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&#8220;the
+Foundation&#8221; or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
+of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works. Nearly all the individual
+works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
+States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
+United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
+claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
+displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
+all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
+that you will support the Project Gutenberg&#8482; mission of promoting
+free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; name associated with the work. You can easily
+comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
+same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License when
+you share it without charge with others.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
+in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
+check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
+agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
+distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
+other Project Gutenberg&#8482; work. The Foundation makes no
+representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
+country other than the United States.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
+immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License must appear
+prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg&#8482; work (any work
+on which the phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; appears, or with which the
+phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; is associated) is accessed, displayed,
+performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
+</div>
+
+<blockquote>
+  <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+    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 <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>
+</blockquote>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work is
+derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
+contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
+copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
+the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
+redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase &#8220;Project
+Gutenberg&#8221; associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
+either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
+obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
+additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
+will be linked to the Project Gutenberg&#8482; License for all works
+posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
+beginning of this work.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg&#8482;.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; License.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
+any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
+to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg&#8482; work in a format
+other than &#8220;Plain Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other format used in the official
+version posted on the official Project Gutenberg&#8482; website
+(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
+to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
+of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original &#8220;Plain
+Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other form. Any alternate format must include the
+full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg&#8482; works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+provided that:
+</div>
+
+<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'>
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+        the use of Project Gutenberg&#8482; works calculated using the method
+        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
+        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg&#8482; trademark, but he has
+        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
+        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
+        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
+        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
+        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
+        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
+        Section 4, &#8220;Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
+        Literary Archive Foundation.&#8221;
+    </div>
+
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
+        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
+        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+        works.
+    </div>
+
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
+        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
+        receipt of the work.
+    </div>
+
+    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
+        &#8226; You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+        distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482; works.
+    </div>
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work or group of works on different terms than
+are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
+from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
+the Project Gutenberg&#8482; trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
+forth in Section 3 below.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
+contain &#8220;Defects,&#8221; such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
+or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
+intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
+other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
+cannot be read by your equipment.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the &#8220;Right
+of Replacement or Refund&#8221; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
+with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
+with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
+lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
+or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
+opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
+the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
+without further opportunities to fix the problem.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you &#8216;AS-IS&#8217;, WITH NO
+OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
+LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
+damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
+violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
+agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
+limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
+unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
+remaining provisions.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works in
+accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
+production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
+including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
+the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
+or any Project Gutenberg&#8482; work, (b) alteration, modification, or
+additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg&#8482; work, and (c) any
+Defect you cause.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
+computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
+exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
+from people in all walks of life.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg&#8482;&#8217;s
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg&#8482; collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg&#8482; and future
+generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
+Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service. The Foundation&#8217;s EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
+U.S. federal laws and your state&#8217;s laws.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+The Foundation&#8217;s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
+Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
+to date contact information can be found at the Foundation&#8217;s website
+and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
+public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
+DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
+visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
+donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
+Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
+Gutenberg&#8482; concept of a library of electronic works that could be
+freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
+distributed Project Gutenberg&#8482; eBooks with only a loose network of
+volunteer support.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Project Gutenberg&#8482; eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
+the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
+necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
+edition.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
+facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>.
+</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This website includes information about Project Gutenberg&#8482;,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
+</div>
+
+</div>
+</body>
+</html>
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/club-rule.png b/old/69489-h/images/club-rule.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..92ffb6a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/club-rule.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/69489-h/images/cover.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..46040f3
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/cover.jpg
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/diamond-rule.png b/old/69489-h/images/diamond-rule.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..16397d9
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/diamond-rule.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/i_a_cap.png b/old/69489-h/images/i_a_cap.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..1fdf3f2
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/i_a_cap.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/i_e_cap.png b/old/69489-h/images/i_e_cap.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..330502b
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/i_e_cap.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/i_i_cap.png b/old/69489-h/images/i_i_cap.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..407ae96
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/i_i_cap.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/i_m_cap.png b/old/69489-h/images/i_m_cap.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b945d80
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/i_m_cap.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/i_o_cap.png b/old/69489-h/images/i_o_cap.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..887d9c8
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/i_o_cap.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/i_p_cap.png b/old/69489-h/images/i_p_cap.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..5a9da08
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/i_p_cap.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/i_s_cap.png b/old/69489-h/images/i_s_cap.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..041dc13
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/i_s_cap.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/i_t_cap.png b/old/69489-h/images/i_t_cap.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..d9c1f21
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/i_t_cap.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/i_w_cap.png b/old/69489-h/images/i_w_cap.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a7fbfd0
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/i_w_cap.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/leaves_rule.png b/old/69489-h/images/leaves_rule.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..9190787
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/leaves_rule.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p001_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p001_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b333c47
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p001_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p016_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p016_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..07897f3
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p016_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p036_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p036_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..07897f3
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p036_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p059_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p059_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..1181fdd
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p059_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p076_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p076_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..c519294
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p076_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p089_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p089_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b333c47
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p089_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p113_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p113_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a843342
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p113_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p125_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p125_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..551a61a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p125_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p145_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p145_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6b0731b
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p145_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p159_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p159_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..75851e4
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p159_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p185_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p185_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a843342
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p185_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p207_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p207_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..aac0c25
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p207_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p220_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p220_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ca79387
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p220_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p233_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p233_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..e41c190
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p233_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p250_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p250_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..cd408e0
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p250_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/p264_deco.png b/old/69489-h/images/p264_deco.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ac46dc8
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/p264_deco.png
diff --git a/old/69489-h/images/title.png b/old/69489-h/images/title.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..779733c
--- /dev/null
+++ b/old/69489-h/images/title.png
author	nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org>	2025-01-25 04:59:55 -0800
committer	nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org>	2025-01-25 04:59:55 -0800
commit	8486e5f0acc526b4fcdf5b9f25902c3bb2db8e45 (patch)
tree	46ffba63905dc1ccfbb97b208ec8ef5f8fafeee9
parent	2cfda2b1fbb54eaee42dc8c7abdc0fa420f8333c (diff)