diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-25 05:11:15 -0800 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-25 05:11:15 -0800 |
| commit | 010642eadde22f0646cfc515d1cc6aae7baec1ba (patch) | |
| tree | c5008499db0d59a4f361fce3233f5cebd4e8462c | |
| parent | 04881e72bc8f0dbd2acb6058b9d936062835f6fe (diff) | |
35 files changed, 17 insertions, 12151 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..79f12c6 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69498 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69498) diff --git a/old/69498-0.txt b/old/69498-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4692393..0000000 --- a/old/69498-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5441 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Wellfields, by Jessie Fothergill - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Wellfields - A novel. Vol. 2 of 3 - -Author: Jessie Fothergill - -Release Date: December 8, 2022 [eBook #69498] - -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_ and - bold text by =equal signs=. - - - - - THE WELLFIELDS. - - - A Novel. - - - BY - JESSIE FOTHERGILL, - AUTHOR OF ‘THE FIRST VIOLIN’ AND ‘PROBATION.’ - - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - VOL. II. - - [Illustration] - - LONDON: - RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, - Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen. - 1880. - - [_All Rights Reserved._] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CONTENTS OF VOL. II. - - - STAGE II.—_Continued._ - - CHAPTER PAGE - - VI. IN DANGER 1 - - VII. THE WORKING OF THE SPELL 47 - - VIII. THE FIRST OF BRENTWOOD 77 - - IX. ‘DON’T FRET’ 115 - - X. INDIAN SUMMER 133 - - - STAGE III. - - I. INTERMEDIATE 139 - - II. LEBENDE BILDER 149 - - III. THE SECOND MEETING 163 - - IV. HERR FALKENBERG’S FRIENDSHIP 185 - - V. THE LION AND THE MOUSE 206 - - VI. UNAWARES 221 - - VII. ‘AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS’ 229 - - VIII. FATHER SOMERVILLE GATHERS THE THREADS TOGETHER 249 - - IX. ABSCHIED UND RÜCKKEHR 264 - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -=THE WELLFIELDS.= - - -=STAGE II=—_Continued._ - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -IN DANGER. - - ‘Oh Death, that makest life so sweet! - Oh fear, with mirth before thy feet!’ - - -WHEN Nita and Jerome again arrived at the Abbey, they found that Mr. -Bolton had returned from Burnham, and that the midday dinner, which was -an institution in the family, was waiting for them. - -‘Have you settled anything?—has Nita helped you?’ inquired Mr. Bolton. - -‘Miss Bolton has been very kind indeed, and has probably saved me from -wasting a great deal of my small stock of money,’ replied Jerome. - -‘Ah!’ said Mr. Bolton, appreciatively, ‘that’s always something gained.’ - -He asked his daughter what she was going to do that afternoon, and Nita -said she was going to drive to the town of Clyderhow to do a little -shopping. - -‘Why Clyderhow? The shops in Burnham are a great deal better.’ - -‘Because I like the drive to Clyderhow,’ said Nita; ‘and there is a -wonderful milliner there. Aunt Margaret got a bonnet from her with five -ostrich tips in it, and a bird, and three bows of black satin ribbon, -and a great deal of velvet, for the sum of two guineas.’ - -‘So you go by the quantity of stuff you get for your money when you -choose bonnets?’ asked Mr. Bolton. - -‘Aunt Margaret does. She likes plumes. I thought I might perhaps find -something sweetly modest and simple, with one feather and one bow, and -a little flower or sprig for instance, for next to nothing.’ - -‘Is this shopping considered a secret service affair?’ inquired Jerome; -‘or may I go too, if I sit quite still while you are in the shop, and -promise not to look that way?’ - -‘I am afraid you would think it a great bore,’ said Nita quickly, as -her face flushed. - -‘I suppose it was because I love to bore and afflict myself that I -asked permission to go,’ he answered, with a smile. - -‘I shall be most happy to take you if you would really like to go. Will -you come too, papa?’ - -‘What an idea!—I hope not!’ thought Jerome, within himself, and Mr. -Bolton was obliging enough to say: - -‘I?—no. I never drive in the afternoon. I am going to my Italian, as -usual.’ - -But as the carriage was not ordered to be round until half an hour -after dinner, Mr. Bolton proposed to Jerome that they should take a -walk round the garden and have a cigar. Nita watched the two figures -as they paced together towards the cloisters. The elder man, with the -massive lines, broad, sturdy figure, somewhat below middle height, -but still imposing in its power and strength; the somewhat bowed back -and high shoulders; the round, bull-dog head, with its expression of -dogged determination. The younger—Nita leaned against the side of the -window and folded her arms, as she contemplated him with a strange -mixture of sensations. What a contrast to that dear familiar figure of -the man who was noted for his hardness and coldness to others, but who -was so gentle, so tender and indulgent to her, and to the few friends -who composed their small circle of intimates—a contrast indeed! The -new-comer was—unconsciously she recalled those lines in ‘Esther’— - - ‘He was a lovely youth; I guess - The panther in the wilderness - Was not more fair than he.’ - -‘The panther in the wilderness!’ That was an evil comparison; surely -he was good as well as beautiful. Was it really only yesterday that he -had arrived—not yet twenty-four hours ago? And how long would he still -be here? And what would the Abbey, everything be, when he was gone? She -turned hastily away from the window, and would not venture another look. - -The two men paced about the river walk for a time, till Mr. Bolton -asked: - -‘Do you know any of the people about here?’ - -‘I met an old acquaintance this morning—Father Somerville, from -Brentwood.’ - -‘Somerville! You know him? Is he any favourite of yours?’ - -‘As to that, I can hardly say. I like what I have seen of him, but know -very little of him. I fancy we have many tastes in common. He is a -cultivated man, who has seen the world, I think.’ - -‘Ay, ay! he’s clever, is Somerville, and attractive too, I could -fancy. I never let any of those gentry inside my house.’ - -‘No?’ said Jerome, indifferently. ‘I hope you have no objection to your -visitors knowing them, for I have promised to go and see him to-morrow.’ - -‘Oh, my visitors do as they please, I hope. So long as he does not -darken my doors, it’s all one to me what he does. Nita, I am thankful -to say, is not of an hysterical temperament, for all she is so -slight and delicate. She has never displayed any tendencies to being -over-religious, or going in for Ritualism or that kind of mummery; else -I should have had to send her to a good sharp school.’ - -‘Miss Bolton has never been to school?’ - -‘No; her mother died when she was two. By that time I was a rich man; -and as I knew I should never marry again, I took Nita’s education -into my own hands. She will inherit my money and my property; and I -have given her the education of a man of business. She will know to a -fraction what she is worth; and if she falls into any snares, it will -be with her eyes open.’ - -‘That is well,’ said Jerome, gravely, wondering a little why Mr. -Bolton, on so short an acquaintance, chose to discourse to him on this -topic. And with Father Somerville’s advice fresh in his mind, he felt -interested in that topic—wrongfully interested. - -‘Your daughter will marry some one who will administer her fortune -wisely, it is to be hoped,’ he said. - -Mr. Bolton sighed. ‘I suppose she must marry,’ he said, slowly. A girl -with that money ought to marry. One has heard of wealthy maiden ladies -of large property living alone, and exercising power over all around -them; but,’ he turned suddenly to Wellfield, ‘did you ever hear or read -of one, in real life or even in a romance, who was not unhappy? I never -did.’ - -‘I really don’t feel to know much about the subject,’ said Jerome, -feeling that they were skirting delicate ground, wondering more and -more that Mr. Bolton spoke thus to him, of all persons. - -‘Nita has told me about your sister, and your views about her,’ he went -on. ‘I like you for your behaviour, Mr. Wellfield.’ - -‘I?’ stammered Jerome, surprised. ‘Miss Bolton must have misunderstood.’ - -‘No. She told me you had a half-sister, to whose use you intended -to devote what money you had, while you sought for employment for -yourself. I like to hear of a man treating his sister in that way.’ - -Jerome was silent—surprised. He felt his tongue tied. His natural -impulse was to please, when his companion showed a predisposition to be -pleased. He felt a desire to say something which should still further -excite Mr. Bolton’s goodwill, and make him—Jerome Wellfield—feel on -still better terms with himself. But the thought of Sara Ford rose up, -and forbade him to do so. He continued his walk in silence. - -‘I have a proposition to make to you,’ said Mr. Bolton, suddenly. -Jerome turned to him with his lips apart, and a quick inquiring look -upon his face. Could it be that Father Somerville had the gift of -second-sight? - -‘It’s not a very brilliant proposition; and it is all founded on the -assumption that you know nothing of business; no book-keeping for -instance, no clerkship routine. Do you?’ - -‘No, I do not; I know absolutely nothing of those things.’ - -‘Well, if I found you capable—excuse my bluntness,’ he said, with -the same pedantic little air which characterised his speech—‘we -manufacturers are apt to be a little scornful of a want of practical -talent; but if I found you capable, and you would care to try, I think -I could find you some employment in my own office. But you would have -to begin by learning the very elements of your work from my book-keeper -and cashier. If you like to come over to Burnham two or three times a -week, for a short time, and try, you are welcome.’ - -‘You are very kind!’ said Jerome, astonished: ‘I have no possible claim -upon such——’ - -‘You do not in the least know my reasons for making you the offer,’ -replied Mr. Bolton, with a calm superiority that made Jerome feel -somewhat snubbed; ‘therefore, do not be in any haste to express your -gratitude. My book-keeper will soon turn you out a finished article, if -you are to be turned out at all.’ - -‘Sublime destiny! The gods might envy me!’ thought Jerome, within -himself; but he said: ‘I shall accept your offer with gratitude. I do -not know how I should have found anything, with my ignorance and my -utter want of influence.’ - -‘That’s right! And in the meantime take holiday till next week, and -enjoy yourself. There’s Nita’s phaeton going round, I see, and the -groom; I suppose she will be ready.’ - -With which laconical dismissal of the whole subject, he led the way to -the house again. - -Nita drove a high phaeton, with a spirited pair of roans. In answer to -Jerome’s suggestion that he should drive she looked so rueful that he -laughed, saying: - -‘If that is the case I shall be only too glad to _be_ driven. I am -indolent enough for anything.’ - -‘I am glad to hear it,’ replied Nita, taking the ribbons. Very soon -they were driving at a pleasant speed through the lanes leading towards -Clyderhow, whose ancient castle, on a mound, confronted them for a -great part of the distance. - -‘What does Mr. Bolton mean, when he speaks of “his Italian”?’ asked -Jerome, reflectively. - -Nita laughed as she flicked the roans lightly. - -‘Of course you would not understand,’ she answered. ‘Italian is papa’s -favourite weakness. Did you ever see anyone so unlike Italy as he is? -Poor old dear! He always used to read in the afternoons, and one day he -was perusing a little book aloud to me, and I was sewing. There came -some allusion to “the fiery domes and cupolas of the city of Dis.” He -asked me what it meant, and I told him about the “Inferno.” He said: -“That’s very fine—those fiery domes and cupolas. I must know some more -about it.” With which he took to studying Italian, and is now devoted -to it. It is very seldom that he fails to give a few hours each day to -it. He is translating the “Inferno,” in his rough, plodding way. I am -glad he finds something to amuse himself with, for he has had a sad -life.’ - -‘Sad? He has been unusually successful, has he not?’ - -‘Oh, in money-matters, yes. But my mother died just when he hoped to -give her everything she desired—and more. And he was—he was very fond -of her.’ - -‘I see! I might have understood that,’ replied Jerome; and then, after -a pause, ‘Mr. Bolton has been making very kind offers to me.’ - -‘Has he? What manner of offers?’ - -He told her. - -‘Do you call that a kind offer?’ cried Nita impatiently, as her face -flushed. ‘How could he suggest such a thing? Oh, really, how hard men -can be!’ - -‘Perhaps you think he should at once have placed the half of his -possessions at my disposal. Is it not better to be “hard,” as you call -it, than an idiot?’ - -‘Well, I suppose it is. But life is such a mystery.’ - -‘As how—I mean how exemplified in my case?’ - -Nita laughed with a little embarrassment. - -‘I never can explain things. But it is a mystery. You a clerk! What an -idea! You must feel it to be absurd, yourself, don’t you?’ - -‘I have not thought much about it. It has to be done. - - ‘“When land is gone and money spent,” - -you know.’ - -‘Pray what would your _sister_ say to it?’ - -‘Avice? Well, really, I don’t suppose she has any clear ideas as to -what clerks are, or do. If I told her I was going to be a tailor, she -would think it all right if I said so.’ - -‘Is she that kind of a sister?’ - -‘Yes,’ said Jerome, in perfect good faith. He imagined indeed that -Avice was that kind of a sister; essentially the right kind of sister. -Women ought all to be like that—blind to the faults of those they -loved—when ‘those’ were men. The men to work, the women to admire; the -workers to rule, the admirers to submit. It was a beautiful arrangement. - -‘I daresay it is very nice in her to be like that,’ said Nita, ‘but if -I had had a brother, I should not have been that kind of a sister at -all. I should have told him very plainly what I thought of his doings, -and if I imagined that he was degrading himself, I should have told him -that too.’ - -‘Would you, at the same time, have provided him with the means of -acting up to what you considered a higher standard?’ - -‘It is a _shame_!’ Nita burst out almost passionately, after a pause. - -How naïvely she showed her interest, Jerome thought, with a little -sense of pleased, flattered self-complacency. How delightfully natural -she was—and what a curious contrast to that woman whose proud lips had -already confessed her love for him: to Sara Ford! His heart suddenly -throbbed as he thought of her. Dangerous thought! He must not indulge -in it, and accordingly, to turn the conversation, he said: - -‘You have singular ideas on the subject of brothers and sisters, -possibly because the relation is purely a matter of speculation to -you.’ - -‘Oh no, it isn’t. Jack is my brother.’ - -‘John Leyburn?’ he asked, with a feeling of surprise that was not -altogether pleasant. Sooth to say, he had forgotten Leyburn for the -moment, and here he was suddenly cropping up again in a manner that was -obtrusive—thrusting himself in where he was not in the least wanted. - -‘John Leyburn—yes.’ - -‘Privileged young man! He seems to me, like most cousins, to make the -most of his advantages.’ - -‘What do you mean?’ asked Nita. - -‘He takes every opportunity of lecturing you. And you—well, you are -consistent, I must own; you do tell him very plainly what you think of -him.’ - -‘Of course I do! and as for John’s lectures, I am accustomed to them -by now. They mean nothing, except that we are great friends—more than -cousins; in fact, brother and sister.’ - -‘And how long, if I may ask, has the fraternity been superadded to the -cousinship—and the friendship? It makes a complicated relationship.’ - -‘It never was superadded. It has always existed—for me.’ - -‘Always?’ echoed Jerome, vaguely displeased. - -‘Yes, of course. I am nineteen, and John is twenty-eight. When I was -born, we lived at Burnham, and so did the Leyburns. Uncle Leyburn -married papa’s only sister, and was his greatest friend. They lived at -Burnham too, then. John was nine years old then, of course. The first, -or one of the very first things I can remember, is his showing me -pictures of birds—he is mad about birds, you know—and taking me by the -hand for a little walk, and playing with me in general. I suppose I was -about three years old then.’ - -‘And Leyburn twelve. He was that age when I knew him, sixteen years -ago. They had just come to Abbot’s Knoll. Yet I do not remember his -ever saying anything about you. Perhaps you occupied a smaller place in -his heart than you imagine.’ - -‘Oh no!’ said Nita, with calm conviction. ‘He never talks much about -things. He would not be likely to talk about me. He always gives his -mind to what he is doing at the moment; and when he was playing and -learning lessons with you, he would not talk about me. Besides, we -were still at Burnham. But he was always kind when he came back to me. -John taught me to read, and implanted in my mind that love of light -literature which he now pretends to deplore—the great humbug!’ - -Nita laughed a pleased little laugh, speaking of a tender affection for -the absent ‘humbug.’ The course which the conversation had taken grew -less and less pleasing to Jerome. He felt a strong desire to displace -John from his pedestal, or at least to make him, in vulgar parlance, -‘step down a peg or two.’ A spirit of perverse folly took possession of -him. Leaning a little forward, and speaking in a discreetly low voice, -mindful of the groom who sat behind, he rested his elbow on his knee, -and fixed his eyes on Nita’s face, saying: - -‘Then he has never given you cause to suppose that a sister’s affection -would hold a secondary place in his thoughts?’ - -‘You speak ambiguously,’ replied Nita, occupied in guiding her horses -through a very narrow lane. ‘Sister’s affection—secondary place! I do -not understand.’ - -‘Are sisters jealous when their brothers marry?’ - -‘Oh, I see! Certainly not, if they have any sense,’ was the most -decided answer; ‘they may be angry, you know, if the wife their brother -chooses is disliked by them; but if they have no ground for disliking -her, they would be selfish and foolish, simply, to be jealous when -their brothers married.’ - -‘You say John Leyburn is your cousin and your friend and your brother -all in one. Suppose he took it into his head to get married—he must be -lonely in that great house of his by the river.’ - -‘If John were to marry,’ repeated Nita, slowly and pensively. - -Her hands were fully occupied; for at this moment they were driving -down a steep hill, and the roans were fresh. She could not have hidden -her face, had she wished to do so. As her eyes met Jerome’s, a quick -flush rose on her cheek—a flush which grew deeper. - -‘If she cares for him, there can be no danger in my asking questions; -she is in no danger with me,’ thought Wellfield, with characteristic -indolence, and also with a characteristic wish to find out whether she -‘cared’ irrevocably for John Leyburn. And he said: - -‘If John were to marry—yes. What is to hinder him? Would his wife -consider him your brother? Would she see it in the same light, do you -think?’ - -‘She would be a very nasty girl if she did not,’ said Nita, with a -heightened colour and flashing eyes, ‘when I should do all in my power -to be kind to her.’ - -‘Oh, you would do all in your power to accomplish that? Then you would -not mind if John got married?’ - -‘I should mind it very much if his wife were such an odious woman as -you seem to think she would be. Stepping in and destroying——’ - -‘The friendship of a lifetime; breaking every social tie, and so -on. Let us put it in another light. Suppose he married, and married -some one of so generous a disposition as to wish him not to lose his -sister——’ - -‘I should not call that generous, but merely decent and reasonable.’ - -‘Well, he marries this decent, reasonable woman, and then you marry. Do -you think your husband would look upon John in the light of a brother?’ - -‘Mr. Wellfield, what strange questions you ask!’ - -‘Not at all. You would have to consider the subject when you married.’ - -‘But I am not going to be married. I know papa thinks I shall have to, -but I don’t intend it at all.’ - -‘Intentions have less than nothing to do with such a matter. When you -fall in love with some one, and he asks you to marry him, you will do -so of course, since you are neither a nun, nor a lunatic, nor in any -way a perverse or ill-conditioned person,’ he answered tranquilly, -while Nita looked at him in startled amazement, her heart beating -with the same strange sense of a thrilling new emotion as she had -this morning experienced. In all their nineteen years of brother and -sisterhood, John had never dared—was ‘dared’ the word to use? No—it had -never occurred to John to speak to her in such a manner as did this -man whom she had first met yesterday. Yet she did not feel resentment -towards him, though she tried to think she did, and answered as if she -did. - -‘How can you speak to me in that manner? As if I had no strength of -will—as if I were an idiot.’ - -‘Not at all; but as if you were, what you are—a woman, and a good one,’ -he replied. Then, before she could answer, he went on: ‘But I think you -want to shirk my question, Miss Bolton. You are afraid to look your -position fairly in the face.’ - -‘I don’t see it.’ - -‘You have not told me what you would do in case the man you married -refused, or was unable to see, John Leyburn in the pure white light of -brotherhood.’ - -‘I don’t see the use of discussing such wildly improbable -contingencies. But’—she suddenly burst into a laugh—‘if the worst came -to the worst, I should have to sink John to the rank of a friend and -cousin. He would have to—well, he would have to manage as well as he -could. But you are very unkind to shatter my little day-dream in that -way—so wantonly, too! You are the first person who ever cared to shake -me out of my pleasant delusion. I have always looked upon John as a -brother.’ - -‘Very pleasant for him, as I think I observed before.’ - -‘Why only for him, pray? I owe far more to him than he owes to me. -He has made me better and wiser than I ever should have been without -him; not that I am much to boast of in the matter either of wisdom or -goodness; but most of what little I have I owe to John. And then, he is -almost my only friend.’ - -‘Perhaps that is a matter in which I may find cause for rejoicing?’ - -‘_You!_’ echoed Nita, turning suddenly to him, and finding his sombre -eyes fixed upon her face. She turned her own quickly away again. ‘I -don’t understand,’ she said, a little confusedly. - -‘Yes, I; even I. If you had had many friends and many claims upon your -time and your attention, would you have had leisure to do all the -kind things you have performed for me in the short time since I came -here?—to think all the kind thoughts which I know you have thought? -Should I have been able to endure being under your father’s roof if I -had found you engrossed with others—looking upon me as an alien and -an interloper, instead of treating me as you have done? It would have -maddened me, I think. No; do not try to deny your own goodness. I have -felt it every hour since I met you; and to one in my position, every -kind thought and gentle action on the part of others is as another bead -added to one’s string of pearls.’ - -Nita was perfectly silent. Her under-lip quivered a little. Tears -rushed to her eyes and blinded her. She had kept up all along a brave -show of light-heartedness and carelessness; but Wellfield had laid his -spell upon her from the first moment of meeting him. So long as he -merely talked nonsense to her, she could appear indifferent. The moment -he touched deeper springs, her heart gave way, and her outward gaiety -collapsed. They were both absorbed—both in danger. Nita was struggling -to choke back her emotion; but the thought of this poor, proud, lonely -fellow at her side, disinherited, and grateful even for her goodness, -was an overpowering one. Wellfield himself was watching her with an -agreeable sensation of power. - -At this juncture, while Nita’s hands retained scarcely any hold on the -reins, they slowly turned a sharp corner in the road, arriving at the -summit of a hill, and were suddenly confronted by a panting, groaning, -snorting traction-engine, industriously toiling up the hill with two -huge trucks full of blocks of white stone; and urged onwards by its -engineer and stoker with loud phrases and ejaculations as if it had -been a living creature. - -Nita’s roans failed to recognise any kinship in this strange and -hideous monster. They shied, swerved, plunged for a moment; then -bolting, tore along the short space of level ground at the top of the -hill, and proceeded to rush at full gallop down the next incline. -Jerome saw that Nita turned suddenly pale, and set her teeth. She -knew what was coming, and he did not. She tightened her hold on the -reins, but the roans were young and strong and fresh; her wrists were -small and slender. They dashed round the first curve of the road, -and from Nita’s lips escaped a low ‘Ah!’ as they saw before them a -straight steep hill, at the bottom of which was a deep mill-dam, then -a mill-race, rushing swiftly along; a narrow stone bridge spanned the -stream at the foot of the hill, and on the opposite side rose another -hill as steep as the one down which they were tearing. - -Jerome quickly laid his hand on her wrist. Personal cowardice in -moments like this was not amongst his faults. - -‘Let them alone!’ said Nita, between her teeth. ‘They don’t know your -hand: you shall not touch them.’ - -Without a word, he put forth his other hand, broke her clenched fingers -apart, as if they had been straws, and took the ribbons from her hold. -The frantic animals felt a new hand—a firmer, but a fresh one, and for -the moment their terror increased. Down the hill they flew, and the -carriage swayed ominously to and fro. Jerome with a side-glance saw the -face of the girl beside him, white as death. She did not clutch at the -rail, or in any way try to hold herself fast, but clenched her hands -before her on her knees, and looked towards the mill-race—towards the -deep, green pool above the bridge and the foaming fall below it, and to -the grey-stone mill sleeping peacefully on the other side. - -Then Jerome perceived that, lumbering slowly towards them on the -bridge, were two large lorries, piled with bales of cotton goods, and -he knew that to run into them meant death. All the despondency he had -felt—all the wish to be rid of life and its unasked-for, uncalled-for -burdens disappeared, and only the desire to conquer this impending fate -remained behind. He found himself mechanically measuring either side -of the road, to see if there was no side-way—no escape from the end to -which they seemed to be rushing, and his hold on the reins tightened -and tightened till it grew to a strain in which he expended all his -strength. - -They were within twenty yards of the bridge, and as yet he had seen -no way out of it. He saw every slightest action of all around him, -and it recorded itself as indelibly upon his consciousness as if he -had had hours of leisure in which to observe it all. He saw how the -two stolid-looking carters suddenly became aware of the nature of the -position—saw them cast up their hands and run to their horses’ heads, -to pull them as far to one side as possible. - -‘Idiots!’ he thought, ‘as if that would do any good!’ and even as -he thought it, he perceived to the left hand of the road a square -embrasure, such as is found in the north of England frequently, though -I know not if they exist in the south. In such an embrasure the -stones are piled up which the breakers have to operate upon, and in -this particular one were piles of stones already broken: it was walled -round, and below the wall the bank of the field sloped steeply down. If -he could not rein in the horses, and they leaped the wall, the results -were not agreeable subjects of contemplation, but even they would be -less dreadful than the gruesome fate proffered by the mill-race and the -little stone bridge. - -He succeeded in turning the horses into the embrasure, and they, -confronted suddenly by a four-feet high stone wall, plunged madly, and -attempted to force their way out again. But the hand that held them had -at last mastered them. They were curbed. Dancing about in the narrow -space, they were forced to contain themselves, till the groom jumped -down, and one of the carters, coming forward, took their heads, and -Jerome was at last free to guide them back to the road, and to look at -his companion. - -Now that the danger was over she had broken down. Her face was buried -in her hands, and she was shaking with hysterical sobs. Jerome bent -over her, removed her hands from her face, and said in a gentle, -authoritative voice: - -‘Were you afraid? Look up! It is over now.’ - -‘Oh, my God!’ she gasped. ‘It was my carelessness. They want careful -driving, but they never shy if one keeps a firm hand, and I was not -holding them in at all—oh, I thought I had killed you!’ - -‘My dear child, don’t let that distress you!’ he exclaimed, still in -the same low voice. - -The two carters were now holding the horses’ heads, while the groom -looked to see if any damage had been done to the phaeton, and staring -with stupid, yet well-meant compassion upon the young lady, whose -agitation to them was quite accounted for, women not being reckoned -very courageous amongst such as them. - -‘Don’t, don’t say so!’ she exclaimed, in uncontrollable agitation. ‘I -shall never forget it. I thought I saw you in the water, drowning.’ - -There was an ominous sound as of an hysterical laugh mingling with her -sobs. - -‘You must control yourself,’ said he, composedly, ‘and get out of the -phaeton for a short time. We will walk about a little, and go into -the mill, and you can rest there.’ He jumped out, and took her hand. -‘Suppose you alight,’ he added, in a voice which was in reality a -command. - -Nita stepped slowly forth, and wavered a little as she touched the -ground. Jerome seated her on one of the stoneheaps, and then got into -the phaeton. The horses were now perfectly quiet, but trembling and -bathed in sweat. - -‘Thank you,’ he said to the men, giving them some money. ‘We need not -keep you any longer.’ - -‘Eh, but measter, thou tak’s it uncommon cool,’ said one of them, -apparently desirous of improving the occasion. ‘Dost know thou wert -nigh on being done for for ever in yon pond?’ - -‘I know all about it,’ said Jerome, soothingly touching the horses’ -necks. - -‘It were a mir’cle as thou comed na’ to grief o’er yon wa’, too,’ -pursued he; ‘them’s skittish critters, I reckon.’ - -‘Skittish or not, I can manage them, and worse than they are. Good-day, -friends. I am obliged to you.’ - -Dismissed thus curtly, the men were fain to move their lorries out of -the way, thus leaving room for Jerome, followed by the groom, to drive -the phaeton across the bridge and into the stable-yard of the corn-mill -on the other side of the water. He related what had happened, and soon -received the miller’s permission to leave the horses there for quarter -of an hour, until Miss Bolton was sufficiently recovered to proceed. -Then, leaving the man with the horses, he went back again to Nita, and -found her seated where he had left her, and sobbing still now and then. - -‘My dear Miss Bolton, you must try to control yourself, or you will -make yourself ill, and alarm your father needlessly.’ - -‘Alarm my father!’ she said, looking up; ‘what does alarm matter, after -that deadly fear? I tell you, I felt as if I saw your face sinking -beneath the pond there—all through me! Oh, it was horrible! It haunts -me.’ - -‘It is pure imagination. You were on that side, remember. Think what -would have been my feelings if I had had to go home and tell Mr. Bolton -that his daughter was drowned!’ - -‘It would have served me right. I knew the horses. I knew they shied if -one did not keep them well in.’ - -‘Did you? Well, you see, I managed to restrain them, even after they -had shied. Never mind my precious personality, I implore you. You are -safe!’ - -‘I—miserable little wretch that I am!’ exclaimed Nita, in so deep, so -profoundly bitter a voice that he was surprised out of all caution. - -‘Nay—that is a strange thing to say,’ he remarked. ‘It would never do -for poor old Wellfield to lose all its heirs. What would have become of -it if you had been drowned? For my sake, don’t talk in that way.’ - -‘Ah!’ she exclaimed passionately, ‘do not reproach me with that. Do -you suppose that I shall ever again have one moment’s pleasure in that -idea? After knowing you—what do you take me for?’ - -‘I take you to be nervous and unstrung, and over-anxious. And I am sure -it is my duty to get you home as soon as possible. Come! The carriage -is at the other side of the bridge.’ - -‘Oh, it is impossible to go in the carriage again. I will walk. I am an -excellent walker, and it is only four miles.’ - -‘And I?’ - -‘You will walk too, with me. The groom will bring back the carriage -when the horses are fit to come.’ - -‘And what if I think it better to drive, and make a point of your -driving with me?’ - -She looked up in some surprise, and found him calmly surveying her in -a manner which left no doubt as to his meaning. He was overruling her, -and he intended to be obeyed. She rebelled, momentarily. - -‘Really, you are very—my nerves——’ - -‘Are quite strong enough to carry you home, and point out to me the way -round by Clyderhow, which is the road I intend to take to Wellfield -Abbey. There is no reason why you should not do your shopping too,’ he -added, gently. - -‘Impossible!’ said Nita, in so decided a voice that he at once resolved -that it should, on the contrary, become possible. With the exercise of -power grew the delight in it. Cost what it might, Nita should go to -Clyderhow, and do her shopping, because he wished it. He knew perfectly -well that he had flirted with her, and had drawn her attention -from her horses. He knew that she would not have been wrong had she -reproached him with having caused the accident; but he was resolved -that, far from that, she should continue to accuse herself, and the -power and authority should remain on his side as before. - -‘Can you not trust me?’ he asked. ‘I will take great care of you. If -you refuse, I shall know that you are offended, and have lost all -confidence in me.’ - -His voice was soft, his accent gentle and caressing; the expression -on his lips and in his dark eyes had something in it partaking of -tenderness. It all subdued Nita’s reluctance, and laid her fear, as -it were, under a spell. Within the last day life and her own identity -had grown strange to the girl. She knew herself no more. But she still -hesitated, till Jerome said: - -‘By this I shall know whether I have lost your confidence or not. If -you let me drive you to Clyderhow, _I_ shall not forget to keep a firm -hand on the reins.’ - -Nita rose. ‘I will do as you wish,’ she said, with a tremor of the lip. - -‘Thank you, dear Miss Bolton,’ he replied, a tone of exultation in his -voice, as he drew her hand through his arm, and placing his other hand -upon it as if to steady her, he led her across the bridge to the mill. - -In a very short time they were in the phaeton, with Wellfield on this -occasion in the driver’s seat, and Nita, subdued and soothed, was -pointing out the way to him. - -They presently arrived in the main street of the town of Clyderhow, -when Nita made a last abortive attempt to escape from the shopping -expedition. But Jerome would not allow it. - -‘You are quite recovered,’ he said. ‘You are not going to faint. And -you said you wanted a bonnet like your aunt’s, with five ostrich -feathers in it.’ - -‘I never did!’ cried Nita, indignation getting the better of -reluctance. ‘I think Aunt Margaret’s taste in bonnets is horrible.’ - -‘Well, which is the shop? I shall consider myself entitled to go in and -preside over the purchase, under the circumstances.’ - -‘That is the shop at the end of the street, if you will go. But I am in -no state to buy bonnets.’ - -‘No?’ he said, looking at her, intently. ‘I should have thought—well, -you do look a little pale, perhaps. But I shall be able to tell you -what suits you. Here we are.’ - -He handed her out, and pushing open the shop-door, he stood by for her -to pass: then followed, saw her sudden start and recoil, and heard the -exclamation: - -‘Aunt Margaret!’ - -‘The deuce!’ murmured Jerome, discomfited for the moment; but instantly -recovering himself, he too advanced, and, like Nita, confronted Miss -Margaret Shuttleworth. - -She looked very stern and terrible. She was standing upright before -a tall glass, attired in the full panoply requisite for a visit to -town—perfectly upright, and perfectly self-possessed. One article only -of her attire was wanting, and that was her bonnet, which lay on a -chair hard by, while over her straight grey hair was visible a little -black silk cap, such as elderly ladies wear, or did wear, beneath their -bonnets—and which cap, when not yet covered by the superior headdress, -imparts a look of hardness to the gentlest countenance. Its effect upon -the severe features of Miss Shuttleworth gave an additional terror to -her glance, and additional sternness to her eye. A slight young woman -held in her hand a bonnet, which she was apparently about to place upon -Miss Shuttleworth’s head, when that lady, with a wave of the hand, -stopped her, and replied to Nita’s astonished exclamation: - -‘Yes, it is Aunt Margaret. What of that?’ - -‘Nothing, aunt dear. But I was so astonished to see you. I thought you -had got a bonnet.’ - -‘So I had, but it does not suit me. Put it on now,’ to the young woman, -who trembled visibly, but who obeyed at once. - -It was undoubtedly _the_ bonnet, and it sat upon Miss Shuttleworth’s -head like a plume upon a hearse. No other comparison is for a moment -admissible. Slowly, and with dignity, she turned her head this way and -that; and before formulating her objections, condescended to greet -Wellfield. - -‘Good-afternoon, Mr. Wellfield. Have you come to help my niece to -choose a bonnet?’ - -‘Yes,’ said Jerome, composedly. - -‘I am sure you look as if you would give her valuable assistance in -such a matter,’ was the reply, ambiguous in its nature. Was it to -be considered complimentary, or otherwise? Jerome, with a gravity -as imperturbable as her own, said he should feel highly honoured if -he could be of any use to Miss Shuttleworth in the same matter. She -turned away with a jerk. Having always had a monopoly in the sphere of -disagreeable, if dubious remarks, she did not appreciate this intrusion -on a province peculiarly her own. - -‘Nita,’ she said, sharply, ‘don’t you see what is wrong with this -bonnet? It’s like a plume on a hearse.’ - -‘It suits you admirably, Miss Shuttleworth,’ said Jerome, blandly. - -‘You must alter the feathers,’ said Miss Shuttleworth to the young -woman; ‘you must make them lie flatter. You understand what I mean. -Otherwise I shall never enter your shop again. Now, Nita,’ as she -removed the bonnet, and reached her hand for her old one, ‘what do -_you_ want? Let us see whether, with Mr. Wellfield’s assistance, we -cannot find something suitable. Poor John never could have helped -anyone to choose a bonnet,’ she added, pointedly. - -Nita’s face flushed. Miss Shuttleworth continued to say disagreeable -things, and Nita to grow more and more embarrassed, and the more -disagreeable the one became, and the more confused the other, the more -utterly calm and self-possessed remained Jerome Wellfield; nor did he -allow a single sharp speech of Miss Shuttleworth’s to go unanswered, -nor did he abstain from paying a single compliment to Nita, in -consideration of the new and discordant element introduced. The whole -affair, a mere joke at the commencement, had grown more serious; for -Jerome’s manner, in proportion as he was goaded by Miss Shuttleworth’s -shafts, grew more _empressé_ towards Nita, while she, confused with -the danger they had passed through, intoxicated and bewildered by the -look which occasionally met hers when she encountered Jerome’s eyes, -anxious to conceal all her emotion from her aunt, scarcely knew where -she was or what she was doing. Nothing suited her: at last she threw -off a bonnet which the young woman had tried her on, and said hastily -and decidedly that she would call again another day. She was tired, and -could not decide upon anything then. - -‘Not even with Mr. Wellfield’s help?’ inquired Miss Shuttleworth, -blandly. - -‘As if Mr. Wellfield cared anything about bonnets!’ said Nita, sharply. -‘Can’t you see when you are being laughed at, aunt?’ - -‘Nita!’ ejaculated Miss Shuttleworth, in a tone of the utmost pain and -astonishment. - -But Nita was already on her way out of the shop. Jerome spoke to Miss -Shuttleworth: - -‘Miss Bolton is upset,’ he said. ‘We have had a serious accident, and -only just escaped with our lives. She is unnerved.’ - -‘I don’t understand it at all,’ said Aunt Margaret, all her pugnacity -gone, and looking as she felt, perfectly bewildered. - -‘I am sure Miss Bolton will explain later,’ he continued. Miss -Shuttleworth looked at him, as if wondering who and what he was that he -should thus take upon himself to make explanations; but with a stiff -‘Good-afternoon,’ she went out at the door, and he followed her. - -Nita saw her, and asked if she would not drive home with them. Miss -Shuttleworth was on the point of refusing with decision and asperity, -but something in her so-called ‘niece’s’ look caught her observant -eye—a weariness, a whiteness, a languor. She said: - -‘I don’t mind if I do. That’s to say, if you leave me in peace to the -back seat, for I hate the front one unless I know the driver.’ - -‘Sit where you like, aunt,’ was the reply, as Jerome came forward and -offered his help. - -But Miss Shuttleworth refused, and unaided clambered up to the back -seat, presenting a liberal allowance of very spare leg and white cotton -stocking to the enraptured view of Miss Bamford’s young ladies, who, -from the work-room on the second floor, were gazing down upon the -proceedings with the intensest interest, and speculating with a burning -curiosity as to who that gentleman could be who had driven up with Miss -Anita Bolton of the Abbey; who handed her into the phaeton with such -assiduous care, and bent over her with such a look of attention as he -spoke a word to her before driving off. - -‘He looks like a foreigner,’ and ‘He’s very handsome,’ were the most -definite and the most general conclusions arrived at. - -Meantime the phaeton drove off, and arrived at the Abbey without -further misadventure. Miss Shuttleworth intimated her intention of -coming in and staying supper. Jerome whispered to Nita: - -‘You will go upstairs and take some rest before supper, _for my sake_! -And I will find Mr. Bolton and tell him: no, I will not alarm him too -much. Do not fear. Will you promise to rest?’ - -‘Yes,’ said Nita, faintly, as he helped her down, and she and her aunt -went upstairs together. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -THE WORKING OF THE SPELL. - - ‘Not that the play is worth much, but it is finely acted.... But - that which did please me more than anything in the whole world was - the musique when the angell comes down; which is so sweet that it - ravished me.... Neither then nor all the evening I was able to think - of anything, but remained all night transported.’—PEPYS’ _Diary_. - - -REST and quiet, it seemed, were not to fall immediately to Nita’s -lot. She conducted Miss Shuttleworth to her room, and sat down in an -easy-chair while that lady made her slow and lengthy, if not elaborate, -toilette for the evening. - -‘What’s the meaning of all this, Nita?’ - -‘All what, aunt?’ - -‘This driving about with young Wellfield, and having accidents, and -losing your temper—_you_, of all people, and insulting your old aunt, -and looking miserable?’ - -‘I don’t know why you should seek to attach any meaning at all to it. I -was driving carelessly, when we suddenly met a traction-engine coming -up the hill; the horses bolted, and but for Mr. Wellfield’s getting the -reins into his own hands—but for his courage and coolness, we should -both have been dead now. Surely that is enough to unnerve anyone!’ - -‘Then if you were so unnerved, what induced you to go to the -bonnet-shop in Clyderhow?’ - -‘I overrated my strength, I suppose, and in the joy of being safe -imagined myself less shaken than I really was.’ - -‘Humph!’ - -Miss Shuttleworth went to the drawer in Nita’s wardrobe, which was -sacred to the caps she always wore at the Abbey. Looking through -her store, she carefully selected a yellow and green one; the most -intrinsically hideous and extrinsically least suited to her style of -beauty of any of the collection, and then she returned to the glass to -put it on. - -‘Don’t fall in love with Mr. Jerome Wellfield, Nita. Let him fall -in love with you if he likes; but don’t _you_ do it,’ she said, -deliberately. - -‘Aunt Margaret! do you want to insult me?’ she asked, sitting up, pale -and breathless with anger. - -‘Not at all. I want to warn you. He is very romantic-looking—reminds -one of Byron’s heroes, only more agreeable in general society than -they would have been; but depend upon it, my dear, it is all looks. No -Wellfield ever had a heart for anyone but himself.’ - -‘Oh, I am so tired of listening to that old story, aunt! You would not -say a good word for the Wellfields to save your life. Such constant -abuse makes one begin to take the side of those who are abused.’ - -‘Ah, I fear you are very far gone already!’ - -‘How dare you! How _dare_ you speak to me in such a manner! Pray, what -have you seen in my manner to Mr. Wellfield to make you assert such a -monstrous thing?’ - -‘Plenty, and I hear plenty more in your voice now,’ was the unmoved, -unwavering retort. ‘And all that an old woman like me can do, is to -keep on warning and warning. Don’t fall in love with him, Nita; for if -you do, it will bring nothing but disaster. He is not of the kind that -makes loving and faithful husbands.’ - -‘When you are quite ready, I shall be glad if you will leave me alone,’ -replied Nita, composedly; ‘or if you do not choose to leave me, I will -leave you, and go to some other room. I am tired, and want to rest -before I come down to supper. All that you say is utterly without -foundation, and it makes me very unhappy.’ - -‘That is odd, if it is without foundation,’ said Miss Margaret, -fastening on a huge lace collar with the utmost tranquillity. ‘I -will say no more to-night, but I shall consider it my duty to repeat -my warning at intervals. You are the only young relation I have, and -I should think it wrong to do less. All I say now, is, never marry a -Wellfield in the hope of happiness.’ - -With that she left the room. Nita was alone. Perhaps she rested; -perhaps not. She threw off her hat, pushed her hair back from her -aching temples, and buried her hot and throbbing brow in her hands. She -felt no inclination to weep now: only a kind of feverish, breathless -excitement, as the scene with the runaway horses again started vividly -up before her mind’s eye, and she could think of nothing else; could -only live over again what had seemed the long eternity of agony she -had felt as they rushed down the hill, before Jerome had succeeded in -turning the horses aside, and so saving them. It was a scene which -she knew would be present with her for days, perhaps weeks. Added to -that, the subtle inexplicable meaning in Wellfield’s eyes, in the -tone of his voice, and in the touch of his hand; then the home-coming, -and her aunt’s calm, monotonous, even-toned voice, as she repeated her -warnings—warnings, the remembrance of which made the blood rush hotly -to her face, then madly back to her heart, causing it to beat wildly, -and leaving her pale and trembling. She felt absolutely ill. Should -she send an excuse, and not go to the drawing-room again to-night? No; -certainly not. She would not let anyone see how foolish she was. If -she remained upstairs John would be uncomfortable, and would miss her; -her father’s quiet evening with the savages would be spoiled; her aunt -would wave her green and yellow cap-ribbons in triumph, convinced that -her warnings had taken effect, and Wellfield would think her a poor -creature, while she—would not see him, nor speak to him, nor touch his -hand again till to-morrow morning. She started up, and began to make -her toilette with unusual slowness and care, and with fingers which -she could not compel not to tremble. - -Downstairs she found, as she had expected, John Leyburn, as well as -Miss Margaret. They were all in the drawing-room, and supper was -announced before she had answered her father’s inquiries or sat down. -This gave her the opportunity of retaining his arm, and walking into -the dining-room with him. The meal seemed a long one. Nita was thankful -when it was over, and they went into the drawing-room again. Wellfield -did not immediately come there. He said he was going for a stroll by -the river, and he went out at the open hall-door into the garden. Mr. -Bolton was not a demonstrative man: he went to his accustomed table -with the reading-lamp, and took up his book. Miss Shuttleworth pulled -out a stocking, took a chair (a straight-backed one, as might have been -expected), and knitted, with a still rocky severity of countenance. -John was arranging cushions on a couch near the window. - -‘Come here,’ he said to Nita. ‘You are to lie down, and I will sit -beside you.’ - -‘I’m not tired,’ said Nita. - -‘Yes, you are,’ he replied, smiling his good, pleasant smile. ‘Come -here, or I put on my hat and go home this moment.’ - -‘Home! This is as much your home as any other place,’ she said, -complying with his behest. - -‘More, since my sister Nita is in it. There!’ he added, taking his -place beside her as she lay down, and gave a long sigh of relief; ‘now -tell me what you have been doing this afternoon.’ - -‘That you may give one of your favourite lectures, I suppose,’ -said Nita, smiling. But by degrees she told him the history of the -afternoon’s adventure, while it grew dark within the room, and their -voices sank lower, and Mr. Bolton read on, and Miss Shuttleworth’s -needles clicked, clicked, as if they went by clockwork. - -‘Oh, John! how ashamed I was! I could not look him in the face,’ -murmured Nita, at the end of this conversation. - -‘Ashamed—of what?’ asked John, in his slow tones, and looking at her -with his near-sighted eyes. - -‘Of my carelessness, my folly, which so nearly cost him his life!’ - -‘And you yours. I tell you what it is, Nita; it must have been a very -engrossing conversation that caused you to loose your hold on the -ribbons. Is it allowable to ask what it was all about?’ - -‘Partly about you,’ replied Nita, surprised into the admission by this -sudden appearance in John of an astuteness with which she had not for a -moment credited him. - -‘About me? What about me?’ - -She was silent. - -‘You won’t say—or can’t. Forgotten, perhaps. I wonder if Wellfield has, -too? I’ll ask him.’ - -‘He will have forgotten too,’ replied Nita - -‘I thought as much,’ said John, and silence fell upon them too. - - * * * * * - -Wellfield wandered beside the river into the fields—some broad, -pleasant, open fields where the river was wide, and formed a broad, -shallow, brawling kind of waterfall. To-night there was a full moon, -which, as night fell, replaced the day with a softer brilliance. -He mused as he walked, not with the heartbeats and the tumultuous -agitation which had shaken Nita, but with vague wonder, and a vague -repining. Why had he not known of all this reverse of circumstances a -few months earlier, before he had met Sara Ford and learnt to love her? -If Sara had not been there, imperiously commanding his love, how easy -it would have been to accept Father Somerville’s outspoken counsel, to -make love to Nita Bolton (this with a calm obliviousness or ignoring of -the fact that what he had done that afternoon was, if not love-making, -at least an excellent imitation of it), marry her, and once more -enjoy his own. It was now quite impossible, of course, and his little -experiment this afternoon had just sufficed to show him that had he -only been free, it might have been. He did not wish to be free—not -he! Who would wish to be free who was loved by Sara Ford? But surely -it was not wrong to picture what might have been if he had never met -her. He could not tell her of what might have been; but he wished she -could know it—could know what his love for her would stand, what hot -temptations, what fiery trials it would carry him through unscathed. - -And now, how to behave towards Nita? Of course he must not deceive her: -he must try to enlighten her on the subject of his engagement; it was -only fair. But not to-night: she was too shaken and unstrung to-night -to bear more excitement—he tacitly assumed that the revelation would -cause excitement to her—to-night he must be gentle and quiet, and let -her rest. So he argued within himself, the truth being that to Jerome -Wellfield it was very much easier and infinitely pleasanter to be on -good than on evil terms with a woman—with all women not absolutely -hideous, and that it was the most natural thing in the world for him -to treat any young woman, especially if she happened to be the only -one there, as if she were the object of his most special care and -attention. Then too, he felt himself welcome at the Abbey, and the -sense of this, and the luxury of the sympathy and commiseration, the -admiration and the pity which Nita with every look, every gesture, -every tone of her voice, offered to him, lulled him into a sensuous -inactivity—the kind of inactivity to which his nature was always -perilously prone. The pain of planning, and considering, and of conning -over adverse circumstances, was great. The pleasure of half-dreamy talk -with a woman whom some inner emotion made beautiful for the nonce, -and who he felt wore that passing loveliness because he had called it -there, and the pleasure of being worshipped, silently yet subtly, was -also great, and very much easier to him than the other alternative. -To-morrow, he thought, he would tell her about Sara; to-night he would -tell her about herself. - -He went into the drawing-room, and found the group which has already -been described. Nita’s little whispered dispute with John was over, -and she lay still. The window was open, and Jerome had entered by it. -The evening was warm, and at the Abbey in summer they never drew the -curtains; and from where Nita lay, they could see the trees outside -shimmering in the ghostly moonlight, and the hoary grey walls of -the cloisters beside the river, and nearer, all the stiff quaint -flower-beds, and clipped yews, and oddly-shaped shrubs and plants. - -Mr. Bolton, at the other end of the room, had a table and a little -oasis of lamplight all to himself, and was absorbed in a book of -travels. Nita was wont to say that her father was not happy unless he -daily made an excursion to Burnham _in propria personâ_; a descent -into Avernus with the assistance of Dante the immortal, and an -expedition in the evening into some unheard-of corner of the earth with -some traveller, whose tales she averred could not be too wonderful to -be credible; in fact, the more improbable, the better. - -Except Mr. Bolton’s reading-lamp, there was no light in the room save -moonlight; and the space was so great that the lamplight was lost in -the other rays. - -There was silence as Jerome came in, and just glanced at Nita’s pale -face, which looked almost ghastly in the white moonlight. He paused, -and asked her if she felt rested. - -‘Yes, thank you,’ replied Nita, with a little catching of her breath, -which John at least noticed. ‘I am all right, but John is a tyrant, and -says if I get up he will go.’ - -‘Quite right, too,’ observed Miss Shuttleworth from her corner. - -‘Would anyone like a light?’ asked Nita. - -‘Oh, don’t light up! This moonlight is heavenly. It only wants music to -make it complete,’ said John. ‘Wellfield, when you were a precocious -infant of eleven, at which age I last knew you, you used to play tunes -on the piano, and sing little Italian songs, which used to fascinate -me. Have you forgotten how?’ - -‘Not utterly, though I have no doubt fallen off from the first engaging -innocence of childhood.’ - -‘Well, won’t you give us a specimen,’ said the benighted barbarian—‘if -Nita is not too tired?’ he added, turning to her. - -‘I—oh no! if Mr. Wellfield will sing, I should like it,’ said Nita, -utterly unconscious that she was invoking the most powerful of the -weapons of fascination possessed by her hero, and anxious only to -preserve a little longer the friendly moonlight. - -‘Certainly, if one could ever sing at all, one would be able to do -so in such a place, and with such surroundings as these, observed -Jerome, carelessly, as he struck a chord or two. ‘Ah! your piano is a -Bechstein, Miss Bolton; you might have imported it on purpose for me. -All I stipulate is, that you will cry “Hold!” in a loud voice, when you -have had enough of it.’ - -He tried his hand with a half-forgotten impromptu of Schubert’s, -and with each bar that he played the old spirit came back to him. -He had not touched a note since the night he had sung to Sara Ford, -at Trockenau. Did he remember it? It may be so, but if he did, he -carefully abstained from giving any of the songs he had sung on that -eventful night. Perhaps the present audience were not worthy. At first -he did not sing at all, but wandered on through some strange, cobwebby -melodies of Schumann and Chopin—strange melodies, such as had probably -never before palpitated through that ancient room, since it was first -built, for an abbot’s refectory. At first he thought he would not sing -at all; but with the flow of sound, and the exercise of the beloved -art, the old intoxication and exaltation stole gradually over him. He -paused a moment, struck a couple of weirdly sounding minor chords, and -sang the strangely suggestive lines beginning: - - ‘O Death, that makest life so sweet! - O Fear, with mirth before thy feet! - What have ye yet in store for us? - The conquerors, the glorious?’ - -If he wished to recall to Nita’s mind their perils of the afternoon, -he succeeded most thoroughly in doing so. It all rushed over her mind -again, overpoweringly, and the whole truth of it. She knew as she heard -his voice that never, never had life been so sweet as when, the danger -over, she had seen Jerome Wellfield standing at her side, and had heard -his voice, though scarcely comprehending what he said. - -So he sang on, song after song; each one with fresh verve and fresh -pleasure—with a purer delight in the exercise of his power. Almost -at haphazard, he sang the songs and the _scenas_ which he best -remembered, just as they came into his mind—Faust making love to -Marguerite, and the Troubadour invoking Leonore; one little German -love-song after another—‘Du bist wie eine stille Sternennacht’ made -the tears rush blindingly to Nita’s eyes. John Leyburn still sat -beside her couch: he leaned back in his chair, and the music wrought -pleasant visions in his mind, together with a casual wonder whether -Wellfield had never thought of going on the stage, where his voice -would certainly have made him a fortune and brought him fame to boot. -‘But he would consider it degrading, I suppose,’ thought John. ‘I fear -he is an out-and-out Tory.’ Miss Shuttleworth ceased to knit, folded -her mittened hands one over the other upon her knee, and appeared at -least to listen. The green and yellow cap-ribbons were portentously -still, but no sign appeared upon her countenance of either approval or -disapproval. - -Mr. Bolton, who had at first scarce been conscious of what was going -on, slowly and gradually emerged from an imaginary career over the -arid plains of the Pampas, over which he had been in fancy galloping -madly, hotly pursued by a number of vindictive South American savages, -whose arrows threatened death in the rear, while before him was a deep -and rapid river, through which his exhausted horse must swim, if he -were to reach the territory of the nearest friendly tribe, alive. He -gradually awoke to the consciousness that music of no common order was -being made in his daughter’s drawing-room. He did not quite understand -it all—suddenly he heard Italian words which he recognised—passionate, -tragic words: - - ‘Per pietà non dirmi addiò! - Non dirmi addiò! - Dita priva chè farò? - Dita priva chè farò?’ - -He felt that they were beautiful; their passion and their fire stirred -the blood in his veins. He listened to the glorious end of a glorious -_scena_, and then he shut up his book and waited for more. Then it was -that Wellfield turned to something quite different, and sang: - - ‘Du bist wie eine stille Sternennacht, - Ein süss’ Geheimniss ruht auf deinem Munde, - In deines dunklen Auges feuchtem Grunde, - Ich weiss es wohl, und nehm’ es wohl in Acht, - Du bist wie eine stille Sternennacht.’ - -It is an exquisite romance, and he sang it to perfection. To Mr. -Bolton’s mind it brought, as well it might, remembrances thronging -fast of youth and love, and of a time when he had been young, and -when he had wandered through the lanes of Wellfield on his Saturday -half-holiday, or for his Sunday out, with a girl on his arm, whose -presence was his paradise. In short, Mr. Bolton soon, to his own -profound astonishment, found tears stealing from his eyes. He was -thinking of himself, and of his own far-back joys and sorrows; he -was in a twilight land, where he had long been a stranger—a country -which all of us know, and which yet none of us with bodily eyes have -seen—the country which is illumined by ‘the light that never was on -sea or land’—the country in which strange plants grow—dried flowers to -wit, and locks of hair tied up with faded ribbons, and bundles of old -letters—the kingdom of romance. - -Nita had changed her position; she had turned over on her side, with -her face towards the sofa-back, so that it could not be seen. Her -handkerchief was pressed against her mouth, her temples throbbed, her -eyes were closed. She lay quite still, save that now and then a slight -shiver shook her from her head to her feet. If it filled John Leyburn’s -good honest heart with sweet, vague dreams which he had never known -before, if it wafted her dry, business-like, prosaic father back into -a nearly-forgotten land of faery and of dreams, what did it not do for -her, attuned by nature as she was, to passion and romance? and how was -she ever to find peace or freedom again? - -The last thing that Jerome sung was Zelter’s glorious song, _Infelice -in tanto affani_. When he had finished it, when the last piercing, -heart-breaking notes had died away, the despairing - - ‘Ho, perduto! - Il mio tesoro! - Tuttu—tuttu fini!’ - -he rose quickly from the piano, and closed it, observing: - -‘I quite forgot myself. I am afraid I have been inflicting myself upon -you.’ - -John Leyburn rose too. - -‘What a lucky dog you are, Wellfield, to have that voice. Amongst more -impressionable people than the English, you could charm hearts away -with it, I am sure.’ - -‘I do not understand music,’ observed Aunt Margaret, rising also, ‘and -I am going.’ - -Mr. Bolton’s voice then came from afar, pedantic and particular as -usual. - -‘We are very much indebted to you, Mr. Wellfield. You have given us a -very great treat, and I sincerely hope you will favour us in the same -way on some other occasion.’ - -With which he pulled his lamp up to him again, and re-opened his book. - -‘Nita, I am going. John will see me home,’ said Miss Shuttleworth, -while John, stooping over Nita, remarked: - -‘My child, you appear to have collapsed altogether.’ - -Aunt Margaret had gone upstairs to take off the green and yellow cap; -Nita turned round, and sat up. Her face was pale, and there was an -expression of suffering upon it. - -‘I tell you what it is,’ said John, ‘you want a little fresh air, Nita. -Suppose you and Wellfield come with Aunt Margaret and me to the gate. -You are afraid to go alone, you know, being such a coward.’ - -Nita smiled faintly. - -‘Here’s a shawl,’ pursued John. ‘I’ll put it round your shoulders—so.’ - -She passively allowed him to fold the little cashmere about her -shoulders, and when Aunt Margaret came down, and handed John her -umbrella to carry, she called out: - -‘Papa, Mr. Wellfield and I are going to see the others to the gate.’ - -‘Folly!’ observed Miss Shuttleworth, casually, but no one took any -notice of her. They all went out at the window together, Nita with her -hand through John’s arm. - -They went lingeringly through the garden, and down the river walk -to the great cavernous gateway called ‘Abbot’s Gate.’ It was indeed -a glorious night, one in a thousand, perfect, still, and clear, and -around them was everything which can add to the glamour and beauty of a -moonlight night. - -They parleyed a few moments with John and Miss Shuttleworth at the -gate, and then it was shut after them with a loud resounding clang, -which echoed through the hollow archway. They were alone again. - -‘Draw the big bolt,’ said Nita, scarcely above a whisper, ‘then we -shall know it is safe.’ - -‘Safe from whom? Leyburn, or Miss Shuttleworth—or both?’ asked -Wellfield. - -‘From all—all evil things,’ answered Nita. - -‘Complimentary to them,’ he said, lightly, finding the big bolt, and -drawing it without difficulty. He knew it of old, and having pushed it -to its place, they stood within the dark space, and looked at the flood -of grey moonlight which bathed the river walk that stretched before -them. - -Jerome drew Nita’s arm through his, and they passed out of the darkness -into that moonlight. Nita turned her steps towards a small wicket, -leading by a nearer path to her home, and the drawing-room window. - -‘You don’t mean to go that way, and leave the river walk, and this -glorious moonlight!’ he exclaimed. ‘That would be a sin. It is not -late. Come this way.’ - -For a moment she wavered; then turned and went with him. - -Jerome did not confess it to himself, but down in the depths of his -heart he knew he was doing what was base. - -They went very slowly along the grassy walk, on which the dew lay like -grey gossamer in the moon-rays, and for a little time neither spoke, -till Jerome said softly: - -‘Will you trust me to drive you another day, Miss Bolton?’ - -‘I? Why not?’ said Nita, faintly. - -‘Will you promise to go out with me another day, that I may be sure you -have forgiven me my carelessness?’ - -‘I—is there anything to forgive?’ - -‘I think so. If I had not been talking sentimental nonsense to you, you -would not have forgotten to look after your horses, and then——’ - -‘Do not let us say any more about it,’ said she. ‘I shall never forget -it to my dying day, but I hate to think of it.’ - -‘It has shaken you sadly; but will you go out with me another day?’ - -‘Oh yes! To-morrow if you like.’ - -‘That is truly good of you,’ said he, softly. ‘Your shawl is not warm -enough,’ he added, stopping, as she shivered a little, and he altered -it and folded it more closely about her. As they stood there, his eyes -looked into hers, and by the moonlight he saw that hers were full of -fear, and that her face was white, and her expression one of pain. - -‘I ought not to have brought you out,’ he said, regretfully. - -‘No; I think I should like to go in again, please,’ said Nita. - -‘You shall, now that I know how good you are,’ he answered, lifting up -the hand that lay upon his arm, and stooping his beautiful head towards -it, he touched the tips of her fingers with his lips. ‘What a long time -it seems since we walked here this morning,’ he added, ‘does it not?’ - -‘A very long time,’ responded Nita, in a voice of exceeding weariness. - -They entered the drawing-room again, and Wellfield, speaking to Mr. -Bolton, said: - -‘I am sure Miss Bolton ought not to sit up any longer. She has been -more shaken than she will own by her accident this afternoon, and——’ - -‘Nita, say good-night, and go to bed,’ said her father, presenting her -simultaneously with a candle and a kiss. ‘Here, shake hands with her, -Mr. Wellfield. Good-night, child. Off with you.’ - - * * * * * - -Nita, locked in her room, began her preparations for writing. She had -inscribed the words: - -‘How much I have to record! What a day this has been! What a century -of events and emotions have been compressed into a brief and fleeting -fourteen or fifteen hours. And how little I thought when——’ - -She broke off abruptly, cast her pen down, and started from her chair, -pacing about the room; her hands before her face, and short, tearless -sobs now and then breaking from her lips. - -‘Oh! what shall I do?’ she whispered. ‘What will become of me? I -believe I had better have died before I had seen him. But if he loved -me—oh! if God would let him love me—what am I saying?... I am afraid. I -wish some one were here. I dare not be alone.’ - -She opened the door softly. On the mat before it lay Speedwell; he -raised his head, blinked at her, and moved his great tail up and down -slowly. - -‘Speedwell, come in!’ she whispered, beckoning to him. The mastiff -obeyed. Nita locked him into the room with her, and as he sat looking -up at her, inquiring why she was troubled, she cast her arms about his -faithful neck, and sobbed as if her heart would break. - -When the paroxysm was over, and she looked at him, tears were coursing -down Speedwell’s nose too. - -‘You will never tell anyone, will you, Speedwell?’ she muttered. ‘You -are wiser and stronger than your mistress, old dog and old friend.’ - -Speedwell watched beside the bed on which his mistress passed a -restless night; her brain full of the rapidly changing images of -alternating hope and anguish, rapture and despair and love, with which -her day had been filled. - -When morning came, and she looked in her glass, it showed her a very -wan, white face, with dark rings round the eyes, and a piteous curve -about the lips—a face changed indeed from that which, if not beautiful, -had given joy to many, and had hitherto been thought a sweet face by -those who loved and knew it best. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -THE FIRST OF BRENTWOOD. - - ‘I found myself in a richly adorned temple, in which incense was - burning, where lights were twinkling above the altar, and where the - music was such as to ravish away my very senses. And as I fell upon - my knees, the choir, which from its sweetness I could have thought - celestial, repeated many times in moving accents, the wish of my - heart—so that it became verily a prayer—and I poured out my soul in - unison—_dona nobis pacem_.’ - - -THE following day was Sunday, and on the arrival of the letters, Jerome -found two for himself, one bearing the Elberthal post-mark, the sight -of which made his heart beat. The other was directed in a hand he -did not know, but turning it over, he saw printed on the flap of the -envelope ‘Brentwood.’ - -‘It must be from Somerville, of course,’ he thought, opening it -quickly, and his conjecture was right. - - ‘MY DEAR MR. WELLFIELD, - - ‘Will you, if you have no other engagement, and if the evening is - fine, come up to Brentwood to the evening service? I should like to - present you to the Superior, and we shall be happy if you will remain - and sup with us. - - ‘Sincerely yours, - ‘PABLO SOMERVILLE.’ - -This invitation gave him a sense of relief, inexplicable, but strong. -With Father Somerville he felt entirely at his ease; felt that he was -understood, was not taken to be a hero, or anything else that he really -was not. Here, at the Abbey, he had the very opposite sensation. He -knew that he was looked upon in the light of an unusual and remarkable -phenomenon. He knew, for he had a keen, sympathetic intuition in -such matters, that Mr. Bolton treated him with a respect he was not -wont to show to strangers—especially penniless ones—that even Miss -Shuttleworth’s pointed and elaborate incivility arose chiefly from a -feeling she had that he was dangerous. John Leyburn alone appeared to -preserve his natural, deliberate, unembarrassed manner. - -Nita—Jerome felt very uncomfortable when he thought of Nita—very -uncomfortable as his eyes wandered from Sara Ford’s handwriting to -Anita Bolton’s face, which face he saw was pale, and the reason of -which pallor he knew as well as if some one had arisen and proclaimed -it aloud to him. They were all, without exception, under a false -impression in regard to him. How easy, exclaims a devoted adherent of -right-doing, to remove that false impression! How very easy casually -to let them all know that he was promised and vowed to another woman! -Was not the excuse there in the shape of Sara’s letter? Why not mention -that it was from the girl he was engaged to? What easier? Ah! what -to some natures? And to others what more difficult? Unfortunately it -was difficult to Jerome. He did resolve, as he looked at Nita that -morning, and saw the difficulty she had in meeting his eyes, that he -would not make love to her any more; that he would be cold to her even. -Such natures as his are given to making such resolutions in momentary -silence and reflectiveness; and when the moment comes for not making -love, for displaying coldness, they never recognise it; it is always -‘not now, another time!’ And this, not for fear of hurting a woman’s -feelings, though they would say so, even to themselves, but because -the flattery of a woman’s love is too sweet a dram to be forborne. It -was easy for Jerome Wellfield as he sat exchanging commonplaces at -the breakfast-table with Nita—and Nita’s father—to swear to himself -that such commonplaces alone should be the yea, yea, and the nay, nay, -of his entire conversation with her. When the moment came, in which -he found himself alone with her, or apart with her, the old trick of -the eyes, the old smoothness of the tongue slips back again, as if by -some fatality. So long as she believes him he will make love to her; -so long as she will worship him, he will accept the worship, and will -delight in it—and could not refuse it when it was offered, were the -alternative a plunge into the nethermost abyss of remorse—into the -scorching flames of discovery. Therefore, it may be predicted with -mathematical certainty that he will read that letter that lies before -him; that it will both charm and distress him—the first by its worship -of himself; the next by making him see that the writer believes him -as single-hearted as she is herself. After reading it, he will vow to -himself, much and more, ‘I must tell her—I will tell her.’ And he will -go to her, and will tell her—how precious her sympathy is to him, and -how perfect is her nature, and he will look love, if he does not speak -it. - -While he was longing to open Sara’s letter, and vowing great vows to -undeceive Nita as early as might be, she said: - -‘We are going to church this morning, Mr. Wellfield. Will you come too, -or would you prefer to stay at home?’ - -‘I will go with pleasure,’ he answered. Be it observed that in -Wellfield’s nature there was not, and never had been, one grain of -scepticism in matters religious. It is true he was utterly indifferent -so far as practice was concerned, and that, according to the company he -happened to be in, he would, for weeks or months at a time, either go -diligently to some place of worship once, or even twice each Sunday, -or never enter one at all, or even think of the matter. Where he went -was also almost entirely a matter of indifference, except that he never -frequented conventicles, not at all because he disapproved of the -tenets held by their supporters, of which he knew nothing, or less than -nothing, but because the services held in them were so bald and tame, -so ugly and ascetic; they appealed in no way to his æsthetic sense, -but rather repelled it. Anywhere where he could have a fine service, -hear fine voices read or intoned, and where there was good music in -which he could join, was acceptable to him, and all his life he had -wandered indifferently whither friends or fancy led him, to services -and churches of all kinds, but perhaps more to Roman Catholic ones -than to any others. As a small child he had always attended mass with -his mother, had learnt to say his _Ave Maria_ and his _Pater Noster_; -and these remembrances remained with him; part of the influences of -Italy. He remembered them as he remembered his mother’s dark eyes, and -gem-like brilliance of beauty—like a delicious dream of another world. - -All this, however, did not prevent his putting on his hat and walking -with Nita and her father down the river walk, across the field to -the church. They sat in the stalls, one row of which ‘went’ with the -Abbey property. How well he remembered it all. If the service were -not of the most elaborate or beautiful, there were other objects in -Wellfield Church which made up for a somewhat bald ritual. There was -for instance, much charm for an æsthetic soul in the magnificent carved -work of the splendid old black-oak stalls in which they sat, and in -the many other odd old pews and strange devices dotted up and down. -The singing was of a nature to make the blood freeze in the veins of -him who had any pretence to being a musician. The choir consisted of -a number of young men and women accommodated with seats in the west -gallery, a conspicuous position, close to the organ; and to do justice -to their exalted places, no doubt, they were in the habit of attiring -themselves in the very height of the Wellfield fashion, which fashion, -for brilliance of hue and boldness of contrast, would have put to shame -Solomon in all his glory. Jerome found himself seated next to Miss -Margaret Shuttleworth, who looked uncompromising. In the dim distance -he saw John Leyburn, alone in a great square carved oak pew, the pew -that belonged to his house, Abbot’s Knoll, for free and open benches -were as yet unheard of in Wellfield. - -The service over, they nearly all met at the door, as is the fashion -with country congregations. Jerome, having ascertained that the family -dinner did not come off for the space of an hour and a half, or more, -said he was going for a walk, and wandered off in the direction of -the wooded hill, the Nab, there to read his letter, and make good -resolutions with regard to Nita, with an undercurrent of wonder, all -the time, as to what Father Somerville would tell him he ought to do, -if he knew all the circumstances of the case. - -Nita and John Leyburn, not noticing where Jerome went, presently -strolled off in the same direction. Mr. Bolton remained with his -cousin, Miss Shuttleworth, patiently waiting till she had finished her -discourse with an odd-looking character, no less a personage than the -sexton of Wellfield church. - -‘I’m sorry to hear, Robert, that you got too much on Monday.’ - -‘I fear I did, Miss Shuttleworth,’ he said, looking rather sheepish. - -‘It is deplorable,’ said Miss Margaret, shaking her head. ‘How was it? -for your wife could give me no proper account of it, and unless you can -clearly prove that you were led away, I shall be obliged to show my -displeasure this time. I shall have to withdraw my allowance to Mary.’ - -Mary was his sick daughter. - -‘It were aw along o’ th’ brass band contest, Miss Margit; ’twere, for -sure.’ - -‘The brass band contest, Robert? I don’t see how the brass band contest -could make you get tipsy and tumble into the grave you were digging, as -I heard you did. Is it true?’ - -‘Ay, every word on ’t’s true, Miss Margit—more’s th’ pity.’ - -‘Shame on you! But how did it happen?’ - -He twirled his hat round by the brim, and a lurking smile and twinkle -of the eye betrayed his inner consciousness that the affair had a -ludicrous as well as a ‘deplorable’ side. - -‘Well, Miss Margit, I’d getten th’ grave above half-finished, when -I yeard th’ brass bands comin’ along to th’ Plough Inn, and it were -th’ middle o’ th’ arternoon, and I were summan (some and) dry, and I -were vary anxious for to hear who’d won, yo’ know, so I flings down my -spade, and I went off to th’ Plough, and theer I found ’em all—every -man on ’em. And we geet to talkin’, and first one offert me a drop, and -then another, till I geet to’ much—I’m free to confess it. I remembered -o’ of a suddent as th’ grave were to be ready again th’ mornin’, and -I jumped up, and ran to th’ churchyard, and set to work to dig wi’ a -will. And whether it was th’ heat—it _were_ gradely hot—or whether I -were fuddled, I know nowt about it, but I turned dizzy all of a moment, -and I tummled down, and fell fast asleep. Th’ graves were o’er yonder, -at th’ fur end o’ th’ yard, and mappen that were why no one seed me, -and wakkened me oop, but when I did awake, it were well-nigh dark, and -I couldna tell for t’ life of me, where I were. So I sets oop and looks -around, and there in the far distance I yeard th’ sound of a trumpet. -My heart louped to my mouth, and I thowt, “Robert Stott, it’s last -trump; up wi’ thee!” and I ups and clambers out, and stands still. -Ne’er a soul could I see, and aw’ were as still as death. Findin’ -mysel’ alone, I took courage, for I knew as the more part should be o’ -th’ wrong side i’ th’ day o’ judgment—our parson’s olez said so, and -I’ve a feelin’ as he’s reet. Then again I yeard th’ trumpet-blast, and -I looked around again. “What, no more righteous?” I said to mysel’. -“Eh, but it’s a poor show for Wellfield.”’ - -‘_Robert!_’ was all that Miss Shuttleworth could ejaculate, -horror-struck. - -‘Yes, Miss Margit?’ - -‘What you say proves you to be in a very unsatisfactory frame of mind -as regards religion.’ - -‘Well, ma’am, I’ve olez agreed gradely well with th’ owd vicar. It’s a -grand thing to be _reet_, Miss Margit—a grand thing it is—and _we’re_ -reet. I see my son-in-law a-calling to me, so I’ll say good-mornin’.’ - -With which, before she could stop him, Robert Stott had made good his -escape. - -‘Now, perhaps you’ll allow us to go to the Abbey, cousin,’ observed Mr. -Bolton, shaking in a volley of silent chuckles. - -‘I am astonished at you, cousin,’ was all the answer he received, as -Miss Margaret, with her head in the air, floated towards the wicket -leading to the Abbey. - -But her head suddenly went down again as she recalled her niece’s -words yesterday, ‘Don’t you see when you are being laughed at, aunt?’ - -‘Is it possible that Stott was laughing at me? Surely he would not have -such insolence!’ - -Pondering upon this tremendous topic, she had eyes and ears for nothing -else until Mr. Bolton observed: - -‘You’ll walk into the river, cousin, directly. Would you like to go in, -or shall we walk about till the young ones come back?’ - -‘Oh, they are all off, are they?’ she said, raising her head, and -collecting her faculties again. ‘That gives me just the opportunity I -wish for. Do you know what you are doing, Stephen?’ - -‘Doing? As how?’ - -‘In harbouring that young Wellfield in your house?’ - -‘I invited him to stay a few days, if that’s what you call -“harbouring,” cousin.’ - -‘Pooh! You know what I mean. Had you no thought for the probable -consequences when you committed that rash act?’ - -‘What do you mean by the probable consequences? At present they seem to -me to consist in my having become better acquainted with Mr. Wellfield, -and feeling considerable respect for him.’ - -‘Respect! respect for a Wellfield! I am astonished at you. _You_ have -become better acquainted with him; but not so well acquainted with him -as your daughter.’ - -‘My daughter—you mean that Nita admires him—or that he is likely to -fall in love with her?’ - -A fine sneer played about Miss Shuttleworth’s lips. - -‘He is very likely to fall in love with Nita’s money. As for herself, -no Wellfield ever cared for any person but his own.’ - -‘You are prejudiced, cousin, as we all know.’ - -‘Will you deny that when two people are thrown together as Nita and -that young man are likely to be, it is probable that nothing will come -of it on either side?’ - -‘It is not probable,’ he returned, quietly. - -‘Do you mean to say that you will allow Nita to fall in love with him, -and do nothing to prevent it?’ - -‘It is a matter I do not choose to discuss. There are other -probabilities on the cards besides the probability of Nita’s falling in -love with him.’ - -‘If that’s your way of looking at it, I’ve done,’ replied Miss -Margaret, mightily offended, and prancing onwards with her head higher -than ever. ‘Indeed, I think I will go into the house.’ - -‘As you please,’ he returned. ‘I am going to stroll about here for a -short time.’ - -Miss Shuttleworth stalked onwards in dudgeon. Mr. Bolton was left -pacing by the river walk. - -‘It is an odd complication,’ he was reflecting, ‘and it would be an -odd result if I should have toiled all these years to place my child -and this place into the hands of one of the old stock once more. But it -must be as will make the child most happy. As for him, he may make an -admirable gentleman of property and an excellent husband, but he will -never make money. He may learn sufficient of business habits to be able -to keep it together when it is there, but the business he conducted -would soon stand still. Still, if he is honest, and honourable, and a -gentleman in thought and feeling, as he appears to be, and the man who -will make my little girl happy—which I begin to think is the case—there -seems a sort of appropriateness in his being a Wellfield. It was -through no sin of his that he lost the place, and from all I can hear -he has been perfectly well-conducted. At least, I can see no reason -for forcibly separating them, and why should not my daughter marry a -high-born gentleman? She is worthy the best in the land.’ - -More meditations, all tending in the same direction—more pacing to -and fro, until, raising his eyes, he saw his daughter approaching, -accompanied by Jerome Wellfield. Nita’s eyes were bright, and there was -a soft flush upon her cheeks. She looked undeniably pretty. Wellfield -looked as he always did—handsome with a beauty which is given to few -men to wear, stately and high-bred more than most men. - -‘They make a goodly couple,’ thought the fond father. ‘She is a winsome -lass, and he—yes, by gad, there is something in birth and breeding. He -looks the right master for a place like this.’ - -With which jumble of fatherly pride, commercial astuteness, and prudent -calculation, he advanced to meet them. - -‘John has gone home to dinner,’ said Nita; ‘he’s coming down in the -evening.’ - - * * * * * - -Wellfield’s reflections, as he walked towards Brentwood, were far from -being agreeable. He had Sara’s letter, with its calm acceptance of -the fact that he loved her as she loved him—she spoke of it as if it -had been one of the ordinances of nature—unalterable as the laws of -the Medes and Persians. She showed him at the same time how very much -she loved him, and that stroked his self-complacency the right way; -but the other feeling chafed him. Inevitably, from his character, from -the inborn, inherited tendencies of his nature, he asked himself, -‘What right had she to accept so unquestioningly his love—to assume -that nothing could change it—nothing shake it?’ She little knew the -temptations that were cast in his way—temptations from which she was -free. He forgot how persistently he had pressed the point upon her. -What would she do in case some other man were to fall in love with -her, as he was almost sure to do? Yet, as he remembered her few strong -simple expressions of devotion to himself, the whole extent of his love -for her rushed over him; he seemed to be once more under the potent -spell of her individuality—of her noble, upright, simple nature; to -feel once more the magic of her beauty, which answered so harmoniously -to her nature, as some Beethoven symphony answers in the grand and -original carving of its outward form to the grand and original fire of -the thoughts which gave it birth—as the greatest poems take the most -perfect shape, and are written in the most melodiously arranged words. -Yes, he knew he loved her—he knew that all the higher part of his -nature loved and worshipped her; but he knew that she had clear eyes, -and that oppressed him; and he knew that had those eyes beheld him, as -he sat alone with Nita Bolton by the river that afternoon, they would -have scorched him; had they seen Nita’s downcast face, and watched her -embarrassed replies to some of his questions, or beheld the still more -embarrassed silence which had been to him so eloquent, they would—how -would they have looked? Never at him again with the light of love in -them. He no longer said to himself that he would tell Nita to-morrow: -he had gone too far for that. All he could do now was to drift. - -In this uncomfortable frame of mind he ascended the slope which led to -the gates of the drive through the park at Brentwood. Right before him -stretched a perfectly straight road, some quarter of a mile in length, -between two green meadows, each of which meadows was bordered by a belt -of dark firs. Many persons were, like himself, wending towards the mass -of grey buildings, and the great stone gate-posts, and the two huge -square fish-ponds, which lay at the end of this long road. A bell, too, -was tolling somewhere amongst the mass of buildings—some old, some new, -some not yet finished, which form the outward portion of the great -Jesuit College of Brentwood. Arrived at the entrance, between the two -fish-ponds, he inquired his way to the church, and was directed where -to go. Entering by a side-door, by some mistake, he found himself in -that portion of the church reserved for the students of the college. -Pausing, and looking round, he was accosted by a tall, grave-looking -‘philosopher’—a Spaniard, evidently—and, to judge from outward -appearances, no small personage by birth and breeding. Accepting his -offer of a place, Jerome found himself between the Spanish youth and -another foreigner in one of the front benches facing the high altar. -There was a dreamy calm over everything until the service began. The -congregation came slowly dropping in, chiefly rustics, countrymen, -women, and children, and here and there some group or isolated figure -of unquestionably higher rank and station. - -With the different stages of the service Wellfield forgot his troubles. -It brought back associations of youth and pleasure, of music and -student-days—associations in nowise connected with Wellfield, with -his present life and surroundings—rather it led him to forget them, -which he was only too willing to do. The ritual was gorgeous, the music -magnificent, the choir and the organist first-rate. It soothed him, -calmed him, eased him, as all such observances must soothe and ease -those who can accept the principles which give rise to them. On their -knees they knelt, and again and again sounded, in strains of exquisite -supplication, the great cry, common to all humanity—_Dona nobis pacem_! -Ay! give us peace; though every moment we are off our knees we may be -doing, thinking, planning, hoping that which will destroy peace, yet, -Power that we invoke, heed not that, but, since we fall on our knees, -and set it to music, and are for the moment in earnest—‘Give us peace!’ -It is a cry common to all; and those who pin their faith on creeds -imagine that it will be answered. Perhaps the conviction saves some -from madness, and others from blank despair—lulls some consciences, -shoots a ray of hope into some hearts—makes their lives bearable to -those who believe that peace comes from a source outside themselves—but -remains a delusion all the same. To-night, it had the effect of a drug -upon Jerome Wellfield’s conscience. _Dona nobis pacem!_ Surely there -would be some way ‘shown’ to him out of it all. _Dona nobis pacem!_ -This strife could not be meant to go on for ever. For once in his life, -he prayed—prayed from his very heart—‘Give us peace!’ - -Somerville, who took no part in the service, watched him curiously from -his place, in a somewhat retired corner. The keen-eyed, quick-witted -priest rapidly noted the points of resemblance between Jerome Wellfield -and his two companions. Both the latter belonged to old Roman Catholic -families, and bore names of world-wide celebrity; both were amongst the -eldest and most advanced of the students, and already showing signs of -manhood, in deep voices and a dark line on the upper lip; they might, -therefore, justly be compared with Wellfield. All three had the same -high-bred pride of bearing, the pale, rather disdainful, features; the -same distinctly haughty carriage of head and shoulders—to each and all -was common a certain dreamy _schwärmerisch_ expression, indefinable, -but palpable—an expression which any acute observer must have noted. - -‘Anyone coming in, and not knowing the circumstances,’ thought -Somerville; ‘knowing only that this is a Jesuit seminary, and that over -there the students sit, would inevitably say, “What a thoroughly Roman -Catholic-looking trio—especially that eldest one in the middle!”’ He -watched with more intentness still. Father Somerville was zealous for -his faith—he was ambitious too; he knew that in his Church services -of a tangible kind met with tangible rewards. To say that he then -and there formed a scheme, which he decided at all hazards to carry -out, would be to do a clever man egregious injustice. Simply, he had -a subtle brain and a natural turn for intrigue, which of course his -education and career had fostered. He saw possibilities—possibilities -which excited his active brain, and kindled his ambition and -imagination. - -‘They were Catholics before—till not more than a hundred years ago,’ he -thought. ‘His mother was Catholic of the Catholic. Why not Catholics -again, if anything? Who knows? Time will show.’ - -The service over, there was a sermon, and presently the congregation -broke up, and streamed out into the open air. The students marched off -in procession, and departed by a side-door. Somerville just paused as -he passed, to whisper to Jerome: - -‘If you will wait in the garden or on the playground, I will join you -in a few moments.’ - -And following this direction, Wellfield went out by the west-door, -and took his way to the broad space on the brow of the hill, which -seemed to form quite a little tableland in itself, and which was the -playground of Brentwood College. He paced about there, and watched the -crimson and purple pomp of the August sunset. It was a scene such as -one rarely beholds, rendered remarkable, too, by ancient historical -associations, and by the present fact, that, though within twenty or -thirty miles of all the great manufacturing towns and most powerful -radical centres of Lancashire, it was a Roman Catholic strong-hold; -in matters of religion a conservative nook, where change crept on -leaden foot. From this elevated vantage-ground Wellfield saw many -things associated with his own family and its history. There was the -ancient grey manor-house and church of Millholm; in which church was -a ‘Wellfield chapel,’ where ancestors of his had their marble tombs, -including that of the boy, the last direct heir male to Brentwood, -who had come to his death by eating poisonous berries in a wood. It -was after his death that Brentwood had passed into the hands of the -Jesuits. From his present standpoint he could see the three rivers, -each more beautiful than the other, which came very near to meeting, -and which had given rise to the old rhyme which Nita had repeated to -him yesterday: - - ‘Hodder and Calder, and Ribble and rain, - All meet together in Millholm demesne.’ - -To his right, eastwards, the immense bulk of Penhull closed up all -prospect beyond. Northwards were bleak Yorkshire moors. At the foot of -Penhull was the little conical mound on which stood all that was left -of old Clyderhow Castle. Southwards, the smoke-bedimmed moors round -Burnham, and Black Hambledon, showing out grimly against a background -of sky that mingled hues of copper and flame and smoke. And by scanning -intently the ground just below Wellfield Nab, and the course of its -river, he could discern where the village and Monk’s Gate stood. A -fair heritage, and it might have been his again, but for—— - -‘I am very sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Wellfield,’ said -Somerville’s voice at his elbow. ‘Will you not come into the house?’ - -‘Thank you. What a prospect this is!’ said Jerome, pausing, ‘and what a -phenomenon this place of yours, too; in this district of all others.’ - -‘Within call, you are thinking, of those centres of civilisation and -cultivation, Blackburn, Burnley, “proud Preston,” and even the monarch -of them all, Manchester,’ chimed in Somerville, a tinge of sarcasm in -his tones. ‘Yes, it is a phenomenon, I admit. I hope it did not bore -you to come to our service.’ - -‘Bore me? On the contrary, I have enjoyed it exceedingly.’ - -‘Won’t you come into the house? I want to present you to the Superior, -and you will remain to supper with us. Come and look at our libraries; -it will pass away an hour until we can see the Superior.’ - -Jerome followed him, and the hour that Somerville had spoken of was -passed agreeably enough, in wandering through all the wonderful rooms -full of wonderful things which the priest showed him. There was a quiet -stillness over everything—a Sabbath calm. The rays of the setting sun -made beautiful the great banqueting-hall of the old mansion, which -was now the principal refectory for a hundred and sixty students and -their accompanying tutors, priests, and professors. They wandered -through the libraries, whose cedar-wood bookcases filled the air with a -pleasant aromatic smell; and where one saw here and there a figure in -a square cap and a long cassock standing silent amongst the wilderness -of theology and black-letter in the one room—of patristic lore in the -second—of miscellaneous modern thought in the third. But to those who -know Brentwood, the repetition of its wonders waxes tedious—to those -who know it not, it must be tedious also. Wellfield did not know it, -and the charm which, when it was shown to him by so skilful an exponent -as Father Somerville, it was sure to cast over him, was a strong one. - -Indeed, it is a place which cannot fail to impress all who see it with -a sense of wonder and admiration—it is a little town in itself—a centre -of learned leisure, of Jesuit subtilty, of refined cultivation, of -courtly hospitality towards those admitted within its precincts, and -all this planted upon the slope of a bleak Lancashire ridge of hill, -facing another bare hill which divides it from one of the most radical -of radical boroughs. It was, as Wellfield had said, a remarkable -phenomenon. - -He was presented to the Very Reverend Father Superior. He was -courteously and graciously entertained at the simple but abundant -Sunday evening supper, and he heard and shared in conversation in which -he felt thoroughly at home—conversation adapted with skill and tact to -his own tastes and habits. He forgot his dilemma, until, when it was -almost ten o’clock, he rose to take his departure. - -‘I will accompany you for a part of the way,’ said Somerville, and -after wishing his hosts good-night, Jerome set out with the companion -whose influence he felt already to be strong, but which was in fact -far stronger than he knew, or would have liked to know—strong because -it was the influence of a calm, concentrated, yet flexible nature upon -one which, though variable was not flexible; though passionate, was not -strong. - -Still broad moonlight, they had no difficulty in making their way -through the scented lanes and between the tangled hedgerows. They -walked onwards, discoursing of different things, until they had left -Brentwood more than a mile behind, and found themselves at the top of -a hill, from which, looking down, they could see all the village of -Wellfield; its old church; the winding river, and the Abbey walls and -gates slumbering in the moonlight. They paused, and looked down upon it. - -‘It is very beautiful,’ observed the priest at last. - -‘God knows it is,’ responded Wellfield. - -Another pause, when Somerville laid his hand upon the other’s shoulder, -and said, in a slow, reflective, earnest voice: - -‘I wish to heaven that you were master there!’ - -Wellfield laughed a short, mirthless laugh. He knew what was meant, and -the impulse to speak freely was strong—so strong that he followed it. - -‘That will never be. You have some power of divination, I am certain. -Since your conversation with me yesterday morning, I have been -convinced that what you said is true. I _might_ be master there if -I—chose.’ - -‘Then why not?’ - -‘Because to do it, I must sell myself body and soul. It would be hell -upon earth for her—and for me too.’ - -‘But she is not a woman with whom it would be hell-upon-earth to live,’ -began Somerville, as if surprised. - -‘Heavens! no. She is all that a girl ought to be, I think, and good as -only such girls can be. It is not that.’ - -‘Surely you don’t stick at the fact that you are not desperately in -love with her? In your position that would be a folly of which I cannot -believe you capable.’ - -‘No; such an idea never entered my mind.’ - -‘Then, since we are speaking upon the matter—since you broached it -yourself, let me tell you seriously, that, if there is not any real -tangible impediment in the way, I think you do wrong in every way not -to take the goods the gods offer you.’ - -Wellfield was silent for a prolonged space, till at last he said, -slowly, reluctantly, as if the words were wrung from him: - -‘Honour binds me elsewhere.’ - -‘So! Another lady in the case!’ was the reply, given with a lightness -of tone, an absolute approach to a laugh, which surprised Wellfield, -and almost gave him a shock. He had expected his words to reduce -Somerville to silence to produce an apology for indiscretion. The -fact that nothing of the kind happened, had a subtle effect upon his -own mental attitude. Somerville went on, with a tact and an audacity -combined which were certainly remarkable: - -‘Pardon me, I ask no names—indeed, I would rather you mentioned none; -but tell me, if you do not very much mind, this lady to whom honour -binds you—is she rich?’ - -‘No.’ - -‘Is she likely to be?’ - -‘Not unless she becomes so by her own exertions.’ - -‘And there is no definite prospect of marriage for you?’ - -‘As you may suppose, none—not even an indefinite one.’ - -‘I could suppose so. Well ... remember I speak quite without knowledge -of the circumstances, but knowing exactly what I do—no more and -no less, I should say, I hope that lady is aware of what is being -sacrificed for her sake.’ - -Jerome was perfectly silent. Perhaps he was not conscious of acting -like a cowardly hound. He did not realise, for Father Somerville was -too clever to allow him to do so—he did not then realise that the woman -who was his promised wife had been lightly spoken of—to him—and he had -lifted neither hand nor voice in protest. - -‘That is my feeling,’ repeated Somerville; ‘but after this, I have no -right to urge you. But I repeat my words—I would to heaven that you, -Jerome Wellfield, were master here! Good-night!’ - -Wellfield wrung his hand, and took his homeward way. Somerville passed -slowly back towards the Brentwood Park, his hands clasped behind his -back, pondering, lost in thought, till at last he gave a sudden start -and stop. - -‘Fool that I am!’ he murmured. ‘Instead of giving up the marriage, I -should do all in my power to urge it on. This woman in the background -is——I wish she were out of the way. And yet, if I could marry them in -spite of her.... A man and wife who live together in a hell-upon-earth -_must_ have resort to a third person for help, and it should go hard -if _I_ were not that third person. Upon my soul, I like the scheme. -If Wellfield Abbey and the money of that insolent heretic who lives -there now were once more under the control of the Church—it would be a -meritorious act in whoever had brought it about—another jewel in Our -Lady’s shrine, and,’ with a faint, sarcastic smile, ‘a step upwards for -Pablo Somerville. The young man himself is a Wellfield. If I can make -him act for our advantage, by playing upon that self of his, it is easy -to bring out the whip afterwards, when he has gone too far to retreat.’ - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -‘DON’T FRET.’ - - -AUGUST was verging slowly towards September; the hues of the flowers -were more gorgeous and more autumnal; the foliage of the trees had -taken a soberer, more mature tinge. The weather was sultry and still, -as it is wont at that time of the year to be. - -One afternoon, Nita Bolton, book in hand, and Speedwell by her side, -paced slowly up and down the river walk, looking a little pale and -drooping. Always soon and easily tired; never of the strong, robust -temperament, she had looked of late more delicate than usual, and -when questioned as to the reason of her heavy eyes and pale cheeks, -had replied that ‘it was the heat—the sultry weather; the Abbey stood -so low; and the end of the summer was, she was convinced, the most -tiring and trying time of the whole year.’ She pooh-poohed all attempts -to make her neglect any of her usual duties, and attended to both her -outdoor and indoor tasks with unabated diligence; but the zeal, the -pleasure in them was gone. Then her father proposed that they should go -away on one of their usual tours—she and he and John—but Nita thought -she would prefer to wait until later in the year: Wellfield was so -beautiful now. When they did go away, she wished, she said, to go to -the Italian lakes, and in a month later it would be time enough for -that. Her word at home was a mandate, and her injunction was obeyed, -though John, in his slow and deliberate manner, did remind her that -there was a little touch of inconsistency between her two statements: -first, that the Abbey lay so low, and that this was the most tiring -and trying time of the whole year; and, second, that Wellfield was -nicer now than at any other season. To which she answered, a little -wearily, ‘How you quibble about things! I don’t want to go away from -home. I hate changes.’ - -Nita had always led a remarkably quiet life. Her friends in or about -Wellfield were very few; she had not a single intimate girlfriend. Her -father, and still more her cousin, John Leyburn, had always been her -greatest confidants. All things that a sister may say to and confide -in a brother whom she esteems and loves, and in whom she has the most -boundless trust and confidence, Nita had always been in the habit of -saying to and confiding in John Leyburn. His image was inseparable from -her scheme of life. She never saw him without a feeling of contented -pleasure—much the same feeling as that she experienced when Speedwell, -with a great sigh, came up to her, laid his great nose on her lap, and -looked with his honest brown eyes intently into her face. The idea of -life without John in it had never occurred to her. She was usually on -excellent terms with her father’s cousin, Miss Shuttleworth, knowing -her sterling worth; but her nature had not much real sympathy with the -sternly disciplinarian one of Aunt Margaret. Their terms were neutral. -The gaieties at Wellfield might be said to be—none. The Boltons visited -with none of the old families residing near the place; they were looked -upon, and they knew it, somewhat in the light of interlopers, which -fact had not troubled them much. - -It sounds, in description, a dull life; but Nita had never found it so, -hers being essentially one of those natures to which ‘peace at home’ is -the one thing needful. She did not care to seek distractions outside, -and no amount of distractions could have filled up the ache which would -have been there if she had felt that at home, in the background, -there was a jar, a quarrel, a dissension of any kind. Indeed, I am not -sure that there may not be duller things for a girl than to live in a -beautiful home which she loves, with human interests around her, not -many, but deep, with a good father, a good friend, and a good dog as -her chief and almost her only associates. Such a life Nita Bolton had -led now for seven years—a silent, still, uneventful life, but one which -she had always found sufficient, nay, delightful. Vague yearnings after -lovers, and devotion, and romance, had been singularly absent from her -thoughts. She had literally wandered - - ‘In maiden meditation, fancy free.’ - -Sometimes, after reading some very noble or beautiful poem, some very -striking and powerful novel, she had, it is true, wondered a little -if life was ever to contain any romance for her, and had thought -that such a romance would be pleasant. Then, being well endowed with -a certain shrewd, homely, common sense, she had often observed her -own reflection in the looking-glass, and had said to herself, ‘Nita, -my child, don’t flatter yourself that any man will ever fall in love -with you for your beauty; and if he should tell you he does, don’t -believe him. He might like you for some of your other qualities, if -he ever took the trouble to find them out, and no doubt many persons -might be found to love your money, and take you with it as a necessary -appendage; but I think you would do best to keep heart-whole, and not -marry anyone at all.’ - -She had been very contented in this prospect, though it must be owned -she had never contemplated the future without placing in it the figure -of John Leyburn in the character of ‘guide, philosopher, and friend.’ -Then her father had appeared one afternoon, with Jerome Wellfield at -his side, and from that hour Nita’s fixed and settled plans for life -were upset. - -That she should have cast aside her crude, untried schemes and fancies -when the man appeared whom she loved, in spite of all efforts not to -love him, was perhaps not surprising; indeed, there was perhaps nothing -very surprising in the whole matter. But, in every deep, intense, -and powerful love there are tragic elements, and those elements were -present in this love of Nita’s. Not the least tragic one was, that -though, as time went on, Wellfield said many tender things to her, and -looked unutterable ones; though she loved him as her life, and would -have hailed as a foretaste of heaven the conviction that he loved her, -yet she never had that conviction. She did not feel that he loved -her; she only felt that the things which she had seen she now could -see no more, that her peace and repose of mind were gone, and that -thus it must be, until he or she were no more. She felt that she was -living in an unnatural manner—in a dream; that the equilibrium between -outward and inward things had received a shock. She knew, though she -would not have put it in those words, that, sooner or later, that -equilibrium must be readjusted—that something would come to restore it, -that the restoration might take many shapes. There was the equilibrium -which means happiness, the continuous adjustment of outer to inner -conditions; there was the imperfect adjustment of those conditions, -which meant more or less of sorrow and suffering; there is the final -equilibrium—that great adjustment of outward conditions to inward ones, -which we call death. Any of these things might come to her she vaguely -felt as she paced beside the river walk, with Speedwell beside her, and -saw the swirling eddies of the river, and heard its gurgle, and saw the -dull, hazy, sultry blue of the sky above her, and felt the warmth of -perfect summer in every vein. - -Turning and raising her eyes, she saw Wellfield coming from the great -gateway towards her. He was on his way from Burnham, where he had been -trying to learn how to become a business man in her father’s office. - -‘Good-afternoon, Miss Bolton. I have brought you good news.’ - -‘Have you? What kind of news?’ - -‘The news that I am at last going to relieve you of my presence -here, which you must have thought lately was to become a permanent -infliction. I have just been down to Monk’s Gate. The men wish to -persuade me that it is not nearly what it ought to be, but I told them -it would do very well for me, and that I should have no money to pay -them with if they did anything else. I showed them exactly what I would -have done. They are to finish to-night, by working an hour overtime, -and I shall go there to-morrow.’ - -He had taken his place by her side, as if he were accustomed to walk -there; had deprived her of the book, which she had shut up, and of the -sunshade that she had been carrying, and now he looked down at her and -waited for her to speak. - -‘It—you—I think you have rather hurried them. Is it not rather a sudden -resolve?’ - -‘Sudden action, perhaps. But for more than a week I have been chafing -at the delay, and at the way in which I have been obliged to quarter -myself upon you here—a proceeding for which I have not the least -justification.’ - -‘Except that of having been often invited to remain as long as you -liked, or felt it convenient,’ said Nita, in a low voice. - -‘I know you and Mr. Bolton have been kindness itself, and I can never -be grateful enough to you.’ - -‘I don’t see why, I am sure. Who has so good a right as you to be here?’ - -He laughed. ‘If I were obliged to bring a lawsuit for the restitution -of my property, I should like you to be the defendant,’ he said. ‘I -should win in a canter.’ - -Nita was silent. - -‘At least, I shall not be far away from the Abbey,’ he went on, ‘and I -am glad of it. You will let me come up and see you, I hope, sometimes, -though I don’t hope for such privileges as Leyburn enjoys.’ - -‘John is like one of ourselves,’ said Nita, originally. - -‘And I am not. I know that, and am constantly reminded of it.’ - -‘Shall you send for your sister now?’ asked Nita. - -‘Not at once. I must wait till things are a little more certain. I am -getting on in my lessons at Burnham. I know how to do book-keeping now, -and your father has so much foreign correspondence that he says I shall -be of use to him.’ - -‘Do not speak in that way!’ exclaimed Nita; ‘you know I hate it.’ - -‘I only do it in the hope of making you see how reasonable it all is, -and how absurd it would be in me to expect anything else, and how -lucky I may feel myself.’ - -‘And how unlucky you feel yourself in reality,’ she replied. ‘Don’t try -to deceive me by talking in that way. Well, I hope you will like Monk’s -Gate, and that you will be—happy there.’ - -‘And I may come here sometimes?’ - -‘Of course.’ - -‘I shall invite you and Miss Shuttleworth to come and have tea with me. -I know Miss Shuttleworth honours that repast more than any other.’ - -Nita laughed a little dry laugh. - -‘We will be sure to come,’ she said, ‘and we shall expect toast and -teacakes, and then bread and butter. I hope you will see that the tea -is strong enough, and that your servant puts a clean cloth on the -table. I hope you like housekeeping on that scale.’ - -She spoke rather savagely, as if she took a delight in saying something -almost insulting to him. - -‘What do you mean?’ he asked. - -‘Only that I wonder you can talk in such a manner. I wonder you -can submit to such an arrangement. It is monstrous!’ she answered, -indignantly. - -It was Wellfield’s turn to laugh. - -‘You are hopeless—so unpractical—so heroic in your ideas!’ he said. -‘And there is your father coming. Pray don’t favour him with such -remarks as you have just made to me, or he may say that if I am too -good for my place I can leave it, and then I wonder where I should be.’ - -Nita was silent, her breast heaving. Mr. Bolton came up, and Jerome -repeated his news to him too. He received it with a calmness which his -daughter thought barbarous. They all three went into the house. That -evening ‘as it is the last,’ both Nita and Jerome said, he sang for -them again. John was not there, nor Miss Shuttleworth. The visits of -both had become less frequent. Jerome was not sorry, and Nita, carried -onwards by her changed state of mind, was hardly conscious of it. - - * * * * * - -She sat quite alone in the drawing-room, on the following evening. It -was Friday—a busy day with her father, who was in Manchester, attending -a meeting, and who would not return till the last train at night. -She had heard John promise to go to Monk’s Gate and sit an hour with -Wellfield—‘by way of a housewarming,’ the latter had said, with a -sarcastic little laugh. Miss Shuttleworth had a class of village girls -on this particular evening. Nita therefore found herself in the strange -and unwonted position of being absolutely alone. - -The stillness of the house grew oppressive to her, as the hours passed -by. It grew dark, and she sat alone. The day had been chilly and dull, -for the weather had suddenly changed, and the sun had not once during -the whole day shone out. Speedwell couched at her feet, and the lamp -was lighted and the shutters closed, to shut out the dark trees and -the shadowy garden. - -As she sat thus alone, feeling her heart very desolate, the door was -opened, and John Leyburn came in. - -‘John, you!’ she exclaimed, springing up and running to meet him—‘I -thought you were going to Monk’s Gate.’ - -‘So I am: on my way there now. But you didn’t think I should go without -looking in upon you—and your father away. You look remarkably desolate.’ - -‘Do I? Everyone has gone, and it is dull.’ - -‘If I had thought of it, I wouldn’t have gone to see Wellfield -to-night. I would have come and sat with you, my dear. Are you cold, -Nita? What’s the matter? Where’s your little red shawl? and why don’t -you have a fire?’ - -‘I think it is rather chilly this evening,’ said Nita, letting him fold -the little shawl round her shoulders. ‘Autumn will soon be here; and -then a day in Lancashire without sun is always cold, no matter what the -time of the year may be.’ - -‘So it seems,’ replied John, who had gone on his knees before the -grate, and removing a bowl filled with peacock’s feathers, disclosed -what is known, in Lancashire at any rate, as ‘a cold fire,’ laid ready -in the grate. - -‘Where are the matches?’ he asked, finding them. He struck one, watched -the flame, and then came and sat down beside Nita. - -‘I will stay till it has burned up,’ said he. ‘Nothing is more cheerful -than a good fire, and nothing more dismal than one just struggling into -existence.’ - -‘How kind you are, John,’ said Nita, looking up at him gratefully. - -‘Pooh! Who would be otherwise to such a desolate-looking little person -as you are? I suppose your father will come by the ten o’clock train?’ - -‘I expect so. Oh, how nice that blaze is! I shall be quite happy now, -with this novel. It is one of those which you brought me from London.’ - -‘Which I understood you were not going to read.’ - -‘Oh, but I am. I am very much interested in it; and—don’t you think Mr. -Wellfield will be expecting you? _He_ will be lonely in his new house.’ - -‘It will do him no harm if he is. But I see you want me to be off. -Now, look here, Nita, don’t fret; there’s nothing in this life worth -fretting about.’ - -‘People fret because they can’t help it, not because things are worth -it or not worth it,’ said Nita, wearily. ‘Good-night! Thank you for -coming to cheer me up.’ - -‘Good-night,’ said John, kindly and gravely; and he stooped and touched -her forehead with his lips. Nita smiled faintly. - -‘That is only for Christmas Days and birthdays,’ said she. ‘Three a -year, John; so the next one is forfeited.’ - -‘How do I know where we may both be when the next one falls due?’ he -replied, with a look in his eyes and a line upon his brow which she did -not quite understand. ‘Well good-night!’ - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -INDIAN SUMMER. - - -JEROME was not without visitors when he was fairly established at -Monk’s Gate. John Leyburn frequently found his way down there, and so -did Father Somerville, and in him Wellfield found his most congenial -companion. They formed a strange trio, for the three were often there -together. - -There was that year a short, gorgeous Indian summer, at the end of -September and the beginning of October. It was as warm as August; the -foliage a mass of beauty—a dying, sunset glow, ready to be whirled -away in showers at the first swirl of the equinoctial gales which would -assuredly succeed this calm. But in the meantime, while it lasted, it -was beautiful. They sat with open windows at Monk’s Gate, and with the -door set open too; and while the lamp burnt on the centre table, John -Leyburn stretched out his long limbs on the old settee, and smoked -his pipe; while Somerville, in the easy-chair at the other side of -the window, twisted cigarettes with his long, slender fingers; and -Jerome, at the piano, would play, or sing, or improvise, for hours. -Many a one of the village people, many a ‘lover and his lass,’ would -pause to lean upon the top of the gate and hearken to the broken, -fitful gusts of sound which came wafted to them from the open window -and door. Strange, weird harmonies of Liszt, and Chopin, and Schumann, -smote their astonished ears, and songs still stranger and more eerie -than the tunes—deep, mournful German melodies, or some wild, homely, -_Volkslied_ would float out and strike them with wonder, such music -being assuredly for the first time heard in Wellfield. - -Once or twice on these evenings, sometimes alone, and sometimes with -John (when he was not at Monk’s Gate), always with her big dog by her -side, a girl’s figure had passed the gate as the music was going on. -Once it had been a passionate love-song that was borne to her ears, and -once again the overpowering sweetness of a movement of the so-called -‘Moonlight’ sonata. She had turned her face towards the place whence -the sounds came, but neither hurried nor stayed her sauntering walk, -and, returning the greetings of those who loitered and listened, had -passed on. Those evenings of music were the only pleasant part of -Jerome’s existence at that time. Then he forgot for a moment Nita’s -pale face and Sara’s letters; then the old student days seemed to -have returned again—the old days of music, of midsummer madness, of -‘carelesse contente.’ - -Letters came to him there, of course, from Sara and from his sister, -letters telling him of their every-day life, and of the incidents of -it. With each of these letters his mental debate was opened up afresh, -until he began to dread them, for he knew that they were noble. He -knew that the atmosphere in which Sara lived—of waiting, of patience, -of hope, and of steadfast love, was a reproach to his own wretched -vacillations of mind. Her calmness and strength oppressed him, overawed -him. It was no longer a question with him as to whether he should tell -Nita Bolton that he loved another woman; the question was now, how to -approach with Sara the subject of his desiring to be free. He did not -in the least know how the position had come about, but it was there. -Unable to make up his mind to _do_ anything, he contented himself with -answering Sara’s letters in a strain far more ardent than that in which -she wrote to him, protesting the entire devotion for her which he felt, -as he wrote. - -It was, perhaps, Jerome Wellfield’s misfortune that these two women -loved him so much and so deeply that they let him see too easily how -dear he was to them. It is possible that a featherweight might have -turned the scale. Had Sara Ford not confessed her love with such an -utter frankness and self-abnegation—had he entertained any doubt as -to his success with her, surely he must have been more circumspect. -Dire necessity, and the fear of losing the prize, must have kept him -honest. And had Nita Bolton’s love been differently shown—in a less -subtile, coarser, opener way—most assuredly the charm there of wealth -and restored fortunes must have been powerless. But he knew that Sara -Ford worshipped him heart and soul, that he was the light of her eyes -and the joy of her life. And he knew that Nita Bolton loved him with -the love that is patient, and enduring, and tenacious; that his joy was -her joy, and his sorrow her sorrow; that for him or for his advantage -she would efface herself, and rejoice that she was permitted to do so. -And with affairs in this state the Indian summer came to an end. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -STAGE III. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -INTERMEDIATE. - - -THE Professor’s grand, rugged face and delicate, artist brow were -somewhat clouded. He rose from the chair before the easel, on which he -had been sitting, and laid his brush down. - -‘You have not done much since I was last here,’ he remarked. - -‘No, I’m afraid not,’ replied Sara Ford, who had been standing near -him watching him as he touched her picture here and there. The scene -was her atelier. The time was a broiling afternoon in September; but -here, in this sunless room, facing north, it was cooler than elsewhere. -She was dressed in a long, plain gown of some creamy white stuff. Her -face was pale, and her eyes somewhat heavy and languid. The masses of -wavy, chestnut hair lay somewhat heavily and droopingly over the white -temples and broad brow. The only spot of decided colour about her was -the glossy dark-green leaves of a _Gloire de Dijon_ rose which was -stuck in the breast of her dress—a species of rose which Professor -Wilhelmi, with his keen and observant artist’s eye, had remarked his -favourite pupil had lately become very fond of wearing. He had noticed, -too, that during the past few weeks she had become, if possible, more -beautiful than ever, with a sudden glow and blaze of beauty which was -none the less brilliant in that it was accompanied by a silence and -quietness greater than of yore. Wilhelmi was an artist to his very -soul. Creed, nationality, and rank counted as nothing, and less than -nothing, with him. Genius was his care and his watchword. Two years -ago he had, he believed, found that Sara Ford had received a spark -of the divine fire, and from that moment she had been as his own -child to him—his soul’s child, the child of his highest and purest -individuality. And as time went on he had thought also to discover -in her the industry which some have said _is_ genius. All had gone -triumphantly until at the end of last July she had returned from her -visit to Nassau, and he, coming to her to resume his lessons, had found -that something had taken flight—something else had appeared in its -place. The exchange was the more annoying in that he could not name -either the one thing or the other. As she spoke to him now, he glanced -down at her large white hand, which had been resting on the easel as he -and she spoke. Had that ring of sapphires which had replaced the old -diamond rose that she used to wear anything to do with the change in -her? - -‘How you have changed my inanimate little daub, Herr Professor!’ she -said. ‘It was without life. All that I do now seems without life. -Sometimes I think I had better put away my paint and my brushes, and -lock up my atelier for the next six months, and not look at a canvas -for that length of time.’ - -‘Do so, if you can,’ he replied; ‘but if you do I shall know that your -nature has changed.’ - -She was silent, still looking down upon the sketch. Wilhelmi, who -looked grave and concerned, did not speak for a short time. At last he -said: - -‘Do you know that poor Goldmark died this morning?’ - -‘Did he!’ exclaimed Sara, a rapid flash of sorrow and sympathy passing -over her face. ‘How very sad! Such a talent and such a career cut off -in that manner.’ - -‘Ay, sad enough. But there are sadder things than for a career to be -cut off by death. There is the palsy of self-satisfaction, which has -virtually killed the very finest talent over and over again, while -leaving the body as strong and flourishing as ever. Poor Goldmark was -rather too much the other way. Nothing that he did ever satisfied him.’ - -‘Then do you not think he had genius?’ asked Sara. - -‘N——no—I cannot call his gift genius. It just fell short of the happy -inspired audacity of genius. It was talent of the very highest order.’ - -‘That was always my idea of him. Won’t his wife and children be rather -badly off?’ - -‘I am afraid they will. But Frau Goldmark is rather a stirring little -woman. Something will be contrived for them, I doubt not.’ - -‘Are you going? This has been a short lesson.’ - -‘It has,’ he answered with the same ambiguous little fold in his -forehead. ‘You have not supplied me with much material to teach upon -this time. You must work, my dear child—work while it is to-day,’ he -added earnestly. ‘Bear my words in mind. Work while it is to-day, and -let nothing interfere, or you will have to repent your idleness in dust -and ashes.’ - -With which, not waiting for any reply, he left her. - -Sara looked after him dreamily. ‘What does he mean?’ she speculated. -‘But I know. He finds a change in me; and I am changed, even to myself. -Sometimes I think the old spirit has completely left me, and yet how -can that be? It will all come right again, I suppose. But I wish—I wish -it might be soon.’ - -She sighed as she put down her palette, and sat down before her easel -in the chair which Wilhelmi had lately occupied, and, amid the profound -stillness of the quiet afternoon, let her thoughts wander off there -where now they were for ever straying. She was too much under the -influence of her love for Wellfield to be able to reflect whether that -influence were a good or a bad one. That said, all is said; it contains -her mental history for the past two months, and accounts for the -depression which stole over Wilhelmi’s face and into his keen eyes as -he saw her; it accounts too for the nameless paralysis which had stolen -the cunning from her right hand, and from her soul the ardent zeal for -her art. She was Sara Ford still, but Sara Ford metamorphosed. Wilhelmi -sorrowfully told himself one day that there was now more life and -spirit in the water-colour sketches which _die Kleine_, as he called -Avice Wellfield, made, than in those of his dearest pupil, of which but -lately he had been so proud. - -‘I am certain it’s some wretched love affair!’ he muttered, as he -strode abstractedly away from the Jägerstrasse towards his own house. -‘Good heavens! to think of _that_ woman’s talent being palsied by some -wretched sentimental _Schwärmerei_; it is horrible. Why is not genius -created senseless, sexless, sentimentless? But then, of course, it -could never appeal to sense, and sex, and sentiment, as it must if it -is to be an influence. It is a thousand pities, it is lamentable. And -Falkenberg wrote of her in what might for him be called enthusiastic -strains. I wish there were some way of saving her. I wish the man would -play false, or that some shock would rouse her from this apathy!’ - -It may here be casually observed that Professor Wilhelmi cherished a -conviction that he understood woman, and could account for and cure -all her vagaries, had he but the power placed in his hands. It was a -delusion broken every day by the conduct of his own wife and daughter, -to whom, in all matters outside his art, he was a slave, but he lived -in it still, and would live in it till he died. - -Meantime the Indian summer dawned, and flamed itself out here too, as -well as at Wellfield. September went out, and October was ushered in -with unusual mildness and glory. It was a sight to gladden the eyes of -an artist, even the low flat country which at Elberthal stretches for -unbroken miles on either side the broad Rhine. For there were glorious -sunsets, colouring river, and field, and town, with strange glorified -lights, and at that sunset-time in the Hofgarten, the yellow golden -beams shone in a glowing, dazzling mist through the autumn trees, and -flooded every twig, every stick and stone, with mellow radiance. At -that time the stalls of the old women at the street corners were piled -high with grapes, and plums, and russet pears, which fruits were to be -purchased for almost nothing. At that time it was good to sail down -the river to Kaiserswerth, or up the stream to Neuss, and to return at -sunset, and watch the pomp of it glorifying the majestic river. There -was no striking beauty of crag or waterfall, of castled Drachenfels or -magic Loreley, but there were the great plains stretching Hollandwards, -dressed in their autumn garments; the broad expanse of water sweeping -by, strong and untroubled; the busy humming town behind, with its -throb of varied life, its many interests, its treasures of art and joy, -its music and melody, inseparable from all true German life. - -The two girls lived on, happy and contented. To them came no word of -what was going on at Wellfield. They knew nothing of the long parley -which their best-beloved was even then standing to hold with baseness -and dishonesty, while honour and honesty stood by. Had they known, they -too could have told him what perhaps his own conscience had more than -once whispered to him: that honour and honesty will not continue such a -parley for ever. They will not always remain there, holding out their -neglected hands for us to clasp. There comes a time when they will wait -no longer, but will withdraw their hands, fold their mantles around -them, turn away, and leave us to consort with the company ourselves -have chosen. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -LEBENDE BILDER. - - -TEN days later, Sara, sitting one morning in her atelier, heard a knock -at her door, and answered abstractedly ‘_Herein!_’ - -Looking up to see who might be her visitor, she saw a little lady in -widow’s weeds. - -‘Frau Goldmark!’ she exclaimed, rising in astonishment. Frau Goldmark -was the widow of that young artist of promise, of whose sudden death -Wilhelmi had informed her. Sara had heard constant talk of her for the -last few days, to which talk she had listened in a vague, unheeding -way. Her acquaintance with her was very slight, and had never before -gone so far as an exchange of visits, and she was proportionately -surprised to see her now, and under the existing circumstances, in her -atelier. - -‘Yes, _liebe_ Miss Ford, it is I. And you may well look astonished, but -do only hear me.’ - -‘Come into my sitting-room, then, Frau Goldmark, and tell me what I can -do for you,’ said Sara, leading the way to where Avice was seated with -a book in the parlour. - -Frau Goldmark was a slight, pretty, little woman, with round, -important, excited-looking eyes, and a general aspect which did not -altogether charm Miss Ford, who formed indeed, in appearance, and -manner, and everything else, a startling contrast to her visitor. Sara -had heard vague rumours which gave Frau Goldmark the name of a gossip, -and she had never felt any violent desire to make her acquaintance; -but her recent heavy loss, her widowhood, and the inevitable hard -struggle which lay before her, all combined to make Sara lay aside all -considerations save those of kindness. She offered Frau Goldmark a -seat, and waited to hear on what errand she had come. - -‘I have come to ask a favour, _mein Fräulein_, an immense one; _ein -unerhörtes_,’ she began. - -‘Indeed! I wonder how I can serve you?’ asked Sara, in her most -gracious manner. - -Frau Goldmark looked at her keenly, despite her excitement, and found -time for the reflection, ‘She certainly is as beautiful as all these -men say, and if I can only get her to do it—I will ask for both the -scenes while I am about it.’ - -‘You are aware, dear Miss Ford, of the most lamented death of my dear -good husband,’ said Frau Goldmark, with brimming eyes and a trembling -lip. - -‘Yes, indeed! I was most truly grieved to hear of it. We must all -lament it—you that you have lost a good husband, and we artists that a -brother of such promise is lost to us.’ - -‘You speak most beautifully, Fräulein. It has been a sore blow to us. -I and my babes are left almost penniless. I shall have to work now -to find bread for them, and thanks to the goodness of my friends, I -believe it will be made easy for me.’ - -‘What _can_ she want?’ Sara was beginning to think, when Frau Goldmark -again took up her parable with great animation, saying: - -‘The artists, my husband’s friends, have not forsaken me in my -distress. Herr Professor Wilhelmi has behaved to me like a father.’ - -‘He is goodness and generosity itself, I know,’ replied Sara, her full -contralto tones in strong contrast with the high-pitched notes of Frau -Goldmark’s voice. She had that great defect, common to so very many of -her countrywomen, a high, harsh, shrill voice. - -‘He asked me what he could do for me, and I related my plan to him, -which he approved of. I said that if I had but a little capital I could -earn a living for myself and my children. I would open a photographic -atelier. My father was a photographer, and I am perfectly acquainted -with everything belonging to the art.’ Sara suppressed a smile—this -from an artist’s wife. ‘A very little practice, and I should succeed -admirably. The money to start with remained the only difficulty.’ - -‘I see,’ said Sara, wondering more than ever what she could be supposed -to have to do with it. - -‘Perhaps you have heard, Fräulein, that Professor Wilhelmi, and some -other gentlemen and ladies, have decided, out of their respect and -love for my husband’s memory, to give an entertainment on my behalf of -_tableaux vivants_, for which you know they are so celebrated here. -They are to be given in the _Malkasten_ Club, or, if that is not large -enough, in the _Rittersaal_ of the Tonhalle. They think by this means -that they can realise the sum necessary. Oh, Fräulein Ford, I _beg_ you -to consent!’ - -‘Consent—to what, my dear Frau Goldmark?’ she asked, in bewilderment. - -‘If you will take a part in the two principal pictures, the success is -assured of the whole entertainment,’ was her breathless reply, while -Frau Goldmark half rose from her chair and held out her hands towards -Sara, _flehend_, as she herself would have said, in a theatrical manner. - -‘I—oh, I am afraid it is impossible!’ said Sara, hastily. - -‘Ah, do not say so, Miss Ford! Think what it means to me. There is no -one else here who can do it as you would do it. The Herr Professor -quite agreed with me. He gave me this note to bring to you.’ - -Saying which, she suddenly pulled a little note from the bosom of her -dress, and gave it to Sara, who, astonished at the whole affair, read, -in Wilhelmi’s hand: - - ‘Do, if you possibly can, give your consent to Frau Goldmark’s - request, it is for a good cause; and, if my approval is anything to - you, you have it to the full. - - ‘WILHELMI.’ - -Here Avice, who had been listening intently, and who had just realised -what it was all about, chimed in: - -‘Oh, do, Sara!—do!’ - -‘Thank you, _mein Fräulein_, for taking my side,’ exclaimed Frau -Goldmark, quickly. - -‘What are the pictures you wish me to take part in?’ asked Sara. ‘Have -you decided upon them?’ - -‘_Natürlich, mein Fräulein._ They are the two principal ones—a scene -from Kleist’s _Hermannsschlacht_, after the celebrated picture in the -public gallery, with you for Thusnelda, and Herr Max Helmuth, Fräulein -Wilhelmi’s _Bräutigam_, as Hermann; and the last picture of my blessed -_Mann_; his _Ja, oder Nein_, which is still hanging unsold in the -Exhibition.’ - -Sara was silent, pondering. She knew both the pictures. Frau Goldmark -proceeded: - -‘Professor Wilhelmi bade me come to you myself, for he said you -would do that for the poor and afflicted which you would not for the -prosperous and happy.’ - -‘Are you sure that everyone wishes it?’ asked Miss Ford. - -‘As certain as I am that I am here,’ was the emphatic reply, ‘_Denken -sie nur, Fräulein!_ When the scheme was first proposed Amalia -Waldschmidt vowed she would have the part of the lady in my husband’s -picture—she, the stupid, heavy—but pardon! I ought to be grateful to -all; only the Herr Professor quite agreed with me that she was the -last person to take such a part. She has no _Geist_, no _Gefühl_. How -can she give to the picture the expression it requires? But she made -a point of taking that part; they say, because she is so anxious to -act with Ludwig Maas, who takes the part of the bold but poor lover.’ -Seeing a strong expression of distaste and disapproval upon Miss Ford’s -face, Frau Goldmark went on quickly: - -‘And you know, _liebstes Fräulein_, her father is a man whom we dare -not offend, and _die_ Amalia rules him with a rod of iron.’ - -Sara bowed assent to this proposition. It was evident that to the -excited little widow this great entertainment formed the representative -event of the modern world. - -‘Imagine!’ she went on, ‘Amalia is suddenly taken ill with -_scharlach-fieber_—scarlet fever you call it. Yes, it is so; and it is -providential. Naturally she cannot act the part, nor even appear at -the _lebende Bilder_, for which _Gott sei dank_! though I know it is -very wrong of me to say so. And I hope she will have the fever mildly -and make a speedy recovery; but ah, I am glad she comes not; and I do -_pray_ of you, dear Miss Ford, to take the part, and also that of -Thusnelda. I shall bless you all my life if you only will.’ - -‘I will take the parts, Frau Goldmark, and will do my best to act them -well,’ said Sara, composedly, anxious to put an end to the widow’s -exaggerated prayers and protestations. Her consent was received with a -perfect whirlwind of thanks and blessings and expressions of joy, which -she cut short by saying: - -‘But I beg you will not say anything comparing me with Fräulein -Waldschmidt. It would be very wrong, and if I heard of such a thing I -should instantly give it up.’ - -‘You may trust me indeed, _mein liebes Fräulein_! And now I go to the -Herrn Professor, to tell him of my success. He will let you know all -about the rest.’ - -With the most affectionate adieux she departed. Sara and Avice, left -alone, both burst into a fit of laughter. - -‘What an absurd little woman!’ exclaimed Avice. - -‘Painfully so,’ responded Sara. ‘I own that I wonder to see her going -about doing this kind of thing herself. If it were not that the dear -old Professor evidently desires it so much’—she tossed Wilhelmi’s note -to Avice—‘I should refuse.’ - -‘They are both very different subjects—the pictures, I mean,’ said -Avice, musingly. ‘You will look splendid as Thusnelda, Sara.’ - -‘Shall I? It is a splendid picture, certainly.’ - -It was a picture representing that scene in Kleist’s -_Hermannsschlacht_, in which Hermann, seated beside Thusnelda, listens -to her, while she indignantly relates how the Roman envoy, Ventidius, -had impertinently, and without her knowledge, clipped off a lock of -her hair, upon hearing which Hermann, with a grim and granite humour, -and a mirth bordering on the diabolical, describes to her how that -lock will probably go to Rome, there to excite the cupidity of the -Roman women, who, he informs her, admire hair like that—‘_gold’ und -schön, und trocken so wie dein_,’—and sometimes have it—not growing -on their own heads, but shorn from those of other women, and that the -golden locks of a Teuton princess would be an ornament which they, any -of them, would especially glory in wearing. It was a noble picture, -by a celebrated artist, and Sara, already even, felt some thrills of -pleasure in the idea of taking a part in the representation of it. The -other picture was a rather ambitious _tableau de genre_, Goldmark’s -last, and was called _Ja, oder Nein_. - -The next time that Wilhelmi saw Sara, she told him what she had done, -and added: - -‘I hope I have been right, but it seems to me that there are many girls -in Elberthal who ought to have had the parts offered to them—your -townspeople,’ she added, smiling. - -Wilhelmi laughed as he asked, ‘Do you seriously mean to say you think -there is any one young woman in Elberthal except yourself who would in -the least _look_ the part of Thusnelda?’ - -Sara laughed, but was obliged to confess that she did not. - -She wrote to Jerome, telling him what she was going to do; adding, -‘I hope you don’t mind. My Hermann will only be Max Helmuth; he will -look the part every inch, I must say, but he is quite harmless; he is -engaged to Wilhelmi’s daughter, and wildly in love with her; so say you -don’t mind, because they have set their hearts upon it.’ - -Jerome replied that she must certainly take the part. ‘I suppose your -Hermann is a contrast to me. One can only think of that enlightened -barbarian as some fair-haired giant, with a fierce yellow moustache. -You will make an ideal Thusnelda, I must say, according to Heinrich -Kleist’s version, at any rate.’ - -Relieved in her mind at having Jerome’s consent, and Wilhelmi’s -approval, Sara gave herself up with genuine artist’s delight to -rehearsing and preparing her parts; that of Thusnelda in especial, -giving her real joy and pleasure. The festival itself was fixed for the -middle of October. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -THE SECOND MEETING. - - -IT had at first been intended to give the _tableaux vivants_, or as -they call them in Germany, _lebende Bilder_, in the small hall of the -pretty little _Malkasten_, or artists’ club; but so numerous had been -the applications for places, that it was decided instead to have them -in a larger room belonging to the building where all the concerts were -held—the public _Tonhalle_. This proved quite successful, and every -seat was taken a week beforehand. - -It was a very pretty sight: all Elberthal was there; assembled, too, -in good time, and everyone talking, laughing, moving about with -a freedom, an ease, and an absence of ceremony peculiar to German -entertainments of the kind. - -Sara Ford and Avice went with the Wilhelmis, who, being important -persons in the affair, had naturally secured a number of the uppermost -seats. Sara’s parts were in the second and fourth pictures. She -accordingly had to go and dress for her part of Thusnelda while the -first picture was being given. She left Avice, seated between Luise -Wilhelmi and her mother, and therefore safely chaperoned. Luise was in -a state of wild excitement, which indeed was her chronic condition. -She was a very sprightly, pretty brunette, fond of brilliant colours, -and given to attiring herself in a somewhat stagey manner. On this -occasion she was strikingly but becomingly dressed in hues of amber and -pomegranate, with many slits and slashes, tags and ends and furbelows. -Nothing would induce her to yield to her father’s requests that she -would dress with a noble and classic simplicity, or to her lover’s -representations that white muslin and blue ribbon and a generally -inexpensive shepherdess style of thing would become her wonderfully -well. Fräulein Luise loved silk and satin, rich fabrics and bright -jewels, and so long as anyone could be found to provide her with them, -she would wear them. Avice Wellfield, beside her, looked like an -inhabitant of another world. It was the first time she had been out -anywhere since her father’s death; and her plain black frock and white -_crêpe_ ruffles at neck and wrists formed a pointed contrast to Luise’s -flashing colours and glittering rings and chains and bangles. Avice had -plaited her hair up into a coronet, which gave her an older, staider -look. The girl was fulfilling, more and more every day, Sara’s prophecy -to her brother, that she would one day be beautiful. Her new life, -happier despite its poverty than the old one, had called forth that -beauty, while the intellect, which had formerly been repressed and was -now in every way encouraged to develop itself, gave dignity and depth -to the mere outward loveliness of hue and feature and moulding. She -sat quite still, watching with enchantment what was to her an entirely -new scene. It was her first entertainment of the kind; and she enjoyed -it with a zest only known in such long-deferred pleasures. Luise was -jumping up and sitting down twenty times in five minutes, teasing her -father to know how Max would ‘do,’ and if he was nervous—if it would be -better for her not to look at him too hard, at which Avice suppressed a -smile, and Wilhelmi, with his rollicking Jovine laugh, cried: - -‘Look at him as hard as you can stare, little simpleton. Do you think -he will turn his head to look at you? It would ruin the whole artistic -effect of the picture, and to-night it is Art who will be paramount -before even you.’ - -At which she pouted, and the orchestra suddenly struck up most -eloquent music; delicious to hear, and unseen singers accompanied them. -It was a portion of Liszt’s _Entfesselter Prometheus_ that they played -and sang, a chorus of grape-gatherers, and the melody was exquisitely -sweet, and was dying gently away as the curtain rose upon a magic -scene—a ‘midday rest in the grape-harvest.’ The picture thus copied was -a celebrated one. A background of vine-covered, autumn-tinted Italian -hills, and in the foreground a richly picturesque group of men and -maidens, women and children, in every attitude of beauty and grace -that could be imagined. In the very centre stood a splendidly handsome -woman, dark, tall, and amply formed, in an Italian peasant’s dress; her -arms were thrown upwards as she shook a tambourine and looked behind -her to a youth who raised a spray of deeply tinted vine-leaves to bind -them in her abundant strong black hair. The others were variously -occupied; some in watching this principal couple and in jesting aside -about them. One child was industriously devouring grapes; two lads were -half wrestling with one another; a couple of girls were whispering with -their lovers. The music still played soft strains, and the _Chor der -Winzner_ died into silence, while every figure stood out with a mellow -distinctness, breathing and living, yet still—still and motionless, as -the painted figures on the canvas themselves. - -Twice the beautiful picture was shown, amidst applause and delight. -Then ensued the first interval, during which comments were freely -exchanged, and much laughter and gossip about the various performers -went on. - -‘It must be fearfully difficult,’ remarked Avice, in an almost -awestruck tone. ‘How could she go on holding the tambourine for so long -without its making even one tiny tinkle?’ - -‘Wait till the next,’ said Wilhelmi, who appeared to have pinned his -hopes on the _Hermannsschlacht_ picture. ‘Luise, pray that thy Max may -not lose his heart to the Princess of Germania.’ - -Luise laughed a heart-whole laugh. The frantic devotion of her huge -lover to his tyrannical little bride was too well-known for her to feel -any qualms of jealousy. - -Just then the band began to play a solemn battle march, through -which might be heard, like an undercurrent, the clashing of martial -instruments, and the angry mutter of war. Then slowly the curtain -rose. Expectation grew so intense, that even applause was hushed, and -only a murmur went through the assembly, when at last the picture was -fully displayed before them. The picture which was copied gave the very -spirit of the poet’s dream, as he pictured that ancient chieftain and -his princess, and the living picture was an idealisation of the painted -one. - -They appeared to be seated beneath a mighty spreading oak—a primeval -monarch of the forest. The trunk of the tree was at the extreme -left. Above, its foliage overhead spread over almost the entire -scene. Stretching away to the right from Hermann and Thusnelda, -appeared a soft, grassy sward, fallen leaves, and forest flowers. In -the background, almost in the centre, burnt a steady, reddish light, -while to the right a high-flaming cresset cast fitful gleams upon -the centre-point of interest—Hermann, Prince of the Cherusker, and -Thusnelda, his wife. - -The warrior, in the armour and dress of his tribe, was reclined upon -the ground, half raised on one elbow; his short coat of mail, and -small-pointed helmet, with the crest a-top, his long yellow hair and -moustache, wild and fearless blue eyes; the massive and almost savage -grace and power of the whole figure were splendid. A half-smile, at -once grim and bitter, curved his lips as he looked up into Thusnelda’s -face, and with one great hand lifts up a heavy lock of the waving, -golden-brown hair which sweeps over her shoulders, and touches the -ground, confined above by a gorgeous diadem of gold and precious -stones, the one which she has previously told him ‘thou brought’st me -of late from Rome;’ the diadem which Ventidius had arranged for her, -with what intent has she not just heard from Hermann? - -Sara Ford, as Thusnelda, is also seated upon the ground at the foot -of the tree, clad in a loose, flowing white dress of some fine soft -web. Leaning a little over towards the warrior, she rests her weight -upon her left hand, and appears to question him with amazement and -indignation. The music stopped, and behind the scenes some one read a -portion of that magnificent scene—a scene such as perhaps no one but -Heinrich von Kleist could have written quite in that way. - -The unseen readers recited, or read, with dramatic effect. - - THUSNELDA. - - I think thou dream’st, thou rav’st. - Who is’t will shear _my_ head? - - HERMANN. - - Who? Pooh! Quintilius Varus and the Romans, - With whom I just have sealed a firm alliance. - - THUSNELDA. - - The Romans! How? - - HERMANN. - - Yea, what the devil think’st thou? - And yet the Roman ladies really must, - When they adorn themselves, have decent hair. - - THUSNELDA. - - Have then the Roman women none at all? - - HERMANN. - - None, I say, save what’s black—all black and stiff, like witches; - Not fair, and dry, and golden, like this of thine. - -The voices ceased, and at this point the applause burst out in a -storm. Avice passed her hand over her eyes, starting violently at -being thus dragged back to the every-day world. So life-like had been -the scene, one seemed to be transported to those strange, far-back -primitive days—the days before that dim and distant _Hermannsschlacht_, -about which historiographers are even yet not agreed. But far more -wonderful to Avice was the way in which her friend had, as it were, -transformed herself from the collected, well-bred, sophisticated young -lady of to-day, into an ancient Teuton chieftainess, a primal Germanic -mother, in whose beautiful face there were not wanting passion and -fierceness—whoso reads the rest of the play may learn the pitiless -brutal vengeance which Thusnelda wreaked upon Ventidius—not wanting -her elements of ‘the tiger and the ape.’ And yet how grand she was—how -majestic! And how tameless looked this Teuton princess! It was not fear -that troubled her—she felt no fear—but anger, and boundless haughty -astonishment. The Roman women, forsooth! What was she to them, or they -to her? She felt as if she could crush a dozen of them with one blow of -her ample hand. - -This picture was shown twice. Wilhelmi rubbed his hands in rapture. - -‘Splendid!’ he cried, ‘worth coming miles to see. Didn’t she do it -grandly?—didn’t she look every inch the Teuton queen?’ - -‘Max might have given me one look!’ said Luise; ‘he _knew_ I was in the -very front row. I shall scold him about it.’ - -‘Foolish baby! I forbid thee to do anything of the kind. Where would -the picture have been if he had been ludicrously rolling his eyes about -in search of thee? And why should he look for thee? Was not Thusnelda -his lawful consort?’ said her father, delighted to torment her if -possible. - -Luise was about to make some malicious retort, when an official came -and whispered something to Wilhelmi, who, with an exclamation of -pleased surprise—a ‘_Nun, das freut mich!_’—rose, and made his way -towards the bottom of the crowded room. - -The third picture was soon put on the stage. It was a ‘Village -Funeral,’ and was excellently well done, but it lacked the poetry and -excitement of the last scene. The curtain went down, and still the -Professor did not return. Sara remained behind the scenes; she took a -part in the next picture—the part of a lady of high degree, on whose -‘Yes’ or ‘No’ her lover of low degree waits anxiously. There was a long -interval, full of noise and talking and laughing. When the curtain rose -again, Wilhelmi had still not returned; and Luise, who was never happy -without him at such a scene, muttered discontentedly, ‘_Wo bleibt denn -der Papa?_’ - -This picture—this _Ja, oder Nein_—had an interest, apart from its style -and subject, in the fact that it was the last one finished by the -artist who had died. - -A long, old-fashioned, richly-furnished room was displayed, and, -standing in the midst of the grandeur, plainly dressed, proud and -upright, a young man in the costume of the present-day. He was -handsome, and had a fine, open, resolute face. The expression of -earnest, attentive, eager waiting, not degenerating into anxiety or -servility, was admirable. Nothing showed that he was nervous—he -had not taken the trouble to get himself up in visiting costume. -It appeared that he had been walking: his shoes were dusty and -travel-soiled, his dress a rather shabby grey suit, hands gloveless, -wrists cuffless, nothing either costly or fashionable about him; -and yet, one of nature’s gentlemen. His white straw-hat lies on a -table beside him. He has been speaking, you see, probably strongly, -earnestly, and ardently, and now he waits the answer. The young lady -who stands before him, in a highly fashionable costume of the present -day, as rich and costly as his is poor and worn, holds a fan in one -hand, and with the other seems to be half closing it. The attitude is -one of reflection, of pausing; the eyes are downcast. Will she say -‘Yes,’ or ‘No’? - -Beautiful groups of vine-reapers, primæval forests, and historical -legends have their charms, no doubt; but a yet more potent spell is -excited when the poetry is touched which underlies this present-day -life of ours—when romance is manifest, clothed in a grey tweed suit -and a fashionable afternoon costume. He is unabashed by her wealth and -splendour. Will she resent his audacity, or accept it? In the painting -there was a sweet mystery: none could say, from looking at it, what -course would be taken by that fair lady. Sara Ford was perhaps thinking -of some past scene. There was the shadow of an expression upon her face -which caused a murmur: - -‘After all, she will say yes.’ - -It was at this juncture—just when the interest was deepest, when necks -were being craned forward, and whispers exchanged—comments upon him -and her: ‘How well Ludwig does it!’—‘Of course she will say yes!’—‘How -_wild_ Amalia Waldschmidt would be if she saw Ludwig now!’ and so -on, that Professor Wilhelmi, accompanied by another man, returned to -his seat. There was an empty chair next to Avice Wellfield, and the -stranger took it, and fixed his eyes upon the _lebendes Bild_ on the -stage. Suddenly the face of the lady became no more like the face of a -picture. It changed—it was certainly a living face. Most distinctly her -eyes moved, her expression altered; some persons said afterwards that -she had started, but that may be a libel. What is quite certain is, -that the expression of the face did change, and that the gentleman who -had come in with Professor Wilhelmi turned to Avice Wellfield with a -smile, and remarked in a low voice: - -‘Miss Ford has recognised me, and is so surprised to see me that she -has moved.’ - -‘Do you know Miss Ford?’ asked Avice, not moving her eyes from the -picture. - -‘Yes,’ replied Rudolf Falkenberg. ‘I met her a month or two ago at -Ems—Nassau, rather, at the Countess of Trockenau’s.’ - -He continued to gaze intently at the living picture, while Miss Ford -on her part soon had her features and expression entirely under her -own control again. She posed admirably for the remainder of the scene, -and for the repetition of it which was stormily demanded. The shade of -expression on the lady’s face was of the very slightest; but it was -enough for the audience to be all of one mind as to what it meant, and -‘She will have him’ was the universal verdict. - -At last the curtain finally fell upon this picture, and with it ended -Sara’s share in the performance. The two last ‘_Bilder_’ were also -admirably done, but they did not excite the interest which had been -called out by the last. One was a scene from Schiller’s _Wallenstein_, -and the other from Goethe’s _Egmont_. - -In the bustle of the interval ensuing between the two last pictures, -Sara came into the room with Wilhelmi, who had been behind the scenes -to fetch her away. Everyone was standing up, and almost everyone in -animated conversation, so that Miss Ford gained her place almost -unobserved. - -Not altogether unnoticed, though, for before anyone else could speak, -Falkenberg had held out his hand with a smile, saying: - -‘Thus we meet again, Miss Ford.’ - -‘Not exactly “thus,”’ said Sara, laughing. ‘I saw you suddenly, and was -so surprised that I am afraid I moved, or laughed, or something. The -impulse to bow to you, and say “How do you do?” below the breath, as -one does, was almost irresistible.’ - -‘I ought to have remained in the background where I was, and from -whence I saw you in Thusnelda. I would not have disturbed _that_ for -the world.’ - -‘And that reminds me,’ here observed Fräulein Wilhelmi in a plaintive -voice, ‘Miss Ford, where is my poor Max?’ - -‘Behind the scenes, dressing for Egmont,’ replied Sara, laughing. - -‘I shall never consent to this sort of thing again,’ said Luise. ‘Or -if I do, I shall take a part as well. Did you only come to-day, Herr -Falkenberg, or did papa know that you intended to visit us?’ - -‘No; I only decided yesterday to come, and I only arrived by the -evening train from Frankfort. I went to your house, and found where you -all were, and came here.’ - -‘Of course you are staying with us, as usual?’ observed Luise. - -‘Your father has kindly asked me to do so,’ he replied, smiling. - -Sara, watching his face, felt an indescribable satisfaction in it, -and as if an old friend, and one who could be trusted, had suddenly -been present. Those were the same honest, critical brown eyes which -had looked kindly upon her, as they sat and spoke of friendship in -the little _Ruheplatz_ beneath the cathedral walls at Lahnburg. As -for Falkenberg, after the first words of greeting, he scarcely spoke -to Sara, but allowed himself to be monopolised by Luise, who, true to -her nature, had flirted with him, or tried to do so, since she was two -years old. Though he did not speak much to Sara, his eyes wandered now -and then towards her with an inquiring, considerate expression. She -was very quiet, but looked marvellously handsome, in her black velvet -gown and pearl necklace. Excitement, pleasure, high, strong emotion, -never made her talkative, but they brought a soft glow to her dark grey -eyes, which beautified her wonderfully. To-night the pleasure had been -very great, the excitement very strong, and she looked proportionately -splendid. - -Here the curtain went up for the last picture, and when that was over, -came the crush to get out of the hall. - -‘Look here, _mein Bester_!’ observed Wilhelmi to Herr Falkenberg. ‘My -womenkind will be more than enough for me. Will you take Miss Ford and -Miss Wellfield under your charge, and see them home?’ - -‘With pleasure,’ was the reply; and with an exchange of hasty -good-nights, the Wilhelmis were carried forward in the crowd, while -Falkenberg and the two English girls made their way slowly after them. - -Seated in their _Droschke_, and driving towards the Jägerstrasse, -Falkenberg said: - -‘May I call at your atelier soon, Miss Ford, as I am staying here? I -dare say I shall be at the Wilhelmis’ for some little time.’ - -‘I shall be very glad if you will,’ responded Sara; ‘though,’ she -added, after a pause, ‘I am afraid there is not much for you to see.’ - -‘To-morrow afternoon,’ he suggested, ‘or will you be too tired?’ - -‘I shall not be tired at all. Pray come, and have coffee with me, if -you care to remain.’ - -‘Thank you. I shall not fail,’ he answered, as the cab stopped, and he -handed them out. - -‘We all owe you a debt of thanks, _mein Fräulein_, for acting as you -did to-night,’ he said, as he shook hands with her. - -‘I am glad you were pleased, and I hope the affair will bring some -money to poor little Frau Goldmark. Then, till to-morrow, Herr -Falkenberg.’ - -‘Till to-morrow. _Gute nacht, meine Damen._’ - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -HERR FALKENBERG’S FRIENDSHIP. - - ‘Oh, snows so pure—oh, peaks so high, - I lift to you a hopeless eye; - I see your icy ramparts drawn, - Between the sleepers and the dawn. - - * * * * * - - I see you, passionless and pure, - Above the lightnings stand secure; - But may not climb....’ - - -WHEN Herr Falkenberg arrived the following afternoon in the -Jägerstrasse, he found Miss Ford alone in her atelier. She had sent -Avice out with Ellen, she told him, to walk off the excitement of -yesterday. - -‘I am glad you have come early,’ she added, ‘while it is yet to-day. -The evenings darken down so quickly now, don’t they?’ - -‘Yes, very; but for me, these chilly autumn evenings have a great -fascination.’ - -‘Have they? And for me too. Do you know, there is nothing I like better -than to put on my hat and shawl on a fine, sharp October evening, such -as this is going to be, before it is quite dark, while the sky is still -light; in fact, just at the time the lamplighter goes his rounds. There -is a strange, unusual feeling in the air, and people go by like figures -in a dream.’ - -‘I know the feeling. And what is your favourite haunt at such times?’ - -‘I like to pass through some of the most crowded streets first, then -gradually to leave them and walk through the quieter Allee, till I -get to the Hofgarten. I never get tired of it, small though it is. -That well-worn round space, called the _Schöne Aussicht_, remains my -favourite spot. Very few people go there at this season, and at that -time in the evening. I can sit, or stand, or pace about as long as I -choose, and watch the Rhine, and the remains of the sunset, and the -bridge of boats, and think of all the villages which the distance -hides. It is very beautiful, I think, though you may laugh at me for -saying so.’ - -‘I am not all inclined to laugh, for I like the same kind of thing -myself. I have a special fondness for the “still, sad music of -humanity,” which one comprehends best at such times.’ - -‘Yes, it is a music worth listening to. But the music of humanity is -not always sad, Herr Falkenberg, is it?’ - -‘No,’ said Rudolf, looking down at her. He was standing, Sara was -seated on a low chair, leaning forward, and looking up at him with an -earnest, large gaze, and in her eyes was so deep, so triumphant and -secure a happiness, that he could not fail to see it—it made her face -glorious with its reflection. Falkenberg, looking at her, repressed -the words of admiration he would fain have uttered, and sighed before -he answered her, in his usual courteous, collected fashion. ‘No,’ he -repeated; ‘it is often glad, I think, and when it is so, it is very -glad. Pardon me, Miss Ford,’ he went on, with a slight smile, ‘I think -it has been glad for you lately; you look as if your life’s music were -pitched just now in a major key.’ - -Her cheek flushed, and her eyes fell, as she answered, in a low tone: - -‘Yes, I have had a great happiness lately. I am very happy.’ - -‘I am very glad to hear it,’ said he, and he was at no loss to guess to -what kind of happiness she alluded. If he had been—his eyes fell upon -her hands, clasped upon her knee, and upon the solitary sapphire hoop -which decked the third finger of the left hand, with the broad tight -gold guard above. That was enough. He had observed her hands in days -gone by, and then, he knew, when they were at Ems and Nassau, she had -worn several rings, old-fashioned, but valuable—a diamond one, and a -pearl and emerald one, and others. They were gone. Nothing remained but -the sapphire hoop. - -‘Let me congratulate you on your happiness,’ he added, ‘and forgive my -saying that the ring you wear is a good omen. Those blue stones mean -steadfastness and faith.’ - -‘Yes, I know. Those qualities are about the best things we can have. -Don’t you think so?’ - -‘They are very good things,’ he replied slowly, as he thought within -himself, ‘Two can be steadfast: one may steadfastly give up, as well as -steadfastly cling to a thing.’ - -‘Are you not tired with your exertions last night?’ he asked. - -‘I—oh no! I am very strong; I do not easily get tired. I should like -always to feel as I did feel last night: as if nothing would ever be -difficult again, as if one’s powers would easily sweep away every -obstacle. Do you know, in the scene from Hermann and Thusnelda, I was -wishing, with all my heart, that I was here in my atelier, with an -appropriate subject. I felt as if I could have painted then.’ - -‘Yes, one lives a full life at such moments. That reminds me that at -this season daylight rapidly departs. May I not see your pictures now?’ - -‘With pleasure, such as they are,’ she answered, rising, and pushing an -easel round, so as to show the picture in the best light. - -‘This is but a sketch,’ said he, standing before it. ‘Have you nothing -finished?’ - -‘N—no,’ said Sara, pausing; and as she forced herself to make the -calculation, she found that she had never finished anything since her -visit to Ems; since she had known Jerome Wellfield. - -‘I have finished nothing lately,’ she exclaimed, struck with the -thought, and involuntarily speaking out her reflections. ‘I finish -nothing now. I begin things, and then the impulse fades away, and they -are neglected.’ - -‘It is as well not to insist upon working out every crude attempt,’ -he said—and she thought his face took an expression of gravity, as he -continued to look at the sketch—‘because if you do that, you are not -an artist any more, but a machine; but it is also well occasionally -to persevere in carrying out some conception, even if you do not -find yourself altogether in sympathy with your first idea. That is -discipline, which in moderation is good. What is this?’ he added, so -drily, and so abruptly, that she started. - -‘That?’ she answered, a little hurriedly; ‘oh, it was a verse from a -little poem of Sully Prudhomme’s which struck my fancy. Where is it?’ - -She found a scrap of paper on the edge of the easel, on which paper -were scribbled Sully Prudhomme’s exquisite little lines, _Si vous -saviez_. The verse she had tried to illustrate was the one running: - - ‘Si vous saviez ce que fait naître - Dans l’âme triste un pur regard, - Vous regarderiez ma fenêtre - Comme au hasard.’ - -‘It is not very good,’ said Sara, apologetically; ‘it is a stupid, -sentimental little thing after all.’ - -‘As you have sketched it, it is,’ he answered, and said no more. - -Sara, with an uneasy thrill of feeling, remembered his words to her at -Trockenau: ‘If I thought it atrocious, I am afraid I should say it was -so, much though I might dislike having to do it.’ - -She felt that he had just now said ‘atrocious,’ or something very -like it, and her heart sank. Silently she placed another canvas above -the first. It was a vague, indistinct scene; what appeared some wild, -wind-blown trees on rising ground to the left—clouds riven asunder, and -silvered by a moon which did not actually appear; the hint of a deep, -rapid, sullen stream, with tall rushes, in the foreground. - -‘That is imaginary!’ he said abruptly, ‘You did not go to Nature for -this.’ - -‘No, not altogether. It is—it is only a sketch.’ - -‘Scarcely that. Is it meant to typify anything?’ - -‘I believe I was thinking of Shelley’s stanzas: “Away! the moor is dark -beneath the moon!” But it is bad. I have failed,’ she added, a sudden -sense of being very small and insignificant rushing over her, and also -a conviction of how entirely she had failed. - -‘Yes, you have failed,’ he answered, somewhat sarcastically. ‘I should -not imagine, in the first place, that you knew what the lines meant.’ - -‘No, I don’t think I do,’ Sara owned, deprecatingly. - -‘Let us hope you never may. The meaning, when you come at it, is -bitter—as bitter as anything well can be. Well’—he turned to her, and -looked her in the face, with eyes which she felt were full of severity -and full of concern—‘is that all?’ - -‘It is all I can show you,’ she replied hastily, ‘when I see how -displeased you are.’ - -‘You are afraid of hearing the truth?’ asked Falkenberg, with a mocking -smile. - -With compressed lips, and a face which had grown pale, she threw a -cover from another canvas, a larger one, on a second easel, and, -leaving him to study it, turned away, and stood at the window, looking -out, her heart beating so wildly that its throbs deafened her. Yet she -heard him say: - -‘Ah! at least one knows what this is intended for.’ - -It was a sketch merely, all except the head of the figure, in neutral -first tints; and there was certainly no mistaking the subject. A man’s -figure in imperial robes, leaning eagerly forward, stretching out his -hands; his eyes fixed, his lips parted towards the sun, which suddenly -bursts with a flood of light into the room, and illumines the desk and -tablets, on which he had been inscribing his great _Hymn_. One could -just catch this meaning; and the head of Julian the Apostate, which was -boldly finished and beautiful, was a likeness of Jerome. - -‘H’m!’ observed Falkenberg. ‘The Apostate—a curious idea.’ Then, after -a pause, ‘I suppose that _is_ all?’ - -‘All, except the studies I am doing with Herr Wilhelmi,’ she said, -feeling all the pretty conceits with which she had tried to gloss over -her work, small in amount, poor in execution, of the last three months, -swept away, as cobwebs might be swept from a roof, till not a trace -remained. - -‘And has the Herr Professor praised your performances of late?’ - -‘He has not—he has blamed them,’ said she, her cheek burning, but -firmly resolved to confess the worst—to conceal nothing. - -‘It would have been odd indeed if he had done so. Has he seen this last -one that I have just been looking at?’ - -‘No one has seen it but yourself,’ she replied, almost inaudibly. - -‘It is not quite so bad as the other two. The head shows some signs of -good workmanship, but the whole thing is poor and meretricious; and -you know it is. Those other two studies, or attempts at studies, show -a distinct and visible falling off. They are not so good by a long way -as the little sketch you showed me at Trockenau. They are careless, -sketchy, weak, and horribly amateurish. They are second-rate in every -way—fit for magazine woodcuts—but as works of art! They are dreadful, -and quite destitute of workmanship, and I am very sorry to see them.’ - -‘Oh, Herr Falkenberg!’ she exclaimed, aghast. ‘You—but I deserve it. -They are all that you say.’ - -She spoke with a proud humility, but her voice was stifled with -suppressed sobs. His relentless words had aroused, as if by magic, -the old spirit of eager ambition which, until a few months ago, had -animated her. It was as if some one roughly shook her from some -pleasant drowsy dream back into reality. In her own mind she had -tried—not very successfully, it is true, but still with the effect of -lulling herself into contentment—to call those inadequate attempts at -pictures ‘vague fancies,’ ‘thoughts too subtle at once to take shape.’ -Consummate criticism, neutral, calm and unimpassioned, fixed its -piercing eyes upon them, and instantly pronounced them—daubs. - -She had come nearer to him as she spoke. Now she turned away again, -consumed by a feeling of burning, scorching shame, and walked back -to the window, and stood there, feeling utterly miserable. ‘Love is -enough,’ she had lately read somewhere; but it was not true, she -found—it did not support or comfort her under this just condemnation. -It did not enable her to feel callous and indifferent under the -disapproval and displeasure of such a man as Rudolf Falkenberg. - -She remained standing by the window. He had begun to pace about the -studio, his hands clasped behind him. Presently he spoke: - -‘I congratulated you just now on your happiness,’ he said. ‘If this is -to be the result, I must withdraw those congratulations.’ - -‘Herr Falkenberg, don’t—please don’t say that!’ she implored, in a -voice that was pitiable, though so low. - -‘But I must, if you allow it thus to enervate you—to emasculate your -power. Pardon my frankness, and what may seem my intrusiveness; but you -know my motives. Do you mean to give up your art?’ - -‘No—oh no! I never thought of such a thing.’ - -‘Then look to what you are doing. Such things as those you have showed -me—such thin, weak, boneless, bloodless things are a mere prostitution -of one of the noblest and most glorious of arts. For heaven’s sake, if -you do not intend to do better than that, give it up altogether. Surely -you are above such amateur dabbling, such sentimental prettinesses—you, -who might do well and worthily, even nobly, I believe, if you only -would. And, if you intend to persevere, let me tell you that the -“happiness,” or the “good fortune,” or whatsoever it may be, which -degrades your powers instead of expanding them, is _bad_. Sorrow -rightly borne, and noble joy rightly worn, should elevate, not degrade. -There is no evading this law, and no escaping it for those who have -souls at all; and I was firmly convinced that you had. What has one of -your own countrymen said, one of the most consummate art-critics that -ever lived? He has said just the same thing—“accurately, in proportion -to the rightness of the cause, and the purity of the emotion, is the -possibility of the fine art— ... with absolute precision, from the -highest to the lowest, the fineness of the possible art is an index -of the moral purity and majesty of the emotion it expresses.” That is -one of the hardest things ever written, and one of the truest. Measure -yourself by it, with _those_—and where are you?’ - -Sara had cast herself into a chair, and with her hands before her face, -was controlling her sobs as best she might. Never before had she felt -thus humbled and scorched, and burnt up, as it were. It was terrible, -yet not one pang of anger or resentment mingled with her emotion. She -knew that what he said was just—no more, no less; and being noble, she -liked him the better for his having said it. There was no carping, -no prejudice or temper in what he said—no scolding for the sake of -rousing her to retort or to deprecate; there was the sorrowful, stern -condemnation of one who knew she had belied herself, and had sufficient -regard for her to tell her so, and she bowed to it. - -He did not speak for a little time, and gradually her sobs grew -quieter. At last he stopped before her, and said: - -‘Miss Ford!’ - -Sara removed her hands from before her face, picked up her -handkerchief, dried her eyes with it, and looked at him. His eyes were -full of kindness; they were not hard; his face was not the face of a -hard judge, and his voice was soothing as he said: - -‘I do not beg you to forgive me for what I have said to you. If you -are what I take you to be, that is not necessary. I do not say I am -sorry to have wounded you. I honour you so much as to feel sure that -you appreciate my reasons for so speaking. But I ask you, do you know -yourself the reason of this quick and lamentable falling off?’ - -‘Yes, I know it,’ she replied, looking at him with a face pale indeed, -but with eyes which did not waver. ‘The reason is, that I have dreamed -of myself and my own happiness to the exclusion of everything else. I -have let my love master me, instead of being myself master of my love. -And I am punished for it.’ - -‘And will you go on dreaming? Will you not rather try to awaken?’ - -Sara looked at him, and thought of Jerome—of the love she bore him. -Subdue that, make it bondslave to her art, second to something else? -She knew that if she meant to be what she had all along striven for—a -great artist, that she must do so; the question was, could she? Had -she not been in reality the slave of her love for Wellfield, since it -had arisen, since he had told her he loved her? Not confessedly so, -but indeed, and in fact? Yes, it was so. It suddenly dawned upon her -mind that such love might be absorbing—might be exquisite at the time; -but her nobler self told her that it was not good to be bound hand and -foot in the bonds of this passion, that it was unworthy, that she had -yielded to the infatuation that paralyses, not the love that inspires. - -‘I cannot be free in a moment,’ said she, ‘but I can endeavour to be -so. I will try, and I give you my hand upon it.’ - -With a simple, proud gesture, she placed her hand in his. He knew what -she meant. That love of hers was not to be given up; she held it holy, -justifiable. But she was no longer to be its bondslave. - -‘Well,’ he thought, ‘it is doubtful, but if there is a woman who can do -it, she can.’ - -He grasped her hand firmly. - -‘And our friendship?’ he asked. - -‘Do you still wish for my friendship, Herr Falkenberg?’ - -‘Now, more than ever, your friendship appears precious and desirable to -me.’ - -‘It is yours, so long as you care to keep it,’ she answered. ‘At least, -do not desert me till I have found the strait and narrow path again.’ - -‘That is not hard,’ he answered. ‘Go to Nature, and paint the humblest -plant you can find—the most rugged visage you may meet in the street, -but paint it—you know how, as well as I do. Do not smear into it -your own vague fancies. Study it, to find what God has hidden behind -its exterior covering. Think of it and its meaning; not of yourself, -and what you would like it to be. Reverence, reverence, and for ever -reverence, as that same great countryman of yours has said; and I -promise you that if it be but a tuft of dandelions, or the head of the -most weather-beaten _Mütterchen_ on the marketplace, it shall be more -worth hanging up and looking at than a thousand of those things.’ - -‘Your sayings are hard, but true,’ she answered, with a return of life -in her cheek and eye; ‘and I thank you for your lesson, though it has -been a stern one. Only tell me—you don’t despair of me?’ - -‘I never felt such confidence in you as I do now,’ he replied, with a -smile, and looking at her as if he wished she would return it. But Sara -could not do that yet. She sat still, resting her cheek on her hand, -and he paced about the studio talking to her, his heart beating fast -too, thinking. - -‘Fine-tempered—true and pure gold. Does the man know what sort of a -woman he has won? Judging by my own experience of such affairs—not.’ - -When Avice came in from her walk, she found Sara and Herr Falkenberg in -the parlour, looking over engravings. Then Ellen hastened to bring the -coffee, and Rudolf disburthened his mind of an invitation committed to -his charge by Fräulein Wilhelmi, bidding Sara to a musical party on the -following evening. She promised to go; and he, departing, held her hand -somewhat long as he asked: - -‘You have understood, I hope?’ - -‘Perfectly, and am grateful.’ - -‘Then, till to-morrow evening,’ he replied, bowing, and taking his -departure. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -THE LION AND THE MOUSE. - - -ON the following evening, Sara, when she arrived at the Wilhelmis’, -found a large, gay party assembled, consisting chiefly of those who -had distinguished themselves in the _lebenden_ _Bildern_ the night -before, or who had given useful service in preparing them. Sara was -almost shocked to recognise, amongst others, little Frau Goldmark, -for whose benefit the entertainment had been given. To her intense -nature it appeared strange and even indecorous that the young widow -should present herself in this sparkling mixed company—under the -circumstances. Certainly she did not put herself forward; she sat on -an ottoman, in a rather retired corner, from which she did not move, -and those who desired to have speech of her could do so by going and -talking to her. Sara found herself near her during the evening, and, -at the moment, no one else was close to them. She turned and spoke to -her, wishing her good-evening rather gravely. Indeed, since yesterday -afternoon, she had felt grave, though by no means sad. She had -reflected upon Falkenberg’s strictures, and the more she thought upon -the subject the more convinced she was that he had spoken the words of -justice—of truth and soberness. - -‘Ah, Miss Ford!’ exclaimed Frau Goldmark, effusively, ‘how very much I -have to thank you for!’ - -‘Do not mention it, Frau Goldmark. What little I could do, I did with -great pleasure; and I am very glad if it succeeded.’ - -‘_Ach, ungeheuer!_’ cried she, using an exaggerated expression not -beloved of Sara, who wondered more and more that the little woman had -not had the sense to remain at home—‘_Ungeheuer!_ it will be a small -fortune to me. It is entirely your influence, of course, _liebes -Fräulein_, which has induced Herr Falkenberg to be so generous. And I, -who had been thinking that the picture was only so much buried capital, -that never would be realised!’ - -‘I am afraid I don’t understand you,’ said Sara, becoming conscious -that some event of which she knew nothing was alluded to, and aware, -too, of a disagreeably significant meaning in the smile with which Frau -Goldmark looked at her. - -‘But you must know surely that, yesterday morning, Herr Falkenberg went -straight to the _Ausstellung_, where my husband’s picture hung, and -that he bought it—bought it then and there; and when Herr Lohe of the -_Ausstellung_ said that it was a fine picture, Herr Falkenberg replied -that to anyone who had seen Miss Ford in that character the night -before, it could not fail to be a fine picture. Now, what do you think?’ - -Frau Goldmark laughed, never having imagined that she would have the -good fortune to be the first to communicate this news to Miss Ford. The -reply surprised and appalled her. - -‘I think your information most uncalled for, and that, if true, it is -not of the slightest importance to me,’ replied the young lady, raising -her head to its utmost height, and, without deigning another word, -walking away. - -Frau Goldmark recoiled. She had imagined that the information would be -considered most piquant and gratifying, and behold, the result had been -annihilation almost. - -Though Sara had walked away with such dignity, a most unpleasant -sensation had taken possession of her. It was most unlike all she knew -of Falkenberg that he should make such a vulgar remark as that would -certainly have been; and yet the glibness with which Frau Goldmark had -repeated it, staggered her. She stood, absently conversing with Ludwig -Maas, the very man with whom she had acted in the picture, and was -chiefly conscious of repenting bitterly that she had ever taken any -part in the affair, and Herr Maas was wondering a little why Miss Ford, -who, with all her dignity, had been so sociable and pleasant to him two -days ago, should wear so cold and unapproachable an expression this -evening, when Falkenberg came up to them. - -‘Miss Ford,’ said he, ‘I have been talking to Frau Goldmark.’ - -‘Indeed!’ was the frigid reply. - -‘I had better go,’ decided Ludwig within himself; and with a murmured -excuse he left them. - -‘Yes,’ pursued Rudolf. ‘I saw that she had offended you by something -she had said. She is a tiresome, vulgar little woman, who used to -annoy me a good deal in former days when I had dealings with her -husband.’ - -‘I can quite imagine it,’ said Sara, ‘but as I feel quite indifferent -towards her, we need not talk about her.’ - -There was a laugh in Falkenberg’s eyes as he said: - -‘But I do not feel at all indifferent towards her, finding as I do, -that she has been misrepresenting me to you.’ - -Sara’s face flushed, and her head was lifted again. - -‘Pray let us leave the subject,’ she said. - -‘No, I must ask you as a favour to hear me. Frau Goldmark has a way of -putting the cart before the horse sometimes, which, if innocent, is -still annoying. She told you that _I_ had said to Herr Lohe—something -which, if I had said it, under the circumstances, would have been the -height of impertinence, though the poor little woman seems to imagine -that it was a charming compliment.’ - -‘Well, and did you not say it?’ she asked, still in the same -unapproachable manner. - -‘Can you for a moment suspect me of it? I observed to Herr Lohe that it -was a charming picture, upon which he threw up his hands, exclaiming, -“_Ach! mein Herr_, it was always charming, but since one has seen Miss -Ford in it, it is _à ravir_.”’ - -Sara smiled involuntarily. Herr Lohe was a well-known character in the -Elberthal artist world. The words and the manner were so exactly his, -that she could no longer have even a shade of doubt on the matter. - -‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, all the stiffness melting suddenly from -her attitude and expression, ‘for ever listening to such a story. It -took me by surprise.’ - -‘Now you look less terrible, and more human,’ he said, laughing; ‘less -like those “snows so pure, those peaks so high,” to which the poet said -he lifted “a hopeless eye.”’ - -‘You are laughing at me,’ said Sara, laughing in her turn. ‘I felt -insulted, I confess. What a tiresome, mischievous little woman that is!’ - -‘Very. But,’ he added earnestly, and in a low voice, ‘you were not -insulted yesterday, when I said some rather strong things to you, the -reverse of complimentary, and yet now——’ - -‘That was quite different,’ she replied, her cheek flushing again. ‘And -you know it, Herr Falkenberg; but you wish to torment me because you -think I am exaggerated in everything.’ - -‘Since that is your opinion of my opinion of you, let it stand,’ was -all he would reply. - -Frau Goldmark sat in her corner, and watched the proceedings from afar. -After having been made so much of for so long, this was a grievous -way in which to be treated. Her feelings were assuredly akin to those -expressed by the oysters when the walrus and the carpenter threatened -to eat them. - - ‘After such kindness, that would be - A dismal thing to do.’ - -‘_Lieber Himmel!_’ thought Frau Goldmark, who was accustomed, even -mentally, to the use of exaggerated expressions, ‘how could I know? -But who does know what will please an Englishwoman? Not I, I am sure. -I wish I had given her back her stare, but I never have my wits about -me at the right moment, and I dare say she thought I was overwhelmed -with confusion. And when he came up to me’—here an expression akin to -cunning developed itself upon Frau Goldmark’s face—‘these men think -they have but to speak, and that then we believe them. He “thought I -had made a mistake,” indeed. Whether I may have been mistaken about -that or not, can I not see him now, talking to her, and the look in -his eyes? Bah! it is easy enough to see what it all means. People -like her think they have a right to toss their heads if one hazards a -joke. Would not she be glad enough to catch him, if she could? And -if she does, will it not be through me that they have been brought -together—their happiness made out of my misfortune? _Ach, ja!_’ - -Which leads one to reflect that there is a celebrated fable concerning -a lion and a mouse, which relates how the former magnanimously thanked -the latter on being set free from his toils through that humble -agency—leads one also to wonder a little what some mice might feel -supposing they had received favours of crushing importance from the -kingly beast, and had later been rebuked for flippancy of behaviour. -Perhaps the feelings of the mouse on such an occasion might not be -altogether without resemblance to those just now entertained by Frau -Goldmark towards her two most substantial benefactors. - -Late the following evening, Falkenberg was pacing up and down the space -jutting out from the Hofgarten towards the river, and known as the -Schöne Aussicht. (Schöne Aussicht—Belle Vue—Bella Vista: why have we -no name for it in England, we who have so much of the thing itself?) It -was the very hour which Sara had mentioned as being her favourite one -for strolling about. Had Falkenberg had any idea of meeting her there? -Hardly. He was scarcely the man to go with such a purpose, especially -in the case of Sara Ford. He had come, partly because he wished to be -alone, and partly because she had said she loved the place. So much he -confessed to himself; nor did it disturb him in that he knew it was a -dream that he cherished. - -He was thinking about her now as he paced about, thinking of what she -had said about loving to watch the river, the Rhine. Falkenberg watched -it too, as it flowed majestically along, eleven hundred feet across, -from one low flat bank to the other, making a low, sedate music as -he seemed to march by, with his grand, broad, unintermittent sweep, -having gathered in might and volume during his long journey past -castle and crag and town, between the walls of Mainz and beneath the -frowning escarpments of Ehrenbreitstein, between rock and vineyard and -village and hamlet, until he came to proud Cologne, the fairest gem in -his crown, and then, broader and stronger and older and greyer, went -sweeping on past the other villages and towns, towards Rotterdam and -Holland and the sea. - -Rudolf saw not another human creature. He ceased his walk, and placed -himself on one of the benches looking towards the river, and, leaning -his elbow on the back of it, smoked, and abstractedly watched a -great American Rhine steamer, with _Kaiser Wilhelm_ inscribed on her -paddle-box, which was steaming slowly into the harbour to stay there -and be repaired before the next tourist season began. The lights on her -poop and deck cast bright rays athwart the sullen grey of the stream, -but he did not see them though he was looking at them. - -‘I wish she was not engaged to this fellow,’ he thought. ‘It’s young -Wellfield, I suppose, unless I was very much deceived by what I saw -at Trockenau that night. I may do him injustice, but I have an idea -that when all comes to the point, he will look first to his precious -self. It is not surprising if he is both vain and selfish, after the -ordeal he has gone through of flattery and gratuitous love affairs and -desperate cases, and girls who have made fools of themselves about -him. But it is a pity that at last a noble woman should have fallen a -victim. God forgive me if I do the lad injustice. I hope I do. One can -but wait the event.’ - -He knocked the ash from his cigar, and gazed across the river at the -outline, now very dim, of a battered-looking tree on the opposite shore. - -‘It is time I came to some conclusion,’ he thought. ‘I have been -dangling here long enough. I have her friendship—I see and know that -her love is given elsewhere. It would be simple madness in me to try -to win it. I am only burning my fingers and making a fool of myself by -remaining here—and getting more in love with her every day.... Ay, and -I do love her!’ - -He flung his cigar away, and leaned forward, gazing intently out into -the darkness, thinking. - -‘If ever I had the chance of marrying her—if by any means I could -induce her to take me, I would do it, let the risk be what it might.... -Shall I stay a little longer? Is the pleasure worth the concomitant -pain? When I know that I may not tell her I love her, any more than -she, if she loved me, could tell me so.’ - -As he thus reflected, and reflected, too, that it was all a -chance—everything was a chance—he watched how two men on the big -steamer threw out a rope to two men in a little boat which was rocking -in the swell in the wake of the big one. Twice they threw, and missed; -then prepared to cast it out a third time. - -‘If they catch it this time,’ decided Rudolf, ‘I’ll stay; if they miss -again, I’ll say good-bye to her to-morrow, and go home.’ - -A third throw of the rope, a lurch of the little boat, and the cry: - -‘_Gut! Jetzt hab’ ich’s._’ - -‘I stay. _Gut!_ I take my holiday in Elberthal instead of in Rome. What -does it matter to anyone but myself?’ - -He arose, and walked straight back to Wilhelmi’s house, where there -was, as usual, a large company, many of whom had been invited expressly -to meet him. He went amongst them, and made himself agreeable to them -for the rest of the evening. He promised himself a month’s holiday -from now. The chances were—for something happening to Sara, to Jerome, -to anyone, which should lead events in the direction he desired—one. -Against that, ten thousand. And for the sake of the one he stayed. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -UNAWARES. - - ‘What’s this thought, - Shapeless and shadowy, that keeps flitting round - Like some dumb creature that sees coming danger, - And breaks its heart, trying in vain to speak?’ - - -PERHAPS Sara Ford was the solitary person who never gave a thought -as to why Rudolf Falkenberg paid so long a visit to the Wilhelmis’. -Everyone else, from Frau Goldmark upwards, had arrived at the -same conclusion, and felt a just and honourable pride in his own -astuteness—the conclusion that Herr Falkenberg was what is euphoniously -called, ‘paying attention’ to Miss Ford. He knew the report well -himself, and knowing that to the principal person concerned—herself—it -was as if it had not been, and not caring a straw what was said or -thought about him, he took no trouble to enlighten anyone on the -subject. He came and went like an old friend in and out of Sara’s -presence. He was perfectly certain that Jerome Wellfield was kept fully -informed of all that was said and done in their interviews, and that -being so, he felt that he had no other person to account to for his -action in the matter. And he knew that his presence invigorated and -did her good. She had cast aside all her dreamy fancies, and had gone -humbly to Nature, as he had bidden her do, and Nature had not betrayed -‘the heart that loved her.’ Sara had made some studies, on seeing -which, Wilhelmi, all unconscious of what had gone before, had drawn -a long breath of relief, saying, ‘_Was, Kind!_ You are again coming -to your senses.’ Falkenberg had not frowned, if he had not smiled at -them; he had said: - -‘So you have laid hold of the clue at last, which leads back to the -narrow path?’ - -‘I shall never rest,’ said Sara, cheerfully, ‘until I have done -something which you will not scorn to hang up somewhere near the roof -of your picture-gallery. Then I shall feel sure that I not only have -the clue, but am back on the stony road again.’ - -‘Some day you will do something which the world will not allow to be -buried in any picture-gallery of mine. Patience, patience, and ever -patience!’ - -It was the morning after they had held this conversation. Sara and -Avice were seated at breakfast. - -‘I wonder,’ observed the latter, ‘whether Jerome will come over here -for Christmas? Do you think he will? Does he ever say anything to you?’ - -‘Never,’ said Sara, with a smile. ‘But I have very little doubt that he -will come.’ - -‘It would be so delightful—a real German Christmas at the Wilhelmis’, -with a tree, and everything proper.’ - -‘For that matter, you may have a tree here, if you like. But—ah, here’s -the postman. And a letter from Jerome,’ she added, as she took it from -Ellen’s hand, and read it. - - ‘DEAREST SARA, - - ‘I write in exceeding haste to tell you that an excellent opportunity - offers for Avice to come to England. My friend Father Somerville, - of whom I have so often spoken to you, is travelling at present in - Belgium on business connected with the college. He has to visit - Cologne before his return, and means to travel by way of Elberthal, - Rotterdam, and Harwich, and he has offered to take charge of my - sister. He will be about two days in Elberthal, and I asked him to - call upon you at once, to explain his arrangements. I expect it - will be the end of this week before he arrives. This had all been - arranged in such haste that I could not possibly let you know before. - And now I have no time to write as I should wish to do. I have had - troubles—money troubles. I will explain as soon as I am able to write - to you. Meantime this must go to the post. Excuse its hastiness. Give - my love to my sister, and believe me, - - ‘Your devoted - ‘J. W.’ - -When Sara had finished reading this letter, she passed her hand over -her eyes, trembling strangely. She could not understand it. It was -like some hateful, inexplicable nightmare. That the hand which had all -along caressed, should thus suddenly strike—and strike hard—passed -her comprehension. The voice which had been so tender was in a -moment shouting out a harsh command. No reasons given—no one word of -explanation as to why Avice was so suddenly to be taken away from -her. It was incredible. There had never been any spoken or written -agreement, but always a tacit understanding that Avice was to remain -with her until she and Jerome were married, and that then she should -share their home. It seemed it was not to be so. - -‘What is the matter, Sara? Has anything happened to Jerome—tell me!’ - -For all answer, Sara handed her the letter. She could not speak—could -not explain it. - -‘What—why?’ exclaimed the girl, in a tone of dismay. ‘I do not -understand.’ - -‘Nor I, dear!’ was the answer. ‘I know exactly as much about it as you -do.’ - -‘I am sure I don’t want to go travelling with this strange man—carried -off as if I had done something wrong,’ said Avice, less and less -charmed with the prospect. - -‘If you have to go, I shall see that you do not go alone,’ was all -Sara could answer. She could eat no more. She rose from her chair. -Leaving Avice with the letter, to follow her own devices, she retired -to her atelier, and there tried to reason it all out, and comprehend -it—and failed. It grew more inexplicable, and more horrible, the more -thought she gave to it, until at last an idea flashed into her mind, -which left her cold and trembling and miserable, with a misery such as -she had never known before. Had any change come over him?—did he love -her less? She laughed at it, put it aside, argued it away, and at last -did attain to a pretty certain conviction that she was wrong; but the -misery remained. It was there, like a dead, leaden weight at her heart. -She might argue away her first impression—the first subtle intrusion of -the idea, or the shadow or the ghost of the idea, false, but she could -not get rid of the wretchedness caused by the fact that the idea had -intruded—that something had happened so strange as to open the door for -it to enter by. - -She tried to paint, but could not. She passed a morning of -misery—heavy, unrelieved, and indescribable. When she returned to -Avice, she found her too dejected, puzzled, unhappy. - -‘I don’t want to go,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what Jerome means, or -wants. If I go to England, he ought to come and fetch me.’ - -He had said no word of coming, as Sara remembered, with a heartache. - -‘He wrote in haste, and promised to let us hear again,’ she replied. -‘There is sure to be a letter to-morrow explaining.’ - -‘I don’t see how it is to be explained,’ said Avice, despondently. ‘But -if Jerome thinks he can tyrannise over me, he is mistaken.’ - -Her lips closed one upon the other with an expression of obstinacy. - -‘Hush! as if he had any thought of such a thing!’ said Sara, coldly; -but this exchange of ideas had not resulted in lightening the heart of -either one or the other of them. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -‘AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS.’ - - -THE postman did not call at all the following morning, and Sara, she -scarcely knew why, felt sick at heart. What a martyrdom those four or -five postal deliveries per diem of a great town may and do inflict -upon some of those who are eagerly waiting for _something_ to come, -and it never appears. The postman goes past, or calls, with terrible -regularity. Scarcely has one bitter disappointment been tided over, -than one sees him again, with the bundle of letters in his left hand, -passing along the street, or running up the steps. There is the -sharp fall of a letter in the box, the sickening interval before the -servant comes in with the salver, and on it a circular, an invitation, -a bill—never the thing one is longing for so desperately. Under the -circumstances, give us rather by all means the one delivery during -the day of the dark and barbarous village which is five miles from -everywhere. There one is at least secure of an interval of twenty-four -hours between each ordeal. - -Dinner, their midday dinner, was over; and the afternoon was advancing. -Sara could not paint; so, saying she had a headache, she did not enter -her studio, but remained in the other room with a book. Ellen and Avice -were both in the atelier. Ellen with her sewing, which she usually -took there when her mistress was not painting, and sometimes when -she was. Avice was painting. She had a very pretty talent for making -water-colour drawings; and Wilhelmi, out of his regard for Sara, had -given her a few hints on different occasions, by which she had not -failed to profit. - -Thus Sara had her book, her parlour, and her thoughts to herself, and -felt the monopoly to be of anything but an exhilarating character. -She scarce saw the printed page; she was so engrossed in her wonder -as to what had really been in Jerome’s mind when he wrote her that -letter, and by the bitter sense of indignity she experienced in -the utter silence of to-day. Not a line; not a word from him. It -was amazing—incomprehensible! She had not answered the letter. She -was wondering whether she should do so, whether she should wait -another day; in the hope of hearing from him that he had been hasty, -ill-advised; that he had decided not to let his sister return with -Father Somerville. - -Then some one knocked at the door, and in answer to her _Herein!_ -Rudolf Falkenberg entered. - -‘Send me away if I disturb you,’ he said, pausing, and looking rather -doubtfully at her. - -‘Not in the least. Pray come in, Herr Falkenberg, and try to instil -some of your wisdom into me, for I am a very foolish person.’ - -‘As how?’ he asked, taking a chair near her, when she had given him -her hand; ‘and what has happened, that I find you sitting here in the -middle of the afternoon, like——’ - -‘Like a banker on his holiday, or a lady of independent means, or some -other equally enviable person,’ said Sara. - -‘You will own that the position for you is an anomaly, at least.’ - -‘I suppose it is. I cannot paint to-day. I have other things to think -of.’ Her face clouded. ‘I am going to lose my dear little companion.’ - -She told him this as a fact, though she had been debating within -herself whether to wait till she heard ‘certainly’ from Wellfield. - -‘Miss Wellfield! Is she going?’ - -‘Yes. Her brother is ready for her to come home, and as a suitable -escort offers, he has sent for her.’ - -‘I see. And that will leave you alone.’ - -‘When she is gone, and you are gone, I shall be quite alone.’ - -She looked at him as she spoke with a frank, unconscious regret, openly -expressed in her glance, and in the tone of her voice, before which -he averted his eyes. It was at moments like these that he felt the -‘burnt fingers’ he had pictured to himself, give twinges and pangs of -pain which were hard to bear without either word or exclamation. _Tout -vient à point à qui sait attendre_, had been a favourite proverb with -him, and he still believed in it a good deal, though he was aware, -as most men and women who have passed the boundary of youth must -be, either from observation or experience, that these trite, dull, -hackneyed proverbs have a trick of realising themselves in a fashion -the reverse of delightful. ‘Everything comes to pass for him who knows -how to wait for it.’ But how does it come to pass? The oracle sayeth -not, and he is a fool who asks. ‘And he shall give them their hearts’ -desire’—another poetical, grandiloquently sounding promise. But how do -they sometimes receive their hearts’ desire? Often in such fashion as -to break the heart that has been waiting and desiring so long. - -‘I am the bearer of an invitation to you from Fräulein Wilhelmi,’ he -said, not answering her look and tone of regret. ‘Or rather, I might -say, a mandate—a command.’ - -‘What sort of a command? Luise wishes to command everyone,’ said Sara, -with a languid smile. - -‘She has arranged some private theatricals for to-morrow evening, and——’ - -‘Does she wish me to take part in them?’ - -‘No; only to be a guest.’ - -‘And to see her and Max Helmuth in them. I shall have to ask you to -make my excuses, Herr Falkenberg. Until Avice has gone, I shall not go -out. She leaves at the end of this week, and I cannot leave her.’ - -‘I think you have ample excuse, certainly; though of course I should -wish, so far as I am concerned, to see you there.’ - -‘Thank you. Luise’s parties have been a different thing since you did -come. I often wonder she does not get utterly wearied of them—I don’t -mean that I feel myself superior to such things, but the monotony of it -all. Luise goes very little away from home, and while at home there is -scarcely one night without some entertainment, either at her father’s -house, or some one else’s. She sees the same people; hears the same -jokes, the same stories; dances with the same partners; receives the -same compliments. It must be unutterably wearisome.’ - -‘Why so? In it she is fulfilling her vocation, just as much as you by -studying art fulfil yours.’ - -‘Does she? That never struck me. What do you call her vocation?’ - -‘To please and attract is her vocation, to become an expert in which -she has studied diligently and practised laboriously since she was a -mere baby, and that under every kind of circumstances, and upon every -variety of subject.’ - -‘It is true. And she is very fascinating, without doubt.’ - -‘She is.’ - -‘Since she practises upon every variety of subject, I suppose she has -practised upon you? Has she succeeded?’ - -‘In winning me? Yes. I have been her slave for many years; that is, -when I saw that it was necessary to her self-respect that I should -bend the knee before her, I bent it, and have enjoyed the greatest -amiability and kindness from her ever since.’ - -‘Oh—that! I don’t call that being won,’ said Sara, with rather a -disdainful curl of the lip. - -‘No? What, then, is your idea of being won?’ he asked, as he trifled -with the leaves of a plant standing in a pot near to him. - -‘In the case of a man or of a woman, do you mean?’ - -‘Of—say of a man.’ - -‘Well, Luise has not won you. Have you read any of Browning’s poetry?’ - -‘Very little. Why?’ - - ‘There is a little poem of his about wearing - a rose. It concludes: - - ‘“Then, how grace a rose? - I know a way. - Leave it, rather, - Must you gather; - Smell, kiss, wear it, and then throw away.”’ - -‘That is severe,’ he said. - -‘But true. And you are no more won by Luise than the man who could so -write of a rose was won by it. But that is not the way in which she has -won Max Helmuth. And she does not care to win any other in that way.’ - -‘I believe you are right. She has more power than I thought. Then do -you think she could really win me in the end?’ - -‘No; I should think not,’ said Sara. ‘I know some one who, I think, -would be much more likely to win you.’ - -‘Who?’ he exclaimed, so eagerly that she looked at him in surprise. He -was skirting dangerous ground, and he knew it and enjoyed it. - -‘Avice Wellfield, if she were old enough.’ - -‘Miss Wellfield?’ he echoed, and looked at her with a look she did -not understand. ‘Miss Wellfield before Fräulein Wilhelmi, certainly. -Yes, there is a wonderful charm about her. If you were not so strict -in your definition of “won,” I should say she had won me already by -the mystery and poetry which seems to envelop her. But you will not -allow me to say “won,” of a feeling like that. In the same way,’ he -continued composedly, ‘I should say that you had won me long ago by -your simplicity.’ - -‘By my simplicity?’ echoed Sara, not giving a thought to the serious -and decidedly personal turn the conversation was taking; feeling only -that it was a pleasant break in the far from easy or pleasant current -of her reflections while alone. - -‘Yes; your almost classical simplicity and freedom from every sort of -affectation—a simplicity which extends to your whole nature, and which -is so engrained that you are quite unconscious of it. My telling you -of it will not cause you to lose it. I defy you to lose it. I should -not wonder if some day it led you into doing or saying something which -conventional people would call outrageous.’ - -‘You are remarkably candid this afternoon,’ she said, much amused. ‘I -do not see why you should have a monopoly of it. I will tell you what -it was in you that “won” me, as you call it.’ - -‘And what was that?’ he asked tranquilly, though he knew that never in -his life before had he been on such dangerous and difficult ground. -The temptation of hearing her tell him that she liked him, and why she -liked him, was irresistible. - -‘First, the unconsciousness with which you wore your riches and your -celebrity—for you are celebrated, you cannot deny it; and next, your -trustworthiness.’ - -‘Trustworthiness!’ he echoed, as she had done. - -‘Yes; you are trustworthy. “My telling you about it will not cause you -to lose it. I defy you to lose it. I should not wonder if some day it -drove you to doing or saying something which more conventional people -would call”—foolish.’ - -Sara smiled a little as she looked upon him from her deep eyes, and -Falkenberg answered the smile with a thrill of exquisite pleasure. It -was sweet indeed to know this. ‘Two can be steadfast,’ as he had more -than once said to himself. These words of hers simply confirmed his -love, strengthened his purpose. He would still wait. If he waited long -enough, the day might come on which he might be able to serve her. - -‘Why, you give me a _quid pro quo_,’ he said. ‘I did not know you could -make jokes.’ - -‘Do you call that a joke? Perhaps I am not so “simple” as you think me. -Perhaps Luise Wilhelmi and I are in one another’s confidence.’ - -‘Upon what?’ asked Falkenberg. He was leaning forward, his face resting -upon his hand; his beautiful, steadfast brown eyes looking directly -into hers. He paused in this attitude, waiting for her answer, and, -during the pause, the door was opened, and Ellen said: - -‘A gentleman, ma’am, to see you.’ - -She put a card into Sara’s hand, upon which card its owner instantly -followed. So quickly, that, when she had perused the words: - - ‘THE REV. PABLO SOMERVILLE, S.J., - _Brentwood College, - Lancashire_,’ - -and raised her eyes, he stood before her, bowing, and regarding her -piercingly, but not in the least obtrusively, from his deep-set, -inscrutable eyes. - -Sara rose instantly, a deep flush mantling her face, which flush -Somerville did not fail to note; while Falkenberg, whose composure when -he felt himself _bien_, well-off, at his ease, it was almost impossible -to disturb, merely raised his head, and transferred the gaze of his -calm brown eyes from Sara’s face to that of Somerville. - -Sara was deeply disturbed and surprised. The visit was totally -unexpected, on that day at least. Like a flood there rushed over her -mind the miserable conviction that Jerome had behaved at any rate -with unpardonable carelessness, if not with deliberate intention of -wrong-doing. She knew nothing of how far this man was in her lover’s -confidence (and Somerville had no intention of furnishing her with -any information on that point). She had not had time to consider and -decide whether she should receive him cordially or otherwise. All this -gave embarrassment and uncertainty to her manner, and made it quite -unlike her usual one; while Somerville, as will readily be supposed, -was as perfectly, as entirely self-possessed and at his ease here as in -the Lecture Theatre at Brentwood, or pacing about the garden at Monk’s -Gate with Jerome Wellfield, and recommending him to marry Anita Bolton. - -Being a very clever man, he had formed a theory of his own with regard -to Sara, when Jerome had told him her occupation and given him her -address. He had instantly imagined that she was the woman to whom -Wellfield was ‘in honour bound.’ Now that he saw her, he was convinced -of it, and he was not going to give her any assistance by making casual -observations. All he said was: - -‘I fear I come inopportunely.’ - -‘I heard of your intended visit to Elberthal, Mr. Somerville, but had -no idea you could be here so soon,’ she replied, distantly. - -‘My business in Brussels and Bruges was over sooner than I expected,’ -was the courteous reply, as he took the seat she pointed to. ‘Mr. -Wellfield asked me to call here immediately on my arrival, and said he -would write to you.’ - -‘Yes, I have heard from him,’ replied Sara, reflecting with a cruel, -bitter pang on the strange style of that communication, distracted -how to act. Somehow she could not accept as final Jerome’s letter of -yesterday. She still clung to an idea—a hope that she should hear from -him countermanding the abrupt mandate. But she could not betray as much -to this priest, for, from his entire manner, it was evident that he at -least was following up arrangements which had not been contradicted. - -‘I thought it best to call now,’ pursued Somerville, pleasantly, -perfectly conscious of her disturbance, ‘as I am absolutely obliged to -leave for England the day after to-morrow, and felt that you ought to -be informed of the fact.’ - -‘The day after to-morrow? Mr. Wellfield in his letter spoke of the end -of the week.’ - -‘When I left Brentwood, I quite supposed it would be the end of -the week. But I am not my own master in this journey. I am under -instructions.’ - -‘Which, of course, have to be obeyed?’ observed Falkenberg, -nonchalantly. - -‘Exactly so,’ answered Somerville, turning his eyes upon him with the -rapidity of lightning. Falkenberg met them with the same utter calm and -unconcern. He had not moved from his chair close to Sara’s side. - -‘Mr. Wellfield’s last wish would be to hurry or incommode you,’ -continued Somerville, again turning to Sara, ‘but if Miss Wellfield -could be ready by the time I mention——’ - -‘Miss Wellfield will be quite ready when she is required to go home,’ -said Sara, with crushing coldness; her pride in mad rebellion at what -she called to herself the insolence of this strange man in telling -_her_, of all persons, what were Jerome Wellfield’s wishes in respect -to his sister. - -‘Here is Miss Wellfield herself,’ she added, as Avice came in, and -she introduced her to Somerville. Avice looked and felt cold and -constrained, though Somerville’s charm of manner soon removed her -objections to him personally. He began to talk to her, pointedly -going into details about her brother, and his great desire to see her -and have her with him again, which details soon began to interest -Avice exceedingly. Sara writhed (mentally) at this conduct, yet she -could not speak, for from all Somerville’s demeanour she came to the -conclusion that, however friendly Jerome might have been with him, he -had not confided to him the fact of their engagement. It was therefore -perfectly natural that the priest, if he were unaware of this, should -look upon the sister as more interested than the friend, and should -turn to her with all his remarks and details. - -Somerville himself saw it all, and his own reflections were: - -‘_Mon Dieu!_ A rare piece of pride and beauty, I must own. He might -well turn upon me in the way he did when I suggested his marrying the -little Bolton heiress. This is a prize not lightly to be resigned, -though I think his hold upon it now is loose enough. How she chafes -at the treatment she has had lately, and what would not this other -man give if he could carry her off? Well, perhaps his wish may be -gratified. I am sure I have every desire to further it.’ - -By-and-by Ellen brought in coffee, and while they were drinking it, -Wilhelmi and his daughter called. Introductions and explanations -followed, given by Sara in the coldest of cold tones; but Wilhelmi, -seeing only some one in some way connected with his favourite -pupil, invited Somerville to spend the evening at his house, and -Luise, perceiving an opportunity of maintaining her self-respect -by captivating a stranger, added the prettiest entreaties, and the -invitation and the entreaties were accepted by the object of them. Sara -steadily refused to leave her own home until after Avice had gone, and -Luise, her attention diverted by Somerville’s appearance on the scene, -was less insistent than usual when her will was crossed. - -Then they all went away in a body, not without Somerville’s having -observed that Falkenberg lingered behind the rest to touch his -hostess’s hand, and look earnestly and inquiringly into her face. His -lynx-eye saw the faint, sorrowful smile which answered that look; and -as he went away, he said triumphantly in his heart: - -‘The way is clear, friend Wellfield. Surely you would not be so selfish -as to stand between her and such a marriage as is waiting to be -accepted by her!’ - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -FATHER SOMERVILLE GATHERS THE THREADS TOGETHER. - - -SARA had a short visit on the following morning from Father Somerville, -paid ostensibly for the purpose of telling her his arrangements, and -asking if Avice could be ready by a certain hour on the following day. - -‘Yes,’ replied Sara; ‘if you will be at the _Bergisch-Märk’sche_ -station at the hour you mention, Miss Wellfield and my servant will -meet you in ample time.’ - -Somerville’s countenance changed a little. - -‘Surely there is no need for you to inconvenience yourself by parting -with your servant,’ he began. - -‘Allow me to judge what is necessary. Miss Wellfield will not leave me -except under my maid’s care, who will see her to her brother’s house, -and can then return to me.’ - -He bit his lips and apologised, saying that no doubt Miss Ford was -perfectly right. - -In the evening, despite her protestations against it, she was made to -go to the Wilhelmis’. Luise ‘made a point of it,’ and Sara, weary of -striving, and wishing also to avoid painful conversation with Avice, -who insisted upon having all kinds of messages given for Jerome, who -she was sure would be dreadfully disappointed if she presented herself -to him without such proofs of affection—Sara, sad and spiritless, went -about eight o’clock to the big house in the Königsallée. - -All the beautiful rooms were thrown open: there was talking and -laughing, music and dancing going on. As Sara entered, looking pale and -indifferent, but splendidly handsome, as usual, in her cream-coloured -cashmere and pale roses with glossy leaves, Luise Wilhelmi came dancing -up to her, looking sparklingly beautiful, and glowing with life and -excitement. She was followed of course by her gigantic Max, smiling, -handsome, devoted, ineffably happy, as usual. - -‘Oh, Sara, your Father Somerville is delightful!’ exclaimed Luise. ‘I -have quite lost my heart to him. If he were not a priest I should run -away with him—do you hear, Max?’ - -Sara saw nothing in this even to smile at. What was a light jest to -Luise Wilhelmi, was deadly pain and misery to her. Max Helmuth laughed -a mighty, not very meaning laugh. Was he not in honour bound to laugh -at all the jokes or would-be jokes of this sprightly little lady, who, -so everyone said, was so much cleverer than himself? - -‘Look how amiable he is!’ pursued Luise; ‘even making himself agreeable -to the poor Goldmark there.’ - -Sara turned hastily, and looked across the room to where indeed -Somerville was seated beside Frau Goldmark; his pale, handsome face -leaning a little towards her, in marked contrast with her flushed -excited countenance. - -‘Really, Luise, I wonder that Frau Goldmark persists in coming to these -large parties under the circumstances!’ she exclaimed involuntarily. - -‘It does look rather odd, doesn’t it? But who would grudge her a little -amusement? she will soon have to work hard enough.’ - -‘Certainly; but I think if my husband had been dead not six weeks, and -I had cared at all for him, I should not be very anxious for amusement.’ - -‘I think Fräulein Ford is right,’ said Max, audaciously hazarding an -independent remark. - -‘Max! He only says that because he has the greatest veneration for you, -Sara, and thinks all you say and do is right.’ - -‘Does he?’ said Sara, with rather a feeble smile, while her eyes -wandered restlessly around, as they had done ever since her arrival. -‘Ah!’ she added, a light breaking over her pale face, ‘there is Herr -Falkenberg; I wondered where he was.’ - -He came up to her and shook hands, and remained beside her. Luise and -Max moved off, she lightly leaning on his arm and whispering in his ear: - -‘_Nun, mein Lieber_, what do you think? Will you still say there -is nothing between them? Did you not see how dismal she was—quite -_verstimmt_, I declare, until Falkenberg came up, when in a moment -everything became _couleur de rose_. As for him, I really begin to -think that the unapproachable and fastidious Rudolf has fallen a victim -at last.’ - -‘And what wonder?’ murmured Max, peaceably. - -‘Not much, I confess. But say what you like, it is a tremendous match -for her.’ - -‘Why so tremendous?’ inquired Herr Helmuth, who appeared not quite so -complaisant as usual this evening. ‘I am sure even Falkenberg never met -a more beautiful or charming woman.’ - -‘_Even_ Falkenberg! I can tell you, Herr Bräutigam, that if it had -not been for a certain long-legged, stupid fellow, who has not a -word to say for himself, and on whom I took pity because I could not -bear to see him look always as if he were on the brink of tears or -suicide—if it had not been for this fellow, I say, who put me into this -predicament, _I_ would have shown you whether _even_ Falkenberg was -impervious to everyone except a stony Englishwoman like Miss Ford.’ - -Highly delighted, and completely restored to acquiescence and -submission, Max laughed again, a mightier laugh than ever, and they -repaired to the dancing-room. - - * * * * * - -Father Somerville had a very long conversation with Frau Goldmark, -relating entirely to Miss Ford and Herr Falkenberg. He had won her -heart by telling her that at Brentwood there was a small but beautiful -picture of her husband’s—a St. Agatha. - -‘Ah, _die heilige Agathe_!’ replied Frau Goldmark, artlessly. ‘Yes, a -very handsome housemaid of ours sat for it—an _Elsässin, die_ Lisbeth. -It made a beautiful picture.’ - -This opened the way to a conversation about the pictures in general -of the late Herr Goldmark, then to a description of the _lebenden -Bildern_, and the pictures in which Sara Ford had taken part: to -the fact that in ‘Yes or No’ she had looked so beautiful, that Herr -Falkenberg had bought the picture the very next morning. - -‘Oh! he bought it, did he? That is he, I think, talking to Miss Ford -now.’ - -‘Most certainly, that is he. He appears to spend most of his time in -talking to Miss Ford. We have all come to the conclusion that the only -thing which keeps him so long in Elberthal is Miss Ford’s presence.’ - -‘Ah! you think he wishes to marry Miss Ford.’ - -‘It looks like it. What is quite certain is, that she would be -overjoyed if he asked her.’ - -If Frau Goldmark could have caught the expression in Father -Somerville’s half-veiled eyes at that moment, she might have changed -her opinion as to his extreme affability. The look said: ‘How dare a -little insect like you presume to pass judgment on that woman!’ The man -had no good designs towards Sara and her happiness. She stood between -him and the accomplishment of a purpose which had now crystallised in -his mind into a set scheme and plan, which he was resolved to do all -in his power to carry out; but though he would crush her himself, and -smite down her life, no spite would enter into his arrangements. He -perfectly comprehended what she was, and knew that had he been other -than he was, he would have sacrificed all he had for the chance of -winning her; he knew that she had about as much desire to captivate -Rudolf Falkenberg as he had himself; and he knew that the woman beside -him had a small mind which could not rise to the level of those who -had roused her enmity, by first doing her great kindnesses, and then, -perhaps, snubbing her a little. - -That was nothing to the purpose. He encouraged Frau Goldmark to ramble -on, giving him one proof after another of the attachment existing -between Falkenberg and Sara. The latter he felt to be a mistake. Sara -did not love Falkenberg—she loved Jerome Wellfield; but the former -he believed and grasped at. Every sign of devotion on Rudolf’s part -put a weapon into his hands for the furtherance of his plan. He heard -glowing accounts of Falkenberg’s riches and great possessions; of -his status in the world of finance; of his interviews with royal and -imperial personages and their ministers; of what changes a word of his -could work in the state of the _Börse_; in short, every word that Frau -Goldmark said convinced him that here was a splendid alliance, waiting -for Sara Ford to ratify it; that nothing prevented that ratification, -except the insignificant fact that she was bound to Jerome Wellfield, -and, incidentally, of course, that she loved him as her life. - -He left early, excusing himself on the plea that he had to travel early -the following day, and that he had one or two important letters to -write that night—which was true. He repaired to his hotel, to his own -room, drew out writing-materials, and wrote: - - ‘DEAR WELLFIELD, - - ‘I am going to send this off by the midnight post, and as it is now - nearly eleven, I have not too much time. By doing this, you will - receive it twelve hours before my arrival with Miss Wellfield. I - called at Miss Ford’s house yesterday, and found her at home. Do you - know, once it came into my head that Miss Ford might be the lady to - whom you told me honour bound you, but I very soon abandoned that - idea, for all the world credits her with being betrothed, or about to - be betrothed, to Rudolf Falkenberg, the great Frankfort banker. You - know whom I mean. If I may judge from my own observation, I should - say report was right. He was sitting with her when I arrived, and I - saw that I was unwelcome to both. He certainly pays her most devoted - attention, and she, I should imagine, was far from feeling indifferent - to him. These envious German women say: “What a match for her;” but I - think you will agree with me that an Englishwoman like Miss Ford (for - I take it for granted that you do know her pretty well) is more than - worthy of anything that any man of any nation may have to offer her. - She certainly is a magnificent being. But enough of this. Your sister - will no doubt regale you with the same news, for she appears devoted - to Miss Ford. The latter sends her maid to travel along with Miss - Wellfield. I suppose we shall arrive at Wellfield about five in the - afternoon. I have been wondering how your affairs are progressing. How - glad I should be to hear on my arrival that the thing I so wish for - were accomplished, and that you had decided to take that place which - you assuredly ought to have. Well, I shall soon see you, I suppose. By - the way, on our way through London we shall call at the Great Western - Hotel to breakfast or rest, that will be the morning of the day after - to-morrow. If you have any communication telegraph to me there. - Time presses, so, until I place Miss Wellfield under your brotherly - protection, farewell. - - ‘Yours ever, - ‘PABLO SOMERVILLE.’ - -Somerville himself sallied forth with this to the General Post, -ascertained that it was in time for the night-mail, and that it would -reach its destination on the following evening. Then he returned to his -hotel, sighed, undressed, stretched himself upon his couch, and slept -that sleep of the labouring man, which we are told is sweet. - -Sara Ford, too, had left the party early, and, accompanied by -Falkenberg, had walked home. They maintained an almost unbroken silence -till they arrived at the great doorway of her home. Then they paused, -and Falkenberg said: - -‘After to-morrow morning, I suppose, you will be alone for a few days.’ - -‘Yes; till Ellen can go to Wellfield, have a night’s rest, and return -to me.’ - -‘Then I must not call so often, I fear.’ - -‘Perhaps it will be better not. This place is a very nest of gossip and -scandal, and though I do not ever allow such things to interfere with -anything I may choose to do that I feel to be right, yet I never could -see the sense of going out of my way to make them talk. But should you -have any reason for calling, Herr Falkenberg, or anything particular to -say to me, pray defy the gossips of Elberthal, and come. I shall be -only too glad to see you.’ - -‘Thank you. And—forgive me. From things you have said to-night, I fancy -you are in some trouble of mind.’ - -‘I am,’ she answered briefly. - -‘Will you remember that I am your friend and servant, and that any -service in my power, I would render you with delight, whether it gave -rise or not to gossip?’ - -‘Thank you. You are a friend indeed. If I require help or counsel, I -will come to you. But so long as I can, I must fight out my trouble -alone.’ - -They exchanged a handshake, and separated; he to go back to the -Wilhelmis’, and bear his part as best he might in the merriment; she -to her room to slowly undress, and bitterly to decide that to write to -Jerome under the circumstances was out of the question, to realise with -a rush, the great, sad change and dreariness which had suddenly crept -over everything, and to recollect Rudolf Falkenberg as one lost in a -wilderness recollects some group of strong, sheltering trees, seen on -the far horizon; distant, but safe when one should attain them. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -ABSCHIED UND RÜCKKEHR. - - -THE morning dawned, and brought the hour at which they were to be at -the station. There was the brief time of waiting there, the averted -eyes and stealthily-clasped hands. The train came in—another long -clinging kiss; then a brief, noisy interval of bustle and shouting—a -last wave of the hand from Avice—a last glimpse of Father Somerville’s -pale face and deep eyes—then they were gone, and she returned to her -‘sad and silent home.’ - -The travellers were to arrive at Wellfield late on the afternoon of -the following day. Ellen was to have one night’s rest, and to return -on the following day to Elberthal, so that Sara could not expect to -see her until the third evening after the day of departure. It is best -not to go into the history of those days—those three nights and four -days which Sara spent by herself. It is enough, that as each day went -by, and brought neither word nor sign from Wellfield, she felt her -heart wither and die within her. Hope was quenched. She did not hope -for Ellen’s return, but she looked to it for information: Ellen would -perhaps have made some observation, would have learnt something as to -the reason of all this strange mystery, which, while it lasted, so -bewildered her that she scarce knew whether she was in her sane mind or -out of it. She scarcely hoped for an explanation; she did not see how -the case admitted of one, but she waited—waited with a forced patience, -a false quiet, which forced her to put an almost unbearable strain -upon her nerves, and which consumed her like a fever. She would not -reproach; she would not accuse; she would wait, wait, wait, she said to -herself, a hundred times, and this waiting was eating out her heart, -while her pride was humbled to the dust. - -On the second afternoon, Rudolf Falkenberg called. He started when he -saw her. - -‘Miss Ford! You are ill. What is the matter?’ - -‘I am not ill, only a little headachy and nervous. I want to see Ellen, -and hear that Avice has arrived at home.’ - -His heart was wrung, but he could not say more; he saw from her manner -that she was in no mood for conversation, friendly or otherwise. -He went away with a sense of deep depression hanging over him; a -disagreeable _Ahndung_, as if some thunder-storm lurked in the -atmosphere, ready to burst upon and annihilate all around. - -On that fourth day—the day of Ellen’s return, Sara verily thought once -or twice that she was going mad. The horrible strain and tension; the -dead, unbroken silence, suspense, waiting; the horrible conviction, -which yet she could not prove without this eternity of waiting, that -she was being slighted, insulted, betrayed; it formed altogether an -ordeal more scorching than any of which her philosophy had hitherto -even surmised the existence. - -At length, in the evening, she heard a step on the stair; the door was -opened, and Ellen entered, looking utterly broken-down and exhausted. - -‘Ellen!’ she exclaimed, starting up, and fixing dilated eyes upon her; -‘are you ill?’ - -‘I’m not very well. Excuse my sitting down, Miss Sara. I can stand no -more. I’m not a good traveller, you know, especially by sea.’ - -‘Poor old Ellen! I’ll get you some wine. Loose your shawl and your -bonnet-strings. Did you get a rest at Wellfield? Did you stay all -night?’ - -‘Yes, ma’am; I stayed all night. I might have stayed longer if I’d -chosen to. Miss Wellfield begged me to remain another day.’ - -‘But you preferred to return to me?’ said Sara, her hand trembling so -violently as she poured out the wine, that she had to desist. - -‘I did, Miss Sara. I could not remain there.’ - -‘Not remain: why?’ - -‘I did not like the things I heard there; and besides, Mr. Wellfield -gave me a letter for you.’ - -‘Oh! where is it?’ she almost panted. - -Ellen opened a little handbag which she had beside her, and gave Sara -an envelope which she took from it. Sara opened it, read the words -contained in it, and looked blankly round, with a face which seemed in -a moment to have turned ashen-grey. All the days of preparation, of -suspicion and suspense, had been powerless to diminish the force of the -blow when it came. - -‘My God!’ she whispered, crushing the paper in her hand, and then -suddenly dropping it from her fingers as if it scorched or stung them. - -As Ellen came nearer, alarmed from her weariness, Sara put her hand -upon the woman’s shoulder, grasping it with a grip of iron, and -confronting her straitly, said: - -‘Tell me the whole truth. What have you heard? What has happened? What -did you hear of or from Mr. Wellfield, that made you wish to leave? -Speak out, Ellen—the whole truth.’ - -‘I heard that he was engaged to the young lady at the Abbey—Miss -Bolton.’ - -‘And do you think it is true?’ - -‘I do, ma’am. Miss Wellfield did nothing but cry from half an hour -after the time we got into the house. When she said good-bye to me, she -said: “Tell Sara—no, I can send her no message; I am not fit to look -at her again—none of us are!”’ - -Her arm dropped from Ellen’s shoulder. She put her hand to her head. - -‘Where is the letter?’ she said, wearily. ‘Oh, here!’ And she stooped -forward to pick it up; but, as if growing suddenly dizzy, dropped upon -her knees, stretched out her arms, and would have fallen had not Ellen, -running up, caught her, and pillowed her head upon her breast. - -‘My poor child! my darling Miss Sara! Oh, my dear young lady, don’t -take on so. ‘There isn’t a man worth it in this world.... Well, cry -then; it will do you good.’ - -But Sara made neither moan nor cry. For a short time, at least, she had -in unconsciousness a respite from her woe. - -‘That man is a devil,’ observed the old nurse beneath her breath. ‘I -suppose he has looked after his miserable _self_, as men always do; and -my young lady may die or go mad of it, for aught he cares. I hated him -from the first moment I saw him, with his soft voice and cruel eyes.’ - - -END OF VOL. II. - - -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/old/69498-0.zip b/old/69498-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index ddaddbe..0000000 --- a/old/69498-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h.zip b/old/69498-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 1ccdff2..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/69498-h.htm b/old/69498-h/69498-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 23bdda9..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/69498-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6710 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html> -<html lang="en"> -<head> - <meta charset="UTF-8"> - <title> - The Wellfields, Vol. II, 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; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -.pend {text-indent: 65%; - font-size: 75%;} - -.small {font-size: 75%;} -.large {font-size: 120%;} -.xlarge {font-size: 150%;} -.xxlarge {font-size: 175%;} -.xxxxlarge {font-size: 250%;} - -.topspace6 {margin-top: 6em;} - -hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 2em;} -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: auto; text-align:justify;} -.blockindent23 {margin-left: 23%; width: 60%; margin-right: auto; text-align:justify;} -.blockindent26 {margin-left: 26%; width: 60%; margin-right: auto; text-align:justify;} -.blockindent30 {margin-left: 30%; width: 40%; margin-right: auto; text-align:justify;} -.blockindent35 {margin-left: 35%; width: 50%; margin-right: auto; 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-left40 {text-align:left; padding-left: 40%;} -.sig-left70 {text-align:left; padding-left: 70%;} -.sig-left80 {text-align:left; padding-left: 80%;} -.sig-left90 {text-align:left; padding-left: 90%;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.upper-case {text-transform: uppercase;} - -/* 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-container36 {margin-left: 36%; width:63%;} -.poetry-container38 {margin-left: 38%; width:63%;} -.poetry-container40 {margin-left: 40%; width:63%;} -.poetry-container43 {margin-left: 43%; width:63%;} -.poetry-container45 {margin-left: 45%; width:63%;} - -.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2em;} -.poetry .indent4 {text-indent: 0em;} -.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. 2 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 8, 2022 [eBook #69498]</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="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="xxxxlarge">THE WELLFIELDS.</span><br> -<br> -<span class="large">A Novel.</span> -<br><br> -BY<br> -<span class="xlarge">JESSIE FOTHERGILL,</span> -<br><br> -AUTHOR OF ‘THE FIRST VIOLIN’ AND ‘PROBATION.’ -<br> -<br> -IN THREE VOLUMES. -<br><br> -VOL. II.<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/i_001_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS OF VOL. II.</h2> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/i_crossrule.png" width="250" height="50" alt="Decorated Horizontal Rule."> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="center">STAGE II.—<i>Continued.</i></p> - -<table> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">CHAPTER </td> -<td class="tdl"> </td> -<td class="tdr">PAGE</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VI. </td> -<td class="tdl">IN DANGER</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">1</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VII. </td> -<td class="tdl">THE WORKING OF THE SPELL</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">47</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VIII. </td> -<td class="tdl">THE FIRST OF BRENTWOOD</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">77</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">IX. </td> -<td class="tdl">‘DON’T FRET’</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">115</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">X. </td> -<td class="tdl">INDIAN SUMMER</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">133</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<td class="tdc"> </td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<td class="tdc">STAGE III.</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">I. </td> -<td class="tdl">INTERMEDIATE</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_I">139</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">II. </td> -<td class="tdl">LEBENDE BILDER</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_II">149</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">III. </td> -<td class="tdl">THE SECOND MEETING</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_III">163</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">IV. </td> -<td class="tdl">HERR FALKENBERG’S FRIENDSHIP</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_IV">185</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">V. </td> -<td class="tdl">THE LION AND THE MOUSE</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_V">206</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VI. </td> -<td class="tdl">UNAWARES</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_VI">221</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VII. </td> -<td class="tdl">‘AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS’</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_VII">229</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VIII. </td> -<td class="tdl">FATHER SOMERVILLE GATHERS THE THREADS TOGETHER</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_VIII">249</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">IX. </td> -<td class="tdl">ABSCHIED UND RÜCKKEHR</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_IX">264</a></td> -</tr> -</table> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[1]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_VI"> - <img src="images/i_003_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak"><span class="xlarge">THE WELLFIELDS.</span></h2> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/i_diamond-rule.png" width="250" height="50" alt="Decorated Horizontal Rule."> -</div> - -<p class="center"><span class="xxlarge"><b>STAGE II</b></span>—<small><i>Continued.</i></small></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/i_diamond-rule.png" width="250" height="50" alt="Decorated Horizontal Rule."> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI. -<br><br> -<small>IN DANGER.</small><br></h2> - -<div class="poetry-container38"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Oh Death, that makest life so sweet!</div> - <div class="verse">Oh fear, with mirth before thy feet!’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_w_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter."> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">When</span> Nita and Jerome again arrived at the Abbey, they found that Mr. -Bolton had returned from Burnham, and that the midday dinner, which was -an institution in the family, was waiting for them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[2]</span></p> - -<p>‘Have you settled anything?—has Nita helped you?’ inquired Mr. Bolton.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Bolton has been very kind indeed, and has probably saved me from -wasting a great deal of my small stock of money,’ replied Jerome.</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said Mr. Bolton, appreciatively, ‘that’s always something gained.’</p> - -<p>He asked his daughter what she was going to do that afternoon, and Nita -said she was going to drive to the town of Clyderhow to do a little -shopping.</p> - -<p>‘Why Clyderhow? The shops in Burnham are a great deal better.’</p> - -<p>‘Because I like the drive to Clyderhow,’ said Nita; ‘and there is a -wonderful milliner there. Aunt Margaret got a bonnet from her with five -ostrich tips in it, and a bird, and three bows of black satin ribbon, -and a great deal of velvet, for the sum of two guineas.’</p> - -<p>‘So you go by the quantity of stuff you get for your money when you -choose bonnets?’ asked Mr. Bolton.</p> - -<p>‘Aunt Margaret does. She likes plumes. I thought I might perhaps find - -<span class="pagenum">[3]</span> - -something sweetly modest and simple, with one feather and one bow, and -a little flower or sprig for instance, for next to nothing.’</p> - -<p>‘Is this shopping considered a secret service affair?’ inquired Jerome; -‘or may I go too, if I sit quite still while you are in the shop, and -promise not to look that way?’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid you would think it a great bore,’ said Nita quickly, as -her face flushed.</p> - -<p>‘I suppose it was because I love to bore and afflict myself that I -asked permission to go,’ he answered, with a smile.</p> - -<p>‘I shall be most happy to take you if you would really like to go. Will -you come too, papa?’</p> - -<p>‘What an idea!—I hope not!’ thought Jerome, within himself, and Mr. -Bolton was obliging enough to say:</p> - -<p>‘I?—no. I never drive in the afternoon. I am going to my Italian, as -usual.’</p> - -<p>But as the carriage was not ordered to be round until half an hour -after dinner, Mr. Bolton proposed to Jerome that they should take a - -<span class="pagenum">[4]</span> - -walk round the garden and have a cigar. Nita watched the two figures -as they paced together towards the cloisters. The elder man, with the -massive lines, broad, sturdy figure, somewhat below middle height, -but still imposing in its power and strength; the somewhat bowed back -and high shoulders; the round, bull-dog head, with its expression of -dogged determination. The younger—Nita leaned against the side of the -window and folded her arms, as she contemplated him with a strange -mixture of sensations. What a contrast to that dear familiar figure of -the man who was noted for his hardness and coldness to others, but who -was so gentle, so tender and indulgent to her, and to the few friends -who composed their small circle of intimates—a contrast indeed! The -new-comer was—unconsciously she recalled those lines in ‘Esther’—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container38"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘He was a lovely youth; I guess</div> - <div class="verse">The panther in the wilderness</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Was not more fair than he.’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[5]</span></p> - -<p>‘The panther in the wilderness!’ That was an evil comparison; surely -he was good as well as beautiful. Was it really only yesterday that he -had arrived—not yet twenty-four hours ago? And how long would he still -be here? And what would the Abbey, everything be, when he was gone? She -turned hastily away from the window, and would not venture another look.</p> - -<p>The two men paced about the river walk for a time, till Mr. Bolton -asked:</p> - -<p>‘Do you know any of the people about here?’</p> - -<p>‘I met an old acquaintance this morning—Father Somerville, from -Brentwood.’</p> - -<p>‘Somerville! You know him? Is he any favourite of yours?’</p> - -<p>‘As to that, I can hardly say. I like what I have seen of him, but know -very little of him. I fancy we have many tastes in common. He is a -cultivated man, who has seen the world, I think.’</p> - -<p>‘Ay, ay! he’s clever, is Somerville, and attractive too, I could - -<span class="pagenum">[6]</span> - -fancy. I never let any of those gentry inside my house.’</p> - -<p>‘No?’ said Jerome, indifferently. ‘I hope you have no objection to your -visitors knowing them, for I have promised to go and see him to-morrow.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my visitors do as they please, I hope. So long as he does not -darken my doors, it’s all one to me what he does. Nita, I am thankful -to say, is not of an hysterical temperament, for all she is so -slight and delicate. She has never displayed any tendencies to being -over-religious, or going in for Ritualism or that kind of mummery; else -I should have had to send her to a good sharp school.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Bolton has never been to school?’</p> - -<p>‘No; her mother died when she was two. By that time I was a rich man; -and as I knew I should never marry again, I took Nita’s education -into my own hands. She will inherit my money and my property; and I -have given her the education of a man of business. She will know to a -fraction what she is worth; and if she falls into any snares, it will - -<span class="pagenum">[7]</span> - -be with her eyes open.’</p> - -<p>‘That is well,’ said Jerome, gravely, wondering a little why Mr. -Bolton, on so short an acquaintance, chose to discourse to him on this -topic. And with Father Somerville’s advice fresh in his mind, he felt -interested in that topic—wrongfully interested.</p> - -<p>‘Your daughter will marry some one who will administer her fortune -wisely, it is to be hoped,’ he said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton sighed. ‘I suppose she must marry,’ he said, slowly. A girl -with that money ought to marry. One has heard of wealthy maiden ladies -of large property living alone, and exercising power over all around -them; but,’ he turned suddenly to Wellfield, ‘did you ever hear or read -of one, in real life or even in a romance, who was not unhappy? I never -did.’</p> - -<p>‘I really don’t feel to know much about the subject,’ said Jerome, -feeling that they were skirting delicate ground, wondering more and - -<span class="pagenum">[8]</span> - -more that Mr. Bolton spoke thus to him, of all persons.</p> - -<p>‘Nita has told me about your sister, and your views about her,’ he went -on. ‘I like you for your behaviour, Mr. Wellfield.’</p> - -<p>‘I?’ stammered Jerome, surprised. ‘Miss Bolton must have misunderstood.’</p> - -<p>‘No. She told me you had a half-sister, to whose use you intended -to devote what money you had, while you sought for employment for -yourself. I like to hear of a man treating his sister in that way.’</p> - -<p>Jerome was silent—surprised. He felt his tongue tied. His natural -impulse was to please, when his companion showed a predisposition to be -pleased. He felt a desire to say something which should still further -excite Mr. Bolton’s goodwill, and make him—Jerome Wellfield—feel on -still better terms with himself. But the thought of Sara Ford rose up, -and forbade him to do so. He continued his walk in silence.</p> - -<p>‘I have a proposition to make to you,’ said Mr. Bolton, suddenly. - -<span class="pagenum">[9]</span> - -Jerome turned to him with his lips apart, and a quick inquiring look -upon his face. Could it be that Father Somerville had the gift of -second-sight?</p> - -<p>‘It’s not a very brilliant proposition; and it is all founded on the -assumption that you know nothing of business; no book-keeping for -instance, no clerkship routine. Do you?’</p> - -<p>‘No, I do not; I know absolutely nothing of those things.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, if I found you capable—excuse my bluntness,’ he said, with -the same pedantic little air which characterised his speech—‘we -manufacturers are apt to be a little scornful of a want of practical -talent; but if I found you capable, and you would care to try, I think -I could find you some employment in my own office. But you would have -to begin by learning the very elements of your work from my book-keeper -and cashier. If you like to come over to Burnham two or three times a -week, for a short time, and try, you are welcome.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[10]</span></p> - -<p>‘You are very kind!’ said Jerome, astonished: ‘I have no possible claim -upon such——’</p> - -<p>‘You do not in the least know my reasons for making you the offer,’ -replied Mr. Bolton, with a calm superiority that made Jerome feel -somewhat snubbed; ‘therefore, do not be in any haste to express your -gratitude. My book-keeper will soon turn you out a finished article, if -you are to be turned out at all.’</p> - -<p>‘Sublime destiny! The gods might envy me!’ thought Jerome, within -himself; but he said: ‘I shall accept your offer with gratitude. I do -not know how I should have found anything, with my ignorance and my -utter want of influence.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s right! And in the meantime take holiday till next week, and -enjoy yourself. There’s Nita’s phaeton going round, I see, and the -groom; I suppose she will be ready.’</p> - -<p>With which laconical dismissal of the whole subject, he led the way to -the house again.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[11]</span></p> - -<p>Nita drove a high phaeton, with a spirited pair of roans. In answer to -Jerome’s suggestion that he should drive she looked so rueful that he -laughed, saying:</p> - -<p>‘If that is the case I shall be only too glad to <em>be</em> driven. I am -indolent enough for anything.’</p> - -<p>‘I am glad to hear it,’ replied Nita, taking the ribbons. Very soon -they were driving at a pleasant speed through the lanes leading towards -Clyderhow, whose ancient castle, on a mound, confronted them for a -great part of the distance.</p> - -<p>‘What does Mr. Bolton mean, when he speaks of “his Italian”?’ asked -Jerome, reflectively.</p> - -<p>Nita laughed as she flicked the roans lightly.</p> - -<p>‘Of course you would not understand,’ she answered. ‘Italian is papa’s -favourite weakness. Did you ever see anyone so unlike Italy as he is? - -<span class="pagenum">[12]</span> - -Poor old dear! He always used to read in the afternoons, and one day he -was perusing a little book aloud to me, and I was sewing. There came -some allusion to “the fiery domes and cupolas of the city of Dis.” He -asked me what it meant, and I told him about the “Inferno.” He said: -“That’s very fine—those fiery domes and cupolas. I must know some more -about it.” With which he took to studying Italian, and is now devoted -to it. It is very seldom that he fails to give a few hours each day to -it. He is translating the “Inferno,” in his rough, plodding way. I am -glad he finds something to amuse himself with, for he has had a sad -life.’</p> - -<p>‘Sad? He has been unusually successful, has he not?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, in money-matters, yes. But my mother died just when he hoped to -give her everything she desired—and more. And he was—he was very fond -of her.’</p> - -<p>‘I see! I might have understood that,’ replied Jerome; and then, after - -<span class="pagenum">[13]</span> - -a pause, ‘Mr. Bolton has been making very kind offers to me.’</p> - -<p>‘Has he? What manner of offers?’</p> - -<p>He told her.</p> - -<p>‘Do you call that a kind offer?’ cried Nita impatiently, as her face -flushed. ‘How could he suggest such a thing? Oh, really, how hard men -can be!’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps you think he should at once have placed the half of his -possessions at my disposal. Is it not better to be “hard,” as you call -it, than an idiot?’</p> - -<p>‘Well, I suppose it is. But life is such a mystery.’</p> - -<p>‘As how—I mean how exemplified in my case?’</p> - -<p>Nita laughed with a little embarrassment.</p> - -<p>‘I never can explain things. But it is a mystery. You a clerk! What an -idea! You must feel it to be absurd, yourself, don’t you?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[14]</span></p> - -<p>‘I have not thought much about it. It has to be done.</p> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">‘“When land is gone and money spent,”</span><br> - -<p>you know.’</p> - -<p>‘Pray what would your <em>sister</em> say to it?’</p> - -<p>‘Avice? Well, really, I don’t suppose she has any clear ideas as to -what clerks are, or do. If I told her I was going to be a tailor, she -would think it all right if I said so.’</p> - -<p>‘Is she that kind of a sister?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Jerome, in perfect good faith. He imagined indeed that -Avice was that kind of a sister; essentially the right kind of sister. -Women ought all to be like that—blind to the faults of those they -loved—when ‘those’ were men. The men to work, the women to admire; the -workers to rule, the admirers to submit. It was a beautiful arrangement.</p> - -<p>‘I daresay it is very nice in her to be like that,’ said Nita, ‘but if -I had had a brother,I should not have been that kind of a sister at - -<span class="pagenum">[15]</span> - -all. I should have told him very plainly what I thought of his doings, -and if I imagined that he was degrading himself, I should have told him -that too.’</p> - -<p>‘Would you, at the same time, have provided him with the means of -acting up to what you considered a higher standard?’</p> - -<p>‘It is a <em>shame</em>!’ Nita burst out almost passionately, after a pause.</p> - -<p>How naïvely she showed her interest, Jerome thought, with a little -sense of pleased, flattered self-complacency. How delightfully natural -she was—and what a curious contrast to that woman whose proud lips had -already confessed her love for him: to Sara Ford! His heart suddenly -throbbed as he thought of her. Dangerous thought! He must not indulge -in it, and accordingly, to turn the conversation, he said:</p> - -<p>‘You have singular ideas on the subject of brothers and sisters, -possibly because the relation is purely a matter of speculation to -you.’</p> - -<p> - -<span class="pagenum">[16]</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh no, it isn’t. Jack is my brother.’</p> - -<p>‘John Leyburn?’ he asked, with a feeling of surprise that was not -altogether pleasant. Sooth to say, he had forgotten Leyburn for the -moment, and here he was suddenly cropping up again in a manner that was -obtrusive—thrusting himself in where he was not in the least wanted.</p> - -<p>‘John Leyburn—yes.’</p> - -<p>‘Privileged young man! He seems to me, like most cousins, to make the -most of his advantages.’</p> - -<p>‘What do you mean?’ asked Nita.</p> - -<p>‘He takes every opportunity of lecturing you. And you—well, you are -consistent, I must own; you do tell him very plainly what you think of -him.’</p> - -<p>‘Of course I do! and as for John’s lectures, I am accustomed to them -by now. They mean nothing, except that we are great friends—more than -cousins; in fact, brother and sister.’</p> - -<p>‘And how long, if I may ask, has the fraternity been superadded to the - -<span class="pagenum">[17]</span> - -cousinship—and the friendship? It makes a complicated relationship.’</p> - -<p>‘It never was superadded. It has always existed—for me.’</p> - -<p>‘Always?’ echoed Jerome, vaguely displeased.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, of course. I am nineteen, and John is twenty-eight. When I was -born, we lived at Burnham, and so did the Leyburns. Uncle Leyburn -married papa’s only sister, and was his greatest friend. They lived at -Burnham too, then. John was nine years old then, of course. The first, -or one of the very first things I can remember, is his showing me -pictures of birds—he is mad about birds, you know—and taking me by the -hand for a little walk, and playing with me in general. I suppose I was -about three years old then.’</p> - -<p>‘And Leyburn twelve. He was that age when I knew him, sixteen years -ago. They had just come to Abbot’s Knoll. Yet I do not remember his - -<span class="pagenum">[18]</span> - -ever saying anything about you. Perhaps you occupied a smaller place in -his heart than you imagine.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no!’ said Nita, with calm conviction. ‘He never talks much about -things. He would not be likely to talk about me. He always gives his -mind to what he is doing at the moment; and when he was playing and -learning lessons with you, he would not talk about me. Besides, we -were still at Burnham. But he was always kind when he came back to me. -John taught me to read, and implanted in my mind that love of light -literature which he now pretends to deplore—the great humbug!’</p> - -<p>Nita laughed a pleased little laugh, speaking of a tender affection for -the absent ‘humbug.’ The course which the conversation had taken grew -less and less pleasing to Jerome. He felt a strong desire to displace -John from his pedestal, or at least to make him, in vulgar parlance, -‘step down a peg or two.’ A spirit of perverse folly took possession of -him. Leaning a little forward, and speaking in a discreetly low voice, - -<span class="pagenum">[19]</span> - -mindful of the groom who sat behind, he rested his elbow on his knee, -and fixed his eyes on Nita’s face, saying:</p> - -<p>‘Then he has never given you cause to suppose that a sister’s affection -would hold a secondary place in his thoughts?’</p> - -<p>‘You speak ambiguously,’ replied Nita, occupied in guiding her horses -through a very narrow lane. ‘Sister’s affection—secondary place! I do -not understand.’</p> - -<p>‘Are sisters jealous when their brothers marry?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I see! Certainly not, if they have any sense,’ was the most -decided answer; ‘they may be angry, you know, if the wife their brother -chooses is disliked by them; but if they have no ground for disliking -her, they would be selfish and foolish, simply, to be jealous when -their brothers married.’</p> - -<p>‘You say John Leyburn is your cousin and your friend and your brother -all in one. Suppose he took it into his head to get married—he must be - -<span class="pagenum">[20]</span> - -lonely in that great house of his by the river.’</p> - -<p>‘If John were to marry,’ repeated Nita, slowly and pensively.</p> - -<p>Her hands were fully occupied; for at this moment they were driving -down a steep hill, and the roans were fresh. She could not have hidden -her face, had she wished to do so. As her eyes met Jerome’s, a quick -flush rose on her cheek—a flush which grew deeper.</p> - -<p>‘If she cares for him, there can be no danger in my asking questions; -she is in no danger with me,’ thought Wellfield, with characteristic -indolence, and also with a characteristic wish to find out whether she -‘cared’ irrevocably for John Leyburn. And he said:</p> - -<p>‘If John were to marry—yes. What is to hinder him? Would his wife -consider him your brother? Would she see it in the same light, do you -think?’</p> - -<p>‘She would be a very nasty girl if she did not,’ said Nita, with a - -<span class="pagenum">[21]</span> - -heightened colour and flashing eyes, ‘when I should do all in my power -to be kind to her.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you would do all in your power to accomplish that? Then you would -not mind if John got married?’</p> - -<p>‘I should mind it very much if his wife were such an odious woman as -you seem to think she would be. Stepping in and destroying——’</p> - -<p>‘The friendship of a lifetime; breaking every social tie, and so -on. Let us put it in another light. Suppose he married, and married -some one of so generous a disposition as to wish him not to lose his -sister——’</p> - -<p>‘I should not call that generous, but merely decent and reasonable.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, he marries this decent, reasonable woman, and then you marry. Do -you think your husband would look upon John in the light of a brother?’</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Wellfield, what strange questions you ask!’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[22]</span></p> - -<p>‘Not at all. You would have to consider the subject when you married.’</p> - -<p>‘But I am not going to be married. I know papa thinks I shall have to, -but I don’t intend it at all.’</p> - -<p>‘Intentions have less than nothing to do with such a matter. When you -fall in love with some one, and he asks you to marry him, you will do -so of course, since you are neither a nun, nor a lunatic, nor in any -way a perverse or ill-conditioned person,’ he answered tranquilly, -while Nita looked at him in startled amazement, her heart beating -with the same strange sense of a thrilling new emotion as she had -this morning experienced. In all their nineteen years of brother and -sisterhood, John had never dared—was ‘dared’ the word to use? No—it had -never occurred to John to speak to her in such a manner as did this -man whom she had first met yesterday. Yet she did not feel resentment -towards him, though she tried to think she did, and answered as if she -did.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[23]</span></p> - -<p>‘How can you speak to me in that manner? As if I had no strength of -will—as if I were an idiot.’</p> - -<p>‘Not at all; but as if you were, what you are—a woman, and a good one,’ -he replied. Then, before she could answer, he went on: ‘But I think you -want to shirk my question, Miss Bolton. You are afraid to look your -position fairly in the face.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t see it.’</p> - -<p>‘You have not told me what you would do in case the man you married -refused, or was unable to see, John Leyburn in the pure white light of -brotherhood.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t see the use of discussing such wildly improbable -contingencies. But’—she suddenly burst into a laugh—‘if the worst came -to the worst, I should have to sink John to the rank of a friend and -cousin. He would have to—well, he would have to manage as well as he -could. But you are very unkind to shatter my little day-dream in that -way—so wantonly, too! You are the first person who ever cared to shake - -<span class="pagenum">[24]</span> - -me out of my pleasant delusion. I have always looked upon John as a -brother.’</p> - -<p>‘Very pleasant for him, as I think I observed before.’</p> - -<p>‘Why only for him, pray? I owe far more to him than he owes to me. -He has made me better and wiser than I ever should have been without -him; not that I am much to boast of in the matter either of wisdom or -goodness; but most of what little I have I owe to John. And then, he is -almost my only friend.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps that is a matter in which I may find cause for rejoicing?’</p> - -<p>‘<em>You!</em>’ echoed Nita, turning suddenly to him, and finding his sombre -eyes fixed upon her face. She turned her own quickly away again. ‘I -don’t understand,’ she said, a little confusedly.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I; even I. If you had had many friends and many claims upon your -time and your attention, would you have had leisure to do all the - -<span class="pagenum">[25]</span> - -kind things you have performed for me in the short time since I came -here?—to think all the kind thoughts which I know you have thought? -Should I have been able to endure being under your father’s roof if I -had found you engrossed with others—looking upon me as an alien and -an interloper, instead of treating me as you have done? It would have -maddened me, I think. No; do not try to deny your own goodness. I have -felt it every hour since I met you; and to one in my position, every -kind thought and gentle action on the part of others is as another bead -added to one’s string of pearls.’</p> - -<p>Nita was perfectly silent. Her under-lip quivered a little. Tears -rushed to her eyes and blinded her. She had kept up all along a brave -show of light-heartedness and carelessness; but Wellfield had laid his -spell upon her from the first moment of meeting him. So long as he -merely talked nonsense to her, she could appear indifferent. The moment -he touched deeper springs, her heart gave way, and her outward gaiety - -<span class="pagenum">[26]</span> - -collapsed. They were both absorbed—both in danger. Nita was struggling -to choke back her emotion; but the thought of this poor, proud, lonely -fellow at her side, disinherited, and grateful even for her goodness, -was an overpowering one. Wellfield himself was watching her with an -agreeable sensation of power.</p> - -<p>At this juncture, while Nita’s hands retained scarcely any hold on the -reins, they slowly turned a sharp corner in the road, arriving at the -summit of a hill, and were suddenly confronted by a panting, groaning, -snorting traction-engine, industriously toiling up the hill with two -huge trucks full of blocks of white stone; and urged onwards by its -engineer and stoker with loud phrases and ejaculations as if it had -been a living creature.</p> - -<p>Nita’s roans failed to recognise any kinship in this strange and -hideous monster. They shied, swerved, plunged for a moment; then -bolting, tore along the short space of level ground at the top of the -hill, and proceeded - -<span class="pagenum">[27]</span> - -to rush at full gallop down the next incline. Jerome saw that Nita -turned suddenly pale, and set her teeth. She knew what was coming, and -he did not. She tightened her hold on the reins, but the roans were -young and strong and fresh; her wrists were small and slender. They -dashed round the first curve of the road, and from Nita’s lips escaped -a low ‘Ah!’ as they saw before them a straight steep hill, at the -bottom of which was a deep mill-dam, then a mill-race, rushing swiftly -along; a narrow stone bridge spanned the stream at the foot of the -hill, and on the opposite side rose another hill as steep as the one -down which they were tearing.</p> - -<p>Jerome quickly laid his hand on her wrist. Personal cowardice in -moments like this was not amongst his faults.</p> - -<p>‘Let them alone!’ said Nita, between her teeth. ‘They don’t know your -hand: you shall not touch them.’</p> - -<p>Without a word, he put forth his other hand, broke her clenched fingers -apart, as if - -<span class="pagenum">[28]</span> - -they had been straws, and took the ribbons from her hold. -The frantic animals felt a new hand—a firmer, but a fresh one, and for -the moment their terror increased. Down the hill they flew, and the -carriage swayed ominously to and fro. Jerome with a side-glance saw the -face of the girl beside him, white as death. She did not clutch at the -rail, or in any way try to hold herself fast, but clenched her hands -before her on her knees, and looked towards the mill-race—towards the -deep, green pool above the bridge and the foaming fall below it, and to -the grey-stone mill sleeping peacefully on the other side.</p> - -<p>Then Jerome perceived that, lumbering slowly towards them on the -bridge, were two large lorries, piled with bales of cotton goods, and -he knew that to run into them meant death. All the despondency he had -felt—all the wish to be rid of life and its unasked-for, uncalled-for -burdens disappeared, and only the desire to conquer this impending fate -remained behind. He found himself mechanically - -<span class="pagenum">[29]</span> - -measuring either side of the road, to see if there was no side-way—no -escape from the end to which they seemed to be rushing, and his hold on -the reins tightened and tightened till it grew to a strain in which he -expended all his strength.</p> - -<p>They were within twenty yards of the bridge, and as yet he had seen -no way out of it. He saw every slightest action of all around him, -and it recorded itself as indelibly upon his consciousness as if he -had had hours of leisure in which to observe it all. He saw how the -two stolid-looking carters suddenly became aware of the nature of the -position—saw them cast up their hands and run to their horses’ heads, -to pull them as far to one side as possible.</p> - -<p>‘Idiots!’ he thought, ‘as if that would do any good!’ and even as -he thought it, he perceived to the left hand of the road a square -embrasure, such as is found in the north of England frequently, though -I know not if they exist in the south. In such an embrasure the - -<span class="pagenum">[30]</span> - -stones are piled up which the breakers have to operate upon, and in -this particular one were piles of stones already broken: it was walled -round, and below the wall the bank of the field sloped steeply down. If -he could not rein in the horses, and they leaped the wall, the results -were not agreeable subjects of contemplation, but even they would be -less dreadful than the gruesome fate proffered by the mill-race and the -little stone bridge.</p> - -<p>He succeeded in turning the horses into the embrasure, and they, -confronted suddenly by a four-feet high stone wall, plunged madly, and -attempted to force their way out again. But the hand that held them had -at last mastered them. They were curbed. Dancing about in the narrow -space, they were forced to contain themselves, till the groom jumped -down, and one of the carters, coming forward, took their heads, and -Jerome was at last free to guide them back to the road, and to look at -his companion.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[31]</span></p> - -<p>Now that the danger was over she had broken down. Her face was buried -in her hands, and she was shaking with hysterical sobs. Jerome bent -over her, removed her hands from her face, and said in a gentle, -authoritative voice:</p> - -<p>‘Were you afraid? Look up! It is over now.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my God!’ she gasped. ‘It was my carelessness. They want careful -driving, but they never shy if one keeps a firm hand, and I was not -holding them in at all—oh, I thought I had killed you!’</p> - -<p>‘My dear child, don’t let that distress you!’ he exclaimed, still in -the same low voice.</p> - -<p>The two carters were now holding the horses’ heads, while the groom -looked to see if any damage had been done to the phaeton, and staring -with stupid, yet well-meant compassion upon the young lady, whose -agitation to them was quite accounted for, women not being reckoned -very courageous amongst such as them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[32]</span></p> - -<p>‘Don’t, don’t say so!’ she exclaimed, in uncontrollable agitation. ‘I -shall never forget it. I thought I saw you in the water, drowning.’</p> - -<p>There was an ominous sound as of an hysterical laugh mingling with her -sobs.</p> - -<p>‘You must control yourself,’ said he, composedly, ‘and get out of the -phaeton for a short time. We will walk about a little, and go into -the mill, and you can rest there.’ He jumped out, and took her hand. -‘Suppose you alight,’ he added, in a voice which was in reality a -command.</p> - -<p>Nita stepped slowly forth, and wavered a little as she touched the -ground. Jerome seated her on one of the stoneheaps, and then got into -the phaeton. The horses were now perfectly quiet, but trembling and -bathed in sweat.</p> - -<p>‘Thank you,’ he said to the men, giving them some money. ‘We need not -keep you any longer.’</p> - -<p>‘Eh, but measter, thou tak’s it uncommon cool,’ said one of them, - -<span class="pagenum">[33]</span> - -apparently desirous of improving the occasion. ‘Dost know thou wert -nigh on being done for for ever in yon pond?’</p> - -<p>‘I know all about it,’ said Jerome, soothingly touching the horses’ -necks.</p> - -<p>‘It were a mir’cle as thou comed na’ to grief o’er yon wa’, too,’ -pursued he; ‘them’s skittish critters, I reckon.’</p> - -<p>‘Skittish or not, I can manage them, and worse than they are. Good-day, -friends. I am obliged to you.’</p> - -<p>Dismissed thus curtly, the men were fain to move their lorries out of -the way, thus leaving room for Jerome, followed by the groom, to drive -the phaeton across the bridge and into the stable-yard of the corn-mill -on the other side of the water. He related what had happened, and soon -received the miller’s permission to leave the horses there for quarter -of an hour, until Miss Bolton was sufficiently recovered to proceed. -Then, leaving the man with the horses, he went back again to Nita, and - -<span class="pagenum">[34]</span> - -found her seated where he had left her, and sobbing still now and then.</p> - -<p>‘My dear Miss Bolton, you must try to control yourself, or you will -make yourself ill, and alarm your father needlessly.’</p> - -<p>‘Alarm my father!’ she said, looking up; ‘what does alarm matter, after -that deadly fear? I tell you, I felt as if I saw your face sinking -beneath the pond there—all through me! Oh, it was horrible! It haunts -me.’</p> - -<p>‘It is pure imagination. You were on that side, remember. Think what -would have been my feelings if I had had to go home and tell Mr. Bolton -that his daughter was drowned!’</p> - -<p>‘It would have served me right. I knew the horses. I knew they shied if -one did not keep them well in.’</p> - -<p>‘Did you? Well, you see, I managed to restrain them, even after they -had shied. Never mind my precious personality, I implore you. You are -safe!’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[35]</span></p> - -<p>‘I—miserable little wretch that I am!’ exclaimed Nita, in so deep, so -profoundly bitter a voice that he was surprised out of all caution.</p> - -<p>‘Nay—that is a strange thing to say,’ he remarked. ‘It would never do -for poor old Wellfield to lose all its heirs. What would have become of -it if you had been drowned? For my sake, don’t talk in that way.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ she exclaimed passionately, ‘do not reproach me with that. Do -you suppose that I shall ever again have one moment’s pleasure in that -idea? After knowing you—what do you take me for?’</p> - -<p>‘I take you to be nervous and unstrung, and over-anxious. And I am sure -it is my duty to get you home as soon as possible. Come! The carriage -is at the other side of the bridge.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, it is impossible to go in the carriage again. I will walk. I am an -excellent walker, and it is only four miles.’</p> - -<p>‘And I?’</p> - -<p>‘You will walk too, with me. The groom will bring back the carriage - -<span class="pagenum">[36]</span> - -when the horses are fit to come.’</p> - -<p>‘And what if I think it better to drive, and make a point of your -driving with me?’</p> - -<p>She looked up in some surprise, and found him calmly surveying her in -a manner which left no doubt as to his meaning. He was overruling her, -and he intended to be obeyed. She rebelled, momentarily.</p> - -<p>‘Really, you are very—my nerves——’</p> - -<p>‘Are quite strong enough to carry you home, and point out to me the way -round by Clyderhow, which is the road I intend to take to Wellfield -Abbey. There is no reason why you should not do your shopping too,’ he -added, gently.</p> - -<p>‘Impossible!’ said Nita, in so decided a voice that he at once resolved -that it should, on the contrary, become possible. With the exercise of -power grew the delight in it. Cost what it might, Nita should go to -Clyderhow, and do her shopping, because he wished it. He knew perfectly -well that he - -<span class="pagenum">[37]</span> - -had flirted with her, and had drawn her attention -from her horses. He knew that she would not have been wrong had she -reproached him with having caused the accident; but he was resolved -that, far from that, she should continue to accuse herself, and the -power and authority should remain on his side as before.</p> - -<p>‘Can you not trust me?’ he asked. ‘I will take great care of you. If -you refuse, I shall know that you are offended, and have lost all -confidence in me.’</p> - -<p>His voice was soft, his accent gentle and caressing; the expression -on his lips and in his dark eyes had something in it partaking of -tenderness. It all subdued Nita’s reluctance, and laid her fear, as -it were, under a spell. Within the last day life and her own identity -had grown strange to the girl. She knew herself no more. But she still -hesitated, till Jerome said:</p> - -<p>‘By this I shall know whether I have lost your confidence or not. If -you let me drive - -<span class="pagenum">[38]</span> - -you to Clyderhow, <em>I</em> shall not forget to keep a firm -hand on the reins.’</p> - -<p>Nita rose. ‘I will do as you wish,’ she said, with a tremor of the lip.</p> - -<p>‘Thank you, dear Miss Bolton,’ he replied, a tone of exultation in his -voice, as he drew her hand through his arm, and placing his other hand -upon it as if to steady her, he led her across the bridge to the mill.</p> - -<p>In a very short time they were in the phaeton, with Wellfield on this -occasion in the driver’s seat, and Nita, subdued and soothed, was -pointing out the way to him.</p> - -<p>They presently arrived in the main street of the town of Clyderhow, -when Nita made a last abortive attempt to escape from the shopping -expedition. But Jerome would not allow it.</p> - -<p>‘You are quite recovered,’ he said. ‘You are not going to faint. And -you said you wanted a bonnet like your aunt’s, with five ostrich -feathers in it.’</p> - -<p>‘I never did!’ cried Nita, indignation getting the better of - -<span class="pagenum">[39]</span> - -reluctance. ‘I think Aunt Margaret’s taste in bonnets is horrible.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, which is the shop? I shall consider myself entitled to go in and -preside over the purchase, under the circumstances.’</p> - -<p>‘That is the shop at the end of the street, if you will go. But I am in -no state to buy bonnets.’</p> - -<p>‘No?’ he said, looking at her, intently. ‘I should have thought—well, -you do look a little pale, perhaps. But I shall be able to tell you -what suits you. Here we are.’</p> - -<p>He handed her out, and pushing open the shop-door, he stood by for her -to pass: then followed, saw her sudden start and recoil, and heard the -exclamation:</p> - -<p>‘Aunt Margaret!’</p> - -<p>‘The deuce!’ murmured Jerome, discomfited for the moment; but instantly -recovering himself, he too advanced, and, like Nita, confronted Miss -Margaret Shuttleworth.</p> - -<p>She looked very stern and terrible. She was standing upright before -a tall glass, attired in the full panoply requisite for a visit to - -<span class="pagenum">[40]</span> - -town—perfectly upright, and perfectly self-possessed. One article only -of her attire was wanting, and that was her bonnet, which lay on a -chair hard by, while over her straight grey hair was visible a little -black silk cap, such as elderly ladies wear, or did wear, beneath their -bonnets—and which cap, when not yet covered by the superior headdress, -imparts a look of hardness to the gentlest countenance. Its effect upon -the severe features of Miss Shuttleworth gave an additional terror to -her glance, and additional sternness to her eye. A slight young woman -held in her hand a bonnet, which she was apparently about to place upon -Miss Shuttleworth’s head, when that lady, with a wave of the hand, -stopped her, and replied to Nita’s astonished exclamation:</p> - -<p>‘Yes, it is Aunt Margaret. What of that?’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing, aunt dear. But I was so astonished to see you. I thought you -had got a bonnet.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[41]</span></p> - -<p>‘So I had, but it does not suit me. Put it on now,’ to the young woman, -who trembled visibly, but who obeyed at once.</p> - -<p>It was undoubtedly <em>the</em> bonnet, and it sat upon Miss Shuttleworth’s -head like a plume upon a hearse. No other comparison is for a moment -admissible. Slowly, and with dignity, she turned her head this way and -that; and before formulating her objections, condescended to greet -Wellfield.</p> - -<p>‘Good-afternoon, Mr. Wellfield. Have you come to help my niece to -choose a bonnet?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Jerome, composedly.</p> - -<p>‘I am sure you look as if you would give her valuable assistance in -such a matter,’ was the reply, ambiguous in its nature. Was it to -be considered complimentary, or otherwise? Jerome, with a gravity -as imperturbable as her own, said he should feel highly honoured if -he could be of any use to Miss Shuttleworth in the same matter. She -turned away with a jerk. Having always had a monopoly in the sphere of - -<span class="pagenum">[42]</span> - -disagreeable, if dubious remarks, she did not appreciate this intrusion -on a province peculiarly her own.</p> - -<p>‘Nita,’ she said, sharply, ‘don’t you see what is wrong with this -bonnet? It’s like a plume on a hearse.’</p> - -<p>‘It suits you admirably, Miss Shuttleworth,’ said Jerome, blandly.</p> - -<p>‘You must alter the feathers,’ said Miss Shuttleworth to the young -woman; ‘you must make them lie flatter. You understand what I mean. -Otherwise I shall never enter your shop again. Now, Nita,’ as she -removed the bonnet, and reached her hand for her old one, ‘what do -<em>you</em> want? Let us see whether, with Mr. Wellfield’s assistance, we -cannot find something suitable. Poor John never could have helped -anyone to choose a bonnet,’ she added, pointedly.</p> - -<p>Nita’s face flushed. Miss Shuttleworth continued to say disagreeable -things, and Nita to grow more and more embarrassed, and the more -disagreeable the one became, and - -<span class="pagenum">[43]</span> - -the more confused the other, the more -utterly calm and self-possessed remained Jerome Wellfield; nor did he -allow a single sharp speech of Miss Shuttleworth’s to go unanswered, -nor did he abstain from paying a single compliment to Nita, in -consideration of the new and discordant element introduced. The whole -affair, a mere joke at the commencement, had grown more serious; for -Jerome’s manner, in proportion as he was goaded by Miss Shuttleworth’s -shafts, grew more <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr"> empressé</i> towards Nita, while she, confused with -the danger they had passed through, intoxicated and bewildered by the -look which occasionally met hers when she encountered Jerome’s eyes, -anxious to conceal all her emotion from her aunt, scarcely knew where -she was or what she was doing. Nothing suited her: at last she threw -off a bonnet which the young woman had tried her on, and said hastily -and decidedly that she would call again another day. She was tired, and -could not decide upon anything then.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[44]</span></p> - -<p>‘Not even with Mr. Wellfield’s help?’ inquired Miss Shuttleworth, -blandly.</p> - -<p>‘As if Mr. Wellfield cared anything about bonnets!’ said Nita, sharply. -‘Can’t you see when you are being laughed at, aunt?’</p> - -<p>‘Nita!’ ejaculated Miss Shuttleworth, in a tone of the utmost pain and -astonishment.</p> - -<p>But Nita was already on her way out of the shop. Jerome spoke to Miss -Shuttleworth:</p> - -<p>‘Miss Bolton is upset,’ he said. ‘We have had a serious accident, and -only just escaped with our lives. She is unnerved.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t understand it at all,’ said Aunt Margaret, all her pugnacity -gone, and looking as she felt, perfectly bewildered.</p> - -<p>‘I am sure Miss Bolton will explain later,’ he continued. Miss -Shuttleworth looked at him, as if wondering who and what he was that he -should thus take upon himself to make explanations; but with a stiff -‘Good-afternoon,’ she went out at the door, and he followed her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[45]</span></p> - -<p>Nita saw her, and asked if she would not drive home with them. Miss -Shuttleworth was on the point of refusing with decision and asperity, -but something in her so-called ‘niece’s’ look caught her observant -eye—a weariness, a whiteness, a languor. She said:</p> - -<p>‘I don’t mind if I do. That’s to say, if you leave me in peace to the -back seat, for I hate the front one unless I know the driver.’</p> - -<p>‘Sit where you like, aunt,’ was the reply, as Jerome came forward and -offered his help.</p> - -<p>But Miss Shuttleworth refused, and unaided clambered up to the back -seat, presenting a liberal allowance of very spare leg and white cotton -stocking to the enraptured view of Miss Bamford’s young ladies, who, -from the work-room on the second floor, were gazing down upon the -proceedings with the intensest interest, and speculating with a burning -curiosity as to who that gentleman could be who had driven up with Miss -Anita Bolton of the Abbey; who handed her into the phaeton with such -assiduous care, and bent - -<span class="pagenum">[46]</span> - -over her with such a look of attention as he -spoke a word to her before driving off.</p> - -<p>‘He looks like a foreigner,’ and ‘He’s very handsome,’ were the most -definite and the most general conclusions arrived at.</p> - -<p>Meantime the phaeton drove off, and arrived at the Abbey without -further misadventure. Miss Shuttleworth intimated her intention of -coming in and staying supper. Jerome whispered to Nita:</p> - -<p>‘You will go upstairs and take some rest before supper, <em>for my sake</em>! -And I will find Mr. Bolton and tell him: no, I will not alarm him too -much. Do not fear. Will you promise to rest?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Nita, faintly, as he helped her down, and she and her aunt -went upstairs together.</p> -</div> -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[47]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_VII"> - <img src="images/i_047_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII. -<br><br> -<small>THE WORKING OF THE SPELL.</small><br></h2> - -<div class="blockindent20"> -‘Not that the play is worth much, but it is finely acted.... But -that which did please me more than anything in the whole world was -the musique when the angell comes down; which is so sweet that it -ravished me.... Neither then nor all the evening I was able to think -of anything, but remained all night transported.’—PEPYS’ <cite>Diary</cite>. -</div> -<br> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_r_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Rest</span> and quiet, it seemed, were not to fall immediately to Nita’s -lot. She conducted Miss Shuttleworth to her room, and sat down in an -easy-chair while that lady made her slow and lengthy, if not elaborate, -toilette for the evening.</p> - -<p>‘What’s the meaning of all this, Nita?’</p> - -<p>‘All what, aunt?’</p> - -<p>‘This driving about with young Wellfield, - -<span class="pagenum">[48]</span> - -and having accidents, and -losing your temper—<em>you</em>, of all people, and insulting your old aunt, -and looking miserable?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know why you should seek to attach any meaning at all to it. I -was driving carelessly, when we suddenly met a traction-engine coming -up the hill; the horses bolted, and but for Mr. Wellfield’s getting the -reins into his own hands—but for his courage and coolness, we should -both have been dead now. Surely that is enough to unnerve anyone!’</p> - -<p>‘Then if you were so unnerved, what induced you to go to the -bonnet-shop in Clyderhow?’</p> - -<p>‘I overrated my strength, I suppose, and in the joy of being safe -imagined myself less shaken than I really was.’</p> - -<p>‘Humph!’</p> - -<p>Miss Shuttleworth went to the drawer in Nita’s wardrobe, which was -sacred to the caps she always wore at the Abbey. Looking through -her store, she carefully selected a - -<span class="pagenum">[49]</span> - -yellow and green one; the most -intrinsically hideous and extrinsically least suited to her style of -beauty of any of the collection, and then she returned to the glass to -put it on.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t fall in love with Mr. Jerome Wellfield, Nita. Let him fall -in love with you if he likes; but don’t <em>you</em> do it,’ she said, -deliberately.</p> - -<p>‘Aunt Margaret! do you want to insult me?’ she asked, sitting up, pale -and breathless with anger.</p> - -<p>‘Not at all. I want to warn you. He is very romantic-looking—reminds -one of Byron’s heroes, only more agreeable in general society than -they would have been; but depend upon it, my dear, it is all looks. No -Wellfield ever had a heart for anyone but himself.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I am so tired of listening to that old story, aunt! You would not -say a good word for the Wellfields to save your life. Such constant -abuse makes one begin to take the side of those who are abused.’</p> - -<span class="pagenum">[50]</span> - -<p>‘Ah, I fear you are very far gone already!’</p> - -<p>‘How dare you! How <em>dare</em> you speak to me in such a manner! Pray, what -have you seen in my manner to Mr. Wellfield to make you assert such a -monstrous thing?’</p> - -<p>‘Plenty, and I hear plenty more in your voice now,’ was the unmoved, -unwavering retort. ‘And all that an old woman like me can do, is to -keep on warning and warning. Don’t fall in love with him, Nita; for if -you do, it will bring nothing but disaster. He is not of the kind that -makes loving and faithful husbands.’</p> - -<p>‘When you are quite ready, I shall be glad if you will leave me alone,’ -replied Nita, composedly; ‘or if you do not choose to leave me, I will -leave you, and go to some other room. I am tired, and want to rest -before I come down to supper. All that you say is utterly without -foundation, and it makes me very unhappy.’</p> - -<p>‘That is odd, if it is without foundation,’ said Miss Margaret, -fastening on a huge lace - -<span class="pagenum">[51]</span> - -collar with the utmost tranquillity. ‘I -will say no more to-night, but I shall consider it my duty to repeat -my warning at intervals. You are the only young relation I have, and -I should think it wrong to do less. All I say now, is, never marry a -Wellfield in the hope of happiness.’</p> - -<p>With that she left the room. Nita was alone. Perhaps she rested; -perhaps not. She threw off her hat, pushed her hair back from her -aching temples, and buried her hot and throbbing brow in her hands. She -felt no inclination to weep now: only a kind of feverish, breathless -excitement, as the scene with the runaway horses again started vividly -up before her mind’s eye, and she could think of nothing else; could -only live over again what had seemed the long eternity of agony she -had felt as they rushed down the hill, before Jerome had succeeded in -turning the horses aside, and so saving them. It was a scene which -she knew would be present with her for days, perhaps weeks. Added to -that, - -<span class="pagenum">[52]</span> - -the subtle inexplicable meaning in Wellfield’s eyes, in the -tone of his voice, and in the touch of his hand; then the home-coming, -and her aunt’s calm, monotonous, even-toned voice, as she repeated her -warnings—warnings, the remembrance of which made the blood rush hotly -to her face, then madly back to her heart, causing it to beat wildly, -and leaving her pale and trembling. She felt absolutely ill. Should -she send an excuse, and not go to the drawing-room again to-night? No; -certainly not. She would not let anyone see how foolish she was. If -she remained upstairs John would be uncomfortable, and would miss her; -her father’s quiet evening with the savages would be spoiled; her aunt -would wave her green and yellow cap-ribbons in triumph, convinced that -her warnings had taken effect, and Wellfield would think her a poor -creature, while she—would not see him, nor speak to him, nor touch his -hand again till to-morrow morning. She started up, and began to make -her toilette - -<span class="pagenum">[53]</span> - -with unusual slowness and care, and with fingers which -she could not compel not to tremble.</p> - -<p>Downstairs she found, as she had expected, John Leyburn, as well as -Miss Margaret. They were all in the drawing-room, and supper was -announced before she had answered her father’s inquiries or sat down. -This gave her the opportunity of retaining his arm, and walking into -the dining-room with him. The meal seemed a long one. Nita was thankful -when it was over, and they went into the drawing-room again. Wellfield -did not immediately come there. He said he was going for a stroll by -the river, and he went out at the open hall-door into the garden. Mr. -Bolton was not a demonstrative man: he went to his accustomed table -with the reading-lamp, and took up his book. Miss Shuttleworth pulled -out a stocking, took a chair (a straight-backed one, as might have been -expected), and knitted, with a still rocky severity of countenance. -John was arranging cushions on a couch near the window.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[54]</span></p> - -<p>‘Come here,’ he said to Nita. ‘You are to lie down, and I will sit -beside you.’</p> - -<p>‘I’m not tired,’ said Nita.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, you are,’ he replied, smiling his good, pleasant smile. ‘Come -here, or I put on my hat and go home this moment.’</p> - -<p>‘Home! This is as much your home as any other place,’ she said, -complying with his behest.</p> - -<p>‘More, since my sister Nita is in it. There!’ he added, taking his -place beside her as she lay down, and gave a long sigh of relief; ‘now -tell me what you have been doing this afternoon.’</p> - -<p>‘That you may give one of your favourite lectures, I suppose,’ -said Nita, smiling. But by degrees she told him the history of the -afternoon’s adventure, while it grew dark within the room, and their -voices sank lower, and Mr. Bolton read on, and Miss Shuttleworth’s -needles clicked, clicked, as if they went by clockwork.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, John! how ashamed I was! I could - -<span class="pagenum">[55]</span> - -not look him in the face,’ -murmured Nita, at the end of this conversation.</p> - -<p>‘Ashamed—of what?’ asked John, in his slow tones, and looking at her -with his near-sighted eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Of my carelessness, my folly, which so nearly cost him his life!’</p> - -<p>‘And you yours. I tell you what it is, Nita; it must have been a very -engrossing conversation that caused you to loose your hold on the -ribbons. Is it allowable to ask what it was all about?’</p> - -<p>‘Partly about you,’ replied Nita, surprised into the admission by this -sudden appearance in John of an astuteness with which she had not for a -moment credited him.</p> - -<p>‘About me? What about me?’</p> - -<p>She was silent.</p> - -<p>‘You won’t say—or can’t. Forgotten, perhaps. I wonder if Wellfield has, -too? I’ll ask him.’</p> - -<p>‘He will have forgotten too,’ replied Nita</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[56]</span></p> - -<p>‘I thought as much,’ said John, and silence fell upon them too.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>Wellfield wandered beside the river into the fields—some broad, -pleasant, open fields where the river was wide, and formed a broad, -shallow, brawling kind of waterfall. To-night there was a full moon, -which, as night fell, replaced the day with a softer brilliance. -He mused as he walked, not with the heartbeats and the tumultuous -agitation which had shaken Nita, but with vague wonder, and a vague -repining. Why had he not known of all this reverse of circumstances a -few months earlier, before he had met Sara Ford and learnt to love her? -If Sara had not been there, imperiously commanding his love, how easy -it would have been to accept Father Somerville’s outspoken counsel, to -make love to Nita Bolton (this with a calm obliviousness or ignoring of -the fact that what he had done that afternoon was, if not love-making, -at least an excellent imitation of - -<span class="pagenum">[57]</span> - -it), marry her, and once more -enjoy his own. It was now quite impossible, of course, and his little -experiment this afternoon had just sufficed to show him that had he -only been free, it might have been. He did not wish to be free—not -he! Who would wish to be free who was loved by Sara Ford? But surely -it was not wrong to picture what might have been if he had never met -her. He could not tell her of what might have been; but he wished she -could know it—could know what his love for her would stand, what hot -temptations, what fiery trials it would carry him through unscathed.</p> - -<p>And now, how to behave towards Nita? Of course he must not deceive her: -he must try to enlighten her on the subject of his engagement; it was -only fair. But not to-night: she was too shaken and unstrung to-night -to bear more excitement—he tacitly assumed that the revelation would -cause excitement to her—to-night he must be gentle and quiet, and let -her rest. So he argued - -<span class="pagenum">[58]</span> - -within himself, the truth being that to Jerome -Wellfield it was very much easier and infinitely pleasanter to be on -good than on evil terms with a woman—with all women not absolutely -hideous, and that it was the most natural thing in the world for him -to treat any young woman, especially if she happened to be the only -one there, as if she were the object of his most special care and -attention. Then too, he felt himself welcome at the Abbey, and the -sense of this, and the luxury of the sympathy and commiseration, the -admiration and the pity which Nita with every look, every gesture, -every tone of her voice, offered to him, lulled him into a sensuous -inactivity—the kind of inactivity to which his nature was always -perilously prone. The pain of planning, and considering, and of conning -over adverse circumstances, was great. The pleasure of half-dreamy talk -with a woman whom some inner emotion made beautiful for the nonce, -and who he felt wore that passing loveliness because he had called it -there, and the pleasure of - -<span class="pagenum">[59]</span> - -being worshipped, silently yet subtly, was -also great, and very much easier to him than the other alternative. -To-morrow, he thought, he would tell her about Sara; to-night he would -tell her about herself.</p> - -<p>He went into the drawing-room, and found the group which has already -been described. Nita’s little whispered dispute with John was over, -and she lay still. The window was open, and Jerome had entered by it. -The evening was warm, and at the Abbey in summer they never drew the -curtains; and from where Nita lay, they could see the trees outside -shimmering in the ghostly moonlight, and the hoary grey walls of -the cloisters beside the river, and nearer, all the stiff quaint -flower-beds, and clipped yews, and oddly-shaped shrubs and plants.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton, at the other end of the room, had a table and a little -oasis of lamplight all to himself, and was absorbed in a book of -travels. Nita was wont to say that her father was not happy unless he -daily made an excursion - -<span class="pagenum">[60]</span> - -to Burnham <i xml:lang="la" lang="la"> in propria personâ</i>; a descent -into Avernus with the assistance of Dante the immortal, and an -expedition in the evening into some unheard-of corner of the earth with -some traveller, whose tales she averred could not be too wonderful to -be credible; in fact, the more improbable, the better.</p> - -<p>Except Mr. Bolton’s reading-lamp, there was no light in the room save -moonlight; and the space was so great that the lamplight was lost in -the other rays.</p> - -<p>There was silence as Jerome came in, and just glanced at Nita’s pale -face, which looked almost ghastly in the white moonlight. He paused, -and asked her if she felt rested.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, thank you,’ replied Nita, with a little catching of her breath, -which John at least noticed. ‘I am all right, but John is a tyrant, and -says if I get up he will go.’</p> - -<p>‘Quite right, too,’ observed Miss Shuttleworth from her corner.</p> - -<p>‘Would anyone like a light?’ asked Nita.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[61]</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh, don’t light up! This moonlight is heavenly. It only wants music to -make it complete,’ said John. ‘Wellfield, when you were a precocious -infant of eleven, at which age I last knew you, you used to play tunes -on the piano, and sing little Italian songs, which used to fascinate -me. Have you forgotten how?’</p> - -<p>‘Not utterly, though I have no doubt fallen off from the first engaging -innocence of childhood.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, won’t you give us a specimen,’ said the benighted barbarian—‘if -Nita is not too tired?’ he added, turning to her.</p> - -<p>‘I—oh no! if Mr. Wellfield will sing, I should like it,’ said Nita, -utterly unconscious that she was invoking the most powerful of the -weapons of fascination possessed by her hero, and anxious only to -preserve a little longer the friendly moonlight.</p> - -<p>‘Certainly, if one could ever sing at all, one would be able to do -so in such a place, and with such surroundings as these, observed - -<span class="pagenum">[62]</span> - -Jerome, carelessly, as he struck a chord or two. ‘Ah! your piano is a -Bechstein, Miss Bolton; you might have imported it on purpose for me. -All I stipulate is, that you will cry “Hold!” in a loud voice, when you -have had enough of it.’</p> - -<p>He tried his hand with a half-forgotten impromptu of Schubert’s, -and with each bar that he played the old spirit came back to him. -He had not touched a note since the night he had sung to Sara Ford, -at Trockenau. Did he remember it? It may be so, but if he did, he -carefully abstained from giving any of the songs he had sung on that -eventful night. Perhaps the present audience were not worthy. At first -he did not sing at all, but wandered on through some strange, cobwebby -melodies of Schumann and Chopin—strange melodies, such as had probably -never before palpitated through that ancient room, since it was first -built, for an abbot’s refectory. At first he thought he would not sing -at all; but with the flow of sound, and the exercise of - -<span class="pagenum">[63]</span> - -the beloved -art, the old intoxication and exaltation stole gradually over him. He -paused a moment, struck a couple of weirdly sounding minor chords, and -sang the strangely suggestive lines beginning:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container38"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘O Death, that makest life so sweet!</div> - <div class="verse">O Fear, with mirth before thy feet!</div> - <div class="verse">What have ye yet in store for us?</div> - <div class="verse">The conquerors, the glorious?’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>If he wished to recall to Nita’s mind their perils of the afternoon, -he succeeded most thoroughly in doing so. It all rushed over her mind -again, overpoweringly, and the whole truth of it. She knew as she heard -his voice that never, never had life been so sweet as when, the danger -over, she had seen Jerome Wellfield standing at her side, and had heard -his voice, though scarcely comprehending what he said.</p> - -<p>So he sang on, song after song; each one with fresh verve and fresh -pleasure—with a purer delight in the exercise of his power. Almost -at haphazard, he sang the songs and - -<span class="pagenum">[64]</span> - -the <i xml:lang="it" lang="it">scenas</i> which he best remembered, just as they came into -his mind—Faust making love to Marguerite, and the Troubadour invoking -Leonore; one little German love-song after another—‘Du bist wie -eine stille Sternennacht’ made the tears rush blindingly to Nita’s -eyes. John Leyburn still sat beside her couch: he leaned back in his -chair, and the music wrought pleasant visions in his mind, together -with a casual wonder whether Wellfield had never thought of going on -the stage, where his voice would certainly have made him a fortune -and brought him fame to boot. ‘But he would consider it degrading, -I suppose,’ thought John. ‘I fear he is an out-and-out Tory.’ Miss -Shuttleworth ceased to knit, folded her mittened hands one over the -other upon her knee, and appeared at least to listen. The green and -yellow cap-ribbons were portentously still, but no sign appeared upon -her countenance of either approval or disapproval.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton, who had at first scarce been - -<span class="pagenum">[65]</span> - -conscious of what was going -on, slowly and gradually emerged from an imaginary career over the -arid plains of the Pampas, over which he had been in fancy galloping -madly, hotly pursued by a number of vindictive South American savages, -whose arrows threatened death in the rear, while before him was a deep -and rapid river, through which his exhausted horse must swim, if he -were to reach the territory of the nearest friendly tribe, alive. He -gradually awoke to the consciousness that music of no common order was -being made in his daughter’s drawing-room. He did not quite understand -it all—suddenly he heard Italian words which he recognised—passionate, -tragic words:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container43"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Per pietà non dirmi addiò!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Non dirmi addiò!</div> - <div class="verse">Dita priva chè farò?</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Dita priva chè farò?’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>He felt that they were beautiful; their passion and their fire stirred -the blood in his veins. He listened to the glorious end of a - -<span class="pagenum">[66]</span> - -glorious <i xml:lang="it" lang="it">scena</i>, and then he shut up his book and waited for -more. Then it was that Wellfield turned to something quite different, -and sang:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container36"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Du bist wie eine stille Sternennacht,</div> - <div class="verse">Ein süss’ Geheimniss ruht auf deinem Munde,</div> - <div class="verse">In deines dunklen Auges feuchtem Grunde,</div> - <div class="verse">Ich weiss es wohl, und nehm’ es wohl in Acht,</div> - <div class="verse">Du bist wie eine stille Sternennacht.’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>It is an exquisite romance, and he sang it to perfection. To Mr. -Bolton’s mind it brought, as well it might, remembrances thronging -fast of youth and love, and of a time when he had been young, and -when he had wandered through the lanes of Wellfield on his Saturday -half-holiday, or for his Sunday out, with a girl on his arm, whose -presence was his paradise. In short, Mr. Bolton soon, to his own -profound astonishment, found tears stealing from his eyes. He was -thinking of himself, and of his own far-back joys and sorrows; he -was in a twilight land, where he had long been a stranger—a country -which - -<span class="pagenum">[67]</span> - -all of us know, and which yet none of us with bodily eyes have -seen—the country which is illumined by ‘the light that never was on -sea or land’—the country in which strange plants grow—dried flowers to -wit, and locks of hair tied up with faded ribbons, and bundles of old -letters—the kingdom of romance.</p> - -<p>Nita had changed her position; she had turned over on her side, with -her face towards the sofa-back, so that it could not be seen. Her -handkerchief was pressed against her mouth, her temples throbbed, her -eyes were closed. She lay quite still, save that now and then a slight -shiver shook her from her head to her feet. If it filled John Leyburn’s -good honest heart with sweet, vague dreams which he had never known -before, if it wafted her dry, business-like, prosaic father back into -a nearly-forgotten land of faery and of dreams, what did it not do for -her, attuned by nature as she was, to passion and romance? and how was -she ever to find peace or freedom again?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[68]</span></p> - -<p>The last thing that Jerome sung was Zelter’s glorious song, <i xml:lang="it" lang="it">Infelice -in tanto affani</i>. When he had finished it, when the last piercing, -heart-breaking notes had died away, the despairing</p> - -<div class="poetry-container45"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Ho, perduto!</div> - <div class="verse">Il mio tesoro!</div> - <div class="verse">Tuttu—tuttu fini!’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>he rose quickly from the piano, and closed it, observing:</p> - -<p>‘I quite forgot myself. I am afraid I have been inflicting myself upon -you.’</p> - -<p>John Leyburn rose too.</p> - -<p>‘What a lucky dog you are, Wellfield, to have that voice. Amongst more -impressionable people than the English, you could charm hearts away -with it, I am sure.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not understand music,’ observed Aunt Margaret, rising also, ‘and -I am going.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton’s voice then came from afar, pedantic and particular as -usual.</p> - -<p>‘We are very much indebted to you, Mr. Wellfield. You have given us a -very great - -<span class="pagenum">[69]</span> - -treat, and I sincerely hope you will favour us in the same -way on some other occasion.’</p> - -<p>With which he pulled his lamp up to him again, and re-opened his book.</p> - -<p>‘Nita, I am going. John will see me home,’ said Miss Shuttleworth, -while John, stooping over Nita, remarked:</p> - -<p>‘My child, you appear to have collapsed altogether.’</p> - -<p>Aunt Margaret had gone upstairs to take off the green and yellow cap; -Nita turned round, and sat up. Her face was pale, and there was an -expression of suffering upon it.</p> - -<p>‘I tell you what it is,’ said John, ‘you want a little fresh air, Nita. -Suppose you and Wellfield come with Aunt Margaret and me to the gate. -You are afraid to go alone, you know, being such a coward.’</p> - -<p>Nita smiled faintly.</p> - -<p>‘Here’s a shawl,’ pursued John. ‘I’ll put it round your shoulders—so.’</p> - -<p>She passively allowed him to fold the little cashmere about her -shoulders, and when - -<span class="pagenum">[70]</span> - -Aunt Margaret came down, and handed John her -umbrella to carry, she called out:</p> - -<p>‘Papa, Mr. Wellfield and I are going to see the others to the gate.’</p> - -<p>‘Folly!’ observed Miss Shuttleworth, casually, but no one took any -notice of her. They all went out at the window together, Nita with her -hand through John’s arm.</p> - -<p>They went lingeringly through the garden, and down the river walk -to the great cavernous gateway called ‘Abbot’s Gate.’ It was indeed -a glorious night, one in a thousand, perfect, still, and clear, and -around them was everything which can add to the glamour and beauty of a -moonlight night.</p> - -<p>They parleyed a few moments with John and Miss Shuttleworth at the -gate, and then it was shut after them with a loud resounding clang, -which echoed through the hollow archway. They were alone again.</p> - -<p>‘Draw the big bolt,’ said Nita, scarcely above a whisper, ‘then we -shall know it is safe.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[71]</span></p> - -<p>‘Safe from whom? Leyburn, or Miss Shuttleworth—or both?’ asked -Wellfield.</p> - -<p>‘From all—all evil things,’ answered Nita.</p> - -<p>‘Complimentary to them,’ he said, lightly, finding the big bolt, and -drawing it without difficulty. He knew it of old, and having pushed it -to its place, they stood within the dark space, and looked at the flood -of grey moonlight which bathed the river walk that stretched before -them.</p> - -<p>Jerome drew Nita’s arm through his, and they passed out of the darkness -into that moonlight. Nita turned her steps towards a small wicket, -leading by a nearer path to her home, and the drawing-room window.</p> - -<p>‘You don’t mean to go that way, and leave the river walk, and this -glorious moonlight!’ he exclaimed. ‘That would be a sin. It is not -late. Come this way.’</p> - -<p>For a moment she wavered; then turned and went with him.</p> - -<p>Jerome did not confess it to himself, but - -<span class="pagenum">[72]</span> - -down in the depths of his -heart he knew he was doing what was base.</p> - -<p>They went very slowly along the grassy walk, on which the dew lay like -grey gossamer in the moon-rays, and for a little time neither spoke, -till Jerome said softly:</p> - -<p>‘Will you trust me to drive you another day, Miss Bolton?’</p> - -<p>‘I? Why not?’ said Nita, faintly.</p> - -<p>‘Will you promise to go out with me another day, that I may be sure you -have forgiven me my carelessness?’</p> - -<p>‘I—is there anything to forgive?’</p> - -<p>‘I think so. If I had not been talking sentimental nonsense to you, you -would not have forgotten to look after your horses, and then——’</p> - -<p>‘Do not let us say any more about it,’ said she. ‘I shall never forget -it to my dying day, but I hate to think of it.’</p> - -<p>‘It has shaken you sadly; but will you go out with me another day?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes! To-morrow if you like.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[73]</span></p> - -<p>‘That is truly good of you,’ said he, softly. ‘Your shawl is not warm -enough,’ he added, stopping, as she shivered a little, and he altered -it and folded it more closely about her. As they stood there, his eyes -looked into hers, and by the moonlight he saw that hers were full of -fear, and that her face was white, and her expression one of pain.</p> - -<p>‘I ought not to have brought you out,’ he said, regretfully.</p> - -<p>‘No; I think I should like to go in again, please,’ said Nita.</p> - -<p>‘You shall, now that I know how good you are,’ he answered, lifting up -the hand that lay upon his arm, and stooping his beautiful head towards -it, he touched the tips of her fingers with his lips. ‘What a long time -it seems since we walked here this morning,’ he added, ‘does it not?’</p> - -<p>‘A very long time,’ responded Nita, in a voice of exceeding weariness.</p> - -<p>They entered the drawing-room again, and Wellfield, speaking to Mr. -Bolton, said:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[74]</span></p> - -<p>‘I am sure Miss Bolton ought not to sit up any longer. She has been -more shaken than she will own by her accident this afternoon, and——’</p> - -<p>‘Nita, say good-night, and go to bed,’ said her father, presenting her -simultaneously with a candle and a kiss. ‘Here, shake hands with her, -Mr. Wellfield. Good-night, child. Off with you.’</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>Nita, locked in her room, began her preparations for writing. She had -inscribed the words:</p> - -<p>‘How much I have to record! What a day this has been! What a century -of events and emotions have been compressed into a brief and fleeting -fourteen or fifteen hours. And how little I thought when——’</p> - -<p>She broke off abruptly, cast her pen down, and started from her chair, -pacing about the room; her hands before her face, and short, tearless -sobs now and then breaking from her lips.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[75]</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh! what shall I do?’ she whispered. ‘What will become of me? I -believe I had better have died before I had seen him. But if he loved -me—oh! if God would let him love me—what am I saying?... I am afraid. I -wish some one were here. I dare not be alone.’</p> - -<p>She opened the door softly. On the mat before it lay Speedwell; he -raised his head, blinked at her, and moved his great tail up and down -slowly.</p> - -<p>‘Speedwell, come in!’ she whispered, beckoning to him. The mastiff -obeyed. Nita locked him into the room with her, and as he sat looking -up at her, inquiring why she was troubled, she cast her arms about his -faithful neck, and sobbed as if her heart would break.</p> - -<p>When the paroxysm was over, and she looked at him, tears were coursing -down Speedwell’s nose too.</p> - -<p>‘You will never tell anyone, will you, Speedwell?’ she muttered. ‘You -are wiser - -<span class="pagenum">[76]</span> - -and stronger than your mistress, old dog and old friend.’</p> - -<p>Speedwell watched beside the bed on which his mistress passed a -restless night; her brain full of the rapidly changing images of -alternating hope and anguish, rapture and despair and love, with which -her day had been filled.</p> - -<p>When morning came, and she looked in her glass, it showed her a very -wan, white face, with dark rings round the eyes, and a piteous curve -about the lips—a face changed indeed from that which, if not beautiful, -had given joy to many, and had hitherto been thought a sweet face by -those who loved and knew it best.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[77]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_VIII"> - <img src="images/i_077_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII. -<br><br> -<small>THE FIRST OF BRENTWOOD.</small><br></h2> - -<div class="blockindent20"> -‘I found myself in a richly adorned temple, in which incense was -burning, where lights were twinkling above the altar, and where the -music was such as to ravish away my very senses. And as I fell upon -my knees, the choir, which from its sweetness I could have thought -celestial, repeated many times in moving accents, the wish of my -heart—so that it became verily a prayer—and I poured out my soul in -unison—<i xml:lang="la" lang="la"> dona nobis pacem</i>.’ -</div> -<br> -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_t_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">The</span> following day -was Sunday, and on the arrival of the letters, Jerome -found two for himself, one bearing the Elberthal post-mark, the sight -of which made his heart beat. The other was directed in a hand he -did not know, but turning it over, he saw printed on the flap of the -envelope ‘Brentwood.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[78]</span></p> - -<p>‘It must be from Somerville, of course,’ he thought, opening it -quickly, and his conjecture was right.</p> - -<div class="blockindent23"> -<span class="smcap sig-left5">‘My Dear Mr. Wellfield,</span><br> -‘Will you, if you have no other engagement, and if the evening is<br> -fine, come up to Brentwood to the evening service? I should like to<br> -present you to the Superior, and we shall be happy if you will remain<br> -and sup with us.<br> -<span class="sig-left30">‘Sincerely yours,</span><br> -<span class="sig-left40 smcap">‘Pablo Somerville.’</span><br> -</div> - -<p>This invitation gave him a sense of relief, inexplicable, but strong. -With Father Somerville he felt entirely at his ease; felt that he was -understood, was not taken to be a hero, or anything else that he really -was not. Here, at the Abbey, he had the very opposite sensation. He -knew that he was looked upon in the light of an unusual and remarkable -phenomenon. He knew, for he had a keen, sympathetic intuition in - -<span class="pagenum">[79]</span> - -such matters, that Mr. Bolton treated him with a respect he was not -wont to show to strangers—especially penniless ones—that even Miss -Shuttleworth’s pointed and elaborate incivility arose chiefly from a -feeling she had that he was dangerous. John Leyburn alone appeared to -preserve his natural, deliberate, unembarrassed manner.</p> - -<p>Nita—Jerome felt very uncomfortable when he thought of Nita—very -uncomfortable as his eyes wandered from Sara Ford’s handwriting to -Anita Bolton’s face, which face he saw was pale, and the reason of -which pallor he knew as well as if some one had arisen and proclaimed -it aloud to him. They were all, without exception, under a false -impression in regard to him. How easy, exclaims a devoted adherent of -right-doing, to remove that false impression! How very easy casually -to let them all know that he was promised and vowed to another woman! -Was not the excuse there in the shape of Sara’s letter? Why not mention -that it was from the girl he was engaged to? What easier? Ah! what - -<span class="pagenum">[80]</span> - -to some natures? And to others what more difficult? Unfortunately it -was difficult to Jerome. He did resolve, as he looked at Nita that -morning, and saw the difficulty she had in meeting his eyes, that he -would not make love to her any more; that he would be cold to her even. -Such natures as his are given to making such resolutions in momentary -silence and reflectiveness; and when the moment comes for not making -love, for displaying coldness, they never recognise it; it is always -‘not now, another time!’ And this, not for fear of hurting a woman’s -feelings, though they would say so, even to themselves, but because -the flattery of a woman’s love is too sweet a dram to be forborne. It -was easy for Jerome Wellfield as he sat exchanging commonplaces at -the breakfast-table with Nita—and Nita’s father—to swear to himself -that such commonplaces alone should be the yea, yea, and the nay, nay, -of his entire conversation with her. When the moment came, in which - -<span class="pagenum">[81]</span> - -he found himself alone with her, or apart with her, the old trick of -the eyes, the old smoothness of the tongue slips back again, as if by -some fatality. So long as she believes him he will make love to her; -so long as she will worship him, he will accept the worship, and will -delight in it—and could not refuse it when it was offered, were the -alternative a plunge into the nethermost abyss of remorse—into the -scorching flames of discovery. Therefore, it may be predicted with -mathematical certainty that he will read that letter that lies before -him; that it will both charm and distress him—the first by its worship -of himself; the next by making him see that the writer believes him -as single-hearted as she is herself. After reading it, he will vow to -himself, much and more, ‘I must tell her—I will tell her.’ And he will -go to her, and will tell her—how precious her sympathy is to him, and -how perfect is her nature, and he will look love, if he does not speak -it.</p> - -<p>While he was longing to open Sara’s letter, and vowing great vows to - -<span class="pagenum">[82]</span> - -undeceive Nita as early as might be, she said:</p> - -<p>‘We are going to church this morning, Mr. Wellfield. Will you come too, -or would you prefer to stay at home?’</p> - -<p>‘I will go with pleasure,’ he answered. Be it observed that in -Wellfield’s nature there was not, and never had been, one grain of -scepticism in matters religious. It is true he was utterly indifferent -so far as practice was concerned, and that, according to the company he -happened to be in, he would, for weeks or months at a time, either go -diligently to some place of worship once, or even twice each Sunday, -or never enter one at all, or even think of the matter. Where he went -was also almost entirely a matter of indifference, except that he never -frequented conventicles, not at all because he disapproved of the -tenets held by their supporters, of which he knew nothing, or less than -nothing, but because the services held in them were so bald and tame, -so ugly and ascetic; they appealed in no way to his æsthetic sense, - -<span class="pagenum">[83]</span> - -but rather repelled it. Anywhere where he could have a fine service, -hear fine voices read or intoned, and where there was good music in -which he could join, was acceptable to him, and all his life he had -wandered indifferently whither friends or fancy led him, to services -and churches of all kinds, but perhaps more to Roman Catholic ones -than to any others. As a small child he had always attended mass with -his mother, had learnt to say his <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Ave Maria</i> and his <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Pater Noster</i>; -and these remembrances remained with him; part of the influences of -Italy. He remembered them as he remembered his mother’s dark eyes, and -gem-like brilliance of beauty—like a delicious dream of another world.</p> - -<p>All this, however, did not prevent his putting on his hat and walking -with Nita and her father down the river walk, across the field to -the church. They sat in the stalls, one row of which ‘went’ with the -Abbey property. How well he remembered it all. If the service were - -<span class="pagenum">[84]</span> - -not of the most elaborate or beautiful, there were other objects in -Wellfield Church which made up for a somewhat bald ritual. There was -for instance, much charm for an æsthetic soul in the magnificent carved -work of the splendid old black-oak stalls in which they sat, and in -the many other odd old pews and strange devices dotted up and down. -The singing was of a nature to make the blood freeze in the veins of -him who had any pretence to being a musician. The choir consisted of -a number of young men and women accommodated with seats in the west -gallery, a conspicuous position, close to the organ; and to do justice -to their exalted places, no doubt, they were in the habit of attiring -themselves in the very height of the Wellfield fashion, which fashion, -for brilliance of hue and boldness of contrast, would have put to shame -Solomon in all his glory. Jerome found himself seated next to Miss -Margaret Shuttleworth, who looked uncompromising. In the dim distance - -<span class="pagenum">[85]</span> - -he saw John Leyburn, alone in a great square carved oak pew, the pew -that belonged to his house, Abbot’s Knoll, for free and open benches -were as yet unheard of in Wellfield.</p> - -<p>The service over, they nearly all met at the door, as is the fashion -with country congregations. Jerome, having ascertained that the family -dinner did not come off for the space of an hour and a half, or more, -said he was going for a walk, and wandered off in the direction of -the wooded hill, the Nab, there to read his letter, and make good -resolutions with regard to Nita, with an undercurrent of wonder, all -the time, as to what Father Somerville would tell him he ought to do, -if he knew all the circumstances of the case.</p> - -<p>Nita and John Leyburn, not noticing where Jerome went, presently -strolled off in the same direction. Mr. Bolton remained with his -cousin, Miss Shuttleworth, patiently waiting till she had finished her - -<span class="pagenum">[86]</span> - -discourse with an odd-looking character, no less a personage than the -sexton of Wellfield church.</p> - -<p>‘I’m sorry to hear, Robert, that you got too much on Monday.’</p> - -<p>‘I fear I did, Miss Shuttleworth,’ he said, looking rather sheepish.</p> - -<p>‘It is deplorable,’ said Miss Margaret, shaking her head. ‘How was it? -for your wife could give me no proper account of it, and unless you can -clearly prove that you were led away, I shall be obliged to show my -displeasure this time. I shall have to withdraw my allowance to Mary.’</p> - -<p>Mary was his sick daughter.</p> - -<p>‘It were aw along o’ th’ brass band contest, Miss Margit; ’twere, for -sure.’</p> - -<p>‘The brass band contest, Robert? I don’t see how the brass band contest -could make you get tipsy and tumble into the grave you were digging, as -I heard you did. Is it true?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[87]</span></p> - -<p>‘Ay, every word on ’t’s true, Miss Margit—more’s th’ pity.’</p> - -<p>‘Shame on you! But how did it happen?’</p> - -<p>He twirled his hat round by the brim, and a lurking smile and twinkle -of the eye betrayed his inner consciousness that the affair had a -ludicrous as well as a ‘deplorable’ side.</p> - -<p>‘Well, Miss Margit, I’d getten th’ grave above half-finished, when -I yeard th’ brass bands comin’ along to th’ Plough Inn, and it were -th’ middle o’ th’ arternoon, and I were summan (some and) dry, and I -were vary anxious for to hear who’d won, yo’ know, so I flings down my -spade, and I went off to th’ Plough, and theer I found ’em all—every -man on ’em. And we geet to talkin’, and first one offert me a drop, and -then another, till I geet to’ much—I’m free to confess it. I remembered -o’ of a suddent as th’ grave were to be ready again th’ mornin’, and -I jumped up, and ran to th’ - -<span class="pagenum">[88]</span> - -churchyard, and set to work to dig wi’ a -will. And whether it was th’ heat—it <em>were</em> gradely hot—or whether I -were fuddled, I know nowt about it, but I turned dizzy all of a moment, -and I tummled down, and fell fast asleep. Th’ graves were o’er yonder, -at th’ fur end o’ th’ yard, and mappen that were why no one seed me, -and wakkened me oop, but when I did awake, it were well-nigh dark, and -I couldna tell for t’ life of me, where I were. So I sets oop and looks -around, and there in the far distance I yeard th’ sound of a trumpet. -My heart louped to my mouth, and I thowt, “Robert Stott, it’s last -trump; up wi’ thee!” and I ups and clambers out, and stands still. -Ne’er a soul could I see, and aw’ were as still as death. Findin’ -mysel’ alone, I took courage, for I knew as the more part should be o’ -th’ wrong side i’ th’ day o’ judgment—our parson’s olez said so, and -I’ve a feelin’ as he’s reet. Then again I yeard th’ trumpet-blast, and -I looked around again. “What, no more - -<span class="pagenum">[89]</span> - -righteous?” I said to mysel’. -“Eh, but it’s a poor show for Wellfield.”’</p> - -<p>‘<em>Robert!</em>’ was all that Miss Shuttleworth could ejaculate, -horror-struck.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Miss Margit?’</p> - -<p>‘What you say proves you to be in a very unsatisfactory frame of mind -as regards religion.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, ma’am, I’ve olez agreed gradely well with th’ owd vicar. It’s a -grand thing to be <em>reet</em>, Miss Margit—a grand thing it is—and <em>we’re</em> -reet. I see my son-in-law a-calling to me, so I’ll say good-mornin’.’</p> - -<p>With which, before she could stop him, Robert Stott had made good his -escape.</p> - -<p>‘Now, perhaps you’ll allow us to go to the Abbey, cousin,’ observed Mr. -Bolton, shaking in a volley of silent chuckles.</p> - -<p>‘I am astonished at you, cousin,’ was all the answer he received, as -Miss Margaret, with her head in the air, floated towards the wicket -leading to the Abbey.</p> - -<p>But her head suddenly went down again - -<span class="pagenum">[90]</span> - -as she recalled her niece’s -words yesterday, ‘Don’t you see when you are being laughed at, aunt?’</p> - -<p>‘Is it possible that Stott was laughing at me? Surely he would not have -such insolence!’</p> - -<p>Pondering upon this tremendous topic, she had eyes and ears for nothing -else until Mr. Bolton observed:</p> - -<p>‘You’ll walk into the river, cousin, directly. Would you like to go in, -or shall we walk about till the young ones come back?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, they are all off, are they?’ she said, raising her head, and -collecting her faculties again. ‘That gives me just the opportunity I -wish for. Do you know what you are doing, Stephen?’</p> - -<p>‘Doing? As how?’</p> - -<p>‘In harbouring that young Wellfield in your house?’</p> - -<p>‘I invited him to stay a few days, if that’s what you call -“harbouring,” cousin.’</p> - -<p>‘Pooh! You know what I mean. Had - -<span class="pagenum">[91]</span> - -you no thought for the probable -consequences when you committed that rash act?’</p> - -<p>‘What do you mean by the probable consequences? At present they seem to -me to consist in my having become better acquainted with Mr. Wellfield, -and feeling considerable respect for him.’</p> - -<p>‘Respect! respect for a Wellfield! I am astonished at you. <em>You</em> have -become better acquainted with him; but not so well acquainted with him -as your daughter.’</p> - -<p>‘My daughter—you mean that Nita admires him—or that he is likely to -fall in love with her?’</p> - -<p>A fine sneer played about Miss Shuttleworth’s lips.</p> - -<p>‘He is very likely to fall in love with Nita’s money. As for herself, -no Wellfield ever cared for any person but his own.’</p> - -<p>‘You are prejudiced, cousin, as we all know.’</p> - -<p>‘Will you deny that when two people are - -<span class="pagenum">[92]</span> - -thrown together as Nita and -that young man are likely to be, it is probable that nothing will come -of it on either side?’</p> - -<p>‘It is not probable,’ he returned, quietly.</p> - -<p>‘Do you mean to say that you will allow Nita to fall in love with him, -and do nothing to prevent it?’</p> - -<p>‘It is a matter I do not choose to discuss. There are other -probabilities on the cards besides the probability of Nita’s falling in -love with him.’</p> - -<p>‘If that’s your way of looking at it, I’ve done,’ replied Miss -Margaret, mightily offended, and prancing onwards with her head higher -than ever. ‘Indeed, I think I will go into the house.’</p> - -<p>‘As you please,’ he returned. ‘I am going to stroll about here for a -short time.’</p> - -<p>Miss Shuttleworth stalked onwards in dudgeon. Mr. Bolton was left -pacing by the river walk.</p> - -<p>‘It is an odd complication,’ he was reflecting, - -<span class="pagenum">[93]</span> - -‘and it would be an -odd result if I should have toiled all these years to place my child -and this place into the hands of one of the old stock once more. But it -must be as will make the child most happy. As for him, he may make an -admirable gentleman of property and an excellent husband, but he will -never make money. He may learn sufficient of business habits to be able -to keep it together when it is there, but the business he conducted -would soon stand still. Still, if he is honest, and honourable, and a -gentleman in thought and feeling, as he appears to be, and the man who -will make my little girl happy—which I begin to think is the case—there -seems a sort of appropriateness in his being a Wellfield. It was -through no sin of his that he lost the place, and from all I can hear -he has been perfectly well-conducted. At least, I can see no reason -for forcibly separating them, and why should not my daughter marry a -high-born gentleman? She is worthy the best in the land.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[94]</span></p> - -<p>More meditations, all tending in the same direction—more pacing to -and fro, until, raising his eyes, he saw his daughter approaching, -accompanied by Jerome Wellfield. Nita’s eyes were bright, and there was -a soft flush upon her cheeks. She looked undeniably pretty. Wellfield -looked as he always did—handsome with a beauty which is given to few -men to wear, stately and high-bred more than most men.</p> - -<p>‘They make a goodly couple,’ thought the fond father. ‘She is a winsome -lass, and he—yes, by gad, there is something in birth and breeding. He -looks the right master for a place like this.’</p> - -<p>With which jumble of fatherly pride, commercial astuteness, and prudent -calculation, he advanced to meet them.</p> - -<p>‘John has gone home to dinner,’ said Nita; ‘he’s coming down in the -evening.’</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>Wellfield’s reflections, as he walked towards Brentwood, were far from -being agreeable. - -<span class="pagenum">[95]</span> - -He had Sara’s letter, with its calm acceptance of -the fact that he loved her as she loved him—she spoke of it as if it -had been one of the ordinances of nature—unalterable as the laws of -the Medes and Persians. She showed him at the same time how very much -she loved him, and that stroked his self-complacency the right way; -but the other feeling chafed him. Inevitably, from his character, from -the inborn, inherited tendencies of his nature, he asked himself, -‘What right had she to accept so unquestioningly his love—to assume -that nothing could change it—nothing shake it?’ She little knew the -temptations that were cast in his way—temptations from which she was -free. He forgot how persistently he had pressed the point upon her. -What would she do in case some other man were to fall in love with -her, as he was almost sure to do? Yet, as he remembered her few strong -simple expressions of devotion to himself, the whole extent of his love -for her rushed over him; he seemed to - -<span class="pagenum">[96]</span> - -be once more under the potent -spell of her individuality—of her noble, upright, simple nature; to -feel once more the magic of her beauty, which answered so harmoniously -to her nature, as some Beethoven symphony answers in the grand and -original carving of its outward form to the grand and original fire of -the thoughts which gave it birth—as the greatest poems take the most -perfect shape, and are written in the most melodiously arranged words. -Yes, he knew he loved her—he knew that all the higher part of his -nature loved and worshipped her; but he knew that she had clear eyes, -and that oppressed him; and he knew that had those eyes beheld him, as -he sat alone with Nita Bolton by the river that afternoon, they would -have scorched him; had they seen Nita’s downcast face, and watched her -embarrassed replies to some of his questions, or beheld the still more -embarrassed silence which had been to him so eloquent, they would—how -would they have looked? Never - -<span class="pagenum">[97]</span> - -at him again with the light of love in -them. He no longer said to himself that he would tell Nita to-morrow: -he had gone too far for that. All he could do now was to drift.</p> - -<p>In this uncomfortable frame of mind he ascended the slope which led to -the gates of the drive through the park at Brentwood. Right before him -stretched a perfectly straight road, some quarter of a mile in length, -between two green meadows, each of which meadows was bordered by a belt -of dark firs. Many persons were, like himself, wending towards the mass -of grey buildings, and the great stone gate-posts, and the two huge -square fish-ponds, which lay at the end of this long road. A bell, too, -was tolling somewhere amongst the mass of buildings—some old, some new, -some not yet finished, which form the outward portion of the great -Jesuit College of Brentwood. Arrived at the entrance, between the two -fish-ponds, he inquired his way to the church, and was - -<span class="pagenum">[98]</span> - -directed where -to go. Entering by a side-door, by some mistake, he found himself in -that portion of the church reserved for the students of the college. -Pausing, and looking round, he was accosted by a tall, grave-looking -‘philosopher’—a Spaniard, evidently—and, to judge from outward -appearances, no small personage by birth and breeding. Accepting his -offer of a place, Jerome found himself between the Spanish youth and -another foreigner in one of the front benches facing the high altar. -There was a dreamy calm over everything until the service began. The -congregation came slowly dropping in, chiefly rustics, countrymen, -women, and children, and here and there some group or isolated figure -of unquestionably higher rank and station.</p> - -<p>With the different stages of the service Wellfield forgot his troubles. -It brought back associations of youth and pleasure, of music and -student-days—associations in nowise connected with Wellfield, with his - -<span class="pagenum">[99]</span> - -present life and surroundings—rather it led him to forget them, -which he was only too willing to do. The ritual was gorgeous, the music -magnificent, the choir and the organist first-rate. It soothed him, -calmed him, eased him, as all such observances must soothe and ease -those who can accept the principles which give rise to them. On their -knees they knelt, and again and again sounded, in strains of exquisite -supplication, the great cry, common to all humanity—<i xml:lang="la" lang="la"> Dona nobis pacem</i>! -Ay! give us peace; though every moment we are off our knees we may be -doing, thinking, planning, hoping that which will destroy peace, yet, -Power that we invoke, heed not that, but, since we fall on our knees, -and set it to music, and are for the moment in earnest—‘Give us peace!’ -It is a cry common to all; and those who pin their faith on creeds -imagine that it will be answered. Perhaps the conviction saves some -from madness, and others from blank despair—lulls some consciences, -shoots a ray of hope into - -<span class="pagenum">[100]</span> - -some hearts—makes their lives bearable to -those who believe that peace comes from a source outside themselves—but -remains a delusion all the same. To-night, it had the effect of a drug -upon Jerome Wellfield’s conscience. <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Dona nobis pacem!</i> Surely there -would be some way ‘shown’ to him out of it all. <i xml:lang="la" lang="la"> Dona nobis pacem!</i> -This strife could not be meant to go on for ever. For once in his life, -he prayed—prayed from his very heart—‘Give us peace!’</p> - -<p>Somerville, who took no part in the service, watched him curiously from -his place, in a somewhat retired corner. The keen-eyed, quick-witted -priest rapidly noted the points of resemblance between Jerome Wellfield -and his two companions. Both the latter belonged to old Roman Catholic -families, and bore names of world-wide celebrity; both were amongst the -eldest and most advanced of the students, and already showing signs of -manhood, in deep voices and a dark line on the upper lip; they might, -therefore, justly be compared - -<span class="pagenum">[101]</span> - -with Wellfield. All three had the same -high-bred pride of bearing, the pale, rather disdainful, features; the -same distinctly haughty carriage of head and shoulders—to each and all -was common a certain dreamy <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">schwärmerisch</i> expression, indefinable, -but palpable—an expression which any acute observer must have noted.</p> - -<p>‘Anyone coming in, and not knowing the circumstances,’ thought -Somerville; ‘knowing only that this is a Jesuit seminary, and that over -there the students sit, would inevitably say, “What a thoroughly Roman -Catholic-looking trio—especially that eldest one in the middle!”’ He -watched with more intentness still. Father Somerville was zealous for -his faith—he was ambitious too; he knew that in his Church services -of a tangible kind met with tangible rewards. To say that he then -and there formed a scheme, which he decided at all hazards to carry -out, would be to do a clever man egregious injustice. Simply, he had -a subtle brain and a - -<span class="pagenum">[102]</span> - -natural turn for intrigue, which of course his -education and career had fostered. He saw possibilities—possibilities -which excited his active brain, and kindled his ambition and -imagination.</p> - -<p>‘They were Catholics before—till not more than a hundred years ago,’ he -thought. ‘His mother was Catholic of the Catholic. Why not Catholics -again, if anything? Who knows? Time will show.’</p> - -<p>The service over, there was a sermon, and presently the congregation -broke up, and streamed out into the open air. The students marched off -in procession, and departed by a side-door. Somerville just paused as -he passed, to whisper to Jerome:</p> - -<p>‘If you will wait in the garden or on the playground, I will join you -in a few moments.’</p> - -<p>And following this direction, Wellfield went out by the west-door, -and took his way to the broad space on the brow of the hill, which - -<span class="pagenum">[103]</span> - -seemed to form quite a little tableland in itself, and which was the -playground of Brentwood College. He paced about there, and watched the -crimson and purple pomp of the August sunset. It was a scene such as -one rarely beholds, rendered remarkable, too, by ancient historical -associations, and by the present fact, that, though within twenty or -thirty miles of all the great manufacturing towns and most powerful -radical centres of Lancashire, it was a Roman Catholic strong-hold; -in matters of religion a conservative nook, where change crept on -leaden foot. From this elevated vantage-ground Wellfield saw many -things associated with his own family and its history. There was the -ancient grey manor-house and church of Millholm; in which church was -a ‘Wellfield chapel,’ where ancestors of his had their marble tombs, -including that of the boy, the last direct heir male to Brentwood, -who had come to his death by eating poisonous berries in a wood. It -was after his death that - -<span class="pagenum">[104]</span> - -Brentwood had passed into the hands of the -Jesuits. From his present standpoint he could see the three rivers, -each more beautiful than the other, which came very near to meeting, -and which had given rise to the old rhyme which Nita had repeated to -him yesterday:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container36"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Hodder and Calder, and Ribble and rain,</div> - <div class="verse">All meet together in Millholm demesne.’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>To his right, eastwards, the immense bulk of Penhull closed up all -prospect beyond. Northwards were bleak Yorkshire moors. At the foot of -Penhull was the little conical mound on which stood all that was left -of old Clyderhow Castle. Southwards, the smoke-bedimmed moors round -Burnham, and Black Hambledon, showing out grimly against a background -of sky that mingled hues of copper and flame and smoke. And by scanning -intently the ground just below Wellfield Nab, and the course of its -river, he could discern where the village and Monk’s Gate - -<span class="pagenum">[105]</span> - -stood. A fair heritage, and it might have been his again, but for——</p> - -<p>‘I am very sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Wellfield,’ said -Somerville’s voice at his elbow. ‘Will you not come into the house?’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you. What a prospect this is!’ said Jerome, pausing, ‘and what a -phenomenon this place of yours, too; in this district of all others.’</p> - -<p>‘Within call, you are thinking, of those centres of civilisation and -cultivation, Blackburn, Burnley, “proud Preston,” and even the monarch -of them all, Manchester,’ chimed in Somerville, a tinge of sarcasm in -his tones. ‘Yes, it is a phenomenon, I admit. I hope it did not bore -you to come to our service.’</p> - -<p>‘Bore me? On the contrary, I have enjoyed it exceedingly.’</p> - -<p>‘Won’t you come into the house? I want to present you to the Superior, -and you will remain to supper with us. Come and look at our libraries; - -<span class="pagenum">[106]</span> - -it will pass away an hour until we can see the Superior.’</p> - -<p>Jerome followed him, and the hour that Somerville had spoken of was -passed agreeably enough, in wandering through all the wonderful rooms -full of wonderful things which the priest showed him. There was a quiet -stillness over everything—a Sabbath calm. The rays of the setting sun -made beautiful the great banqueting-hall of the old mansion, which -was now the principal refectory for a hundred and sixty students and -their accompanying tutors, priests, and professors. They wandered -through the libraries, whose cedar-wood bookcases filled the air with a -pleasant aromatic smell; and where one saw here and there a figure in -a square cap and a long cassock standing silent amongst the wilderness -of theology and black-letter in the one room—of patristic lore in the -second—of miscellaneous modern thought in the third. But to those who -know Brentwood, the repetition - -<span class="pagenum">[107]</span> - -of its wonders waxes tedious—to those -who know it not, it must be tedious also. Wellfield did not know it, -and the charm which, when it was shown to him by so skilful an exponent -as Father Somerville, it was sure to cast over him, was a strong one.</p> - -<p>Indeed, it is a place which cannot fail to impress all who see it with -a sense of wonder and admiration—it is a little town in itself—a centre -of learned leisure, of Jesuit subtilty, of refined cultivation, of -courtly hospitality towards those admitted within its precincts, and -all this planted upon the slope of a bleak Lancashire ridge of hill, -facing another bare hill which divides it from one of the most radical -of radical boroughs. It was, as Wellfield had said, a remarkable -phenomenon.</p> - -<p>He was presented to the Very Reverend Father Superior. He was -courteously and graciously entertained at the simple but abundant -Sunday evening supper, and he heard and shared in conversation in which - -<span class="pagenum">[108]</span> - -he felt thoroughly at home—conversation adapted with skill and tact to -his own tastes and habits. He forgot his dilemma, until, when it was -almost ten o’clock, he rose to take his departure.</p> - -<p>‘I will accompany you for a part of the way,’ said Somerville, and -after wishing his hosts good-night, Jerome set out with the companion -whose influence he felt already to be strong, but which was in fact -far stronger than he knew, or would have liked to know—strong because -it was the influence of a calm, concentrated, yet flexible nature upon -one which, though variable was not flexible; though passionate, was not -strong.</p> - -<p>Still broad moonlight, they had no difficulty in making their way -through the scented lanes and between the tangled hedgerows. They -walked onwards, discoursing of different things, until they had left -Brentwood more than a mile behind, and found themselves at the top of -a hill, from which, looking - -<span class="pagenum">[109]</span> - -down, they could see all the village of -Wellfield; its old church; the winding river, and the Abbey walls and -gates slumbering in the moonlight. They paused, and looked down upon it.</p> - -<p>‘It is very beautiful,’ observed the priest at last.</p> - -<p>‘God knows it is,’ responded Wellfield.</p> - -<p>Another pause, when Somerville laid his hand upon the other’s shoulder, -and said, in a slow, reflective, earnest voice:</p> - -<p>‘I wish to heaven that you were master there!’</p> - -<p>Wellfield laughed a short, mirthless laugh. He knew what was meant, and -the impulse to speak freely was strong—so strong that he followed it.</p> - -<p>‘That will never be. You have some power of divination, I am certain. -Since your conversation with me yesterday morning, I have been -convinced that what you said is true. I <em>might</em> be master there if -I—chose.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[110]</span></p> - -<p>‘Then why not?’</p> - -<p>‘Because to do it, I must sell myself body and soul. It would be hell -upon earth for her—and for me too.’</p> - -<p>‘But she is not a woman with whom it would be hell-upon-earth to live,’ -began Somerville, as if surprised.</p> - -<p>‘Heavens! no. She is all that a girl ought to be, I think, and good as -only such girls can be. It is not that.’</p> - -<p>‘Surely you don’t stick at the fact that you are not desperately in -love with her? In your position that would be a folly of which I cannot -believe you capable.’</p> - -<p>‘No; such an idea never entered my mind.’</p> - -<p>‘Then, since we are speaking upon the matter—since you broached it -yourself, let me tell you seriously, that, if there is not any real -tangible impediment in the way, I think you do wrong in every way not -to take the goods the gods offer you.’</p> - -<p>Wellfield was silent for a prolonged space, till at last he said, - -<span class="pagenum">[111]</span> - -slowly, reluctantly, as if the words were wrung from him:</p> - -<p>‘Honour binds me elsewhere.’</p> - -<p>‘So! Another lady in the case!’ was the reply, given with a lightness -of tone, an absolute approach to a laugh, which surprised Wellfield, -and almost gave him a shock. He had expected his words to reduce -Somerville to silence to produce an apology for indiscretion. The -fact that nothing of the kind happened, had a subtle effect upon his -own mental attitude. Somerville went on, with a tact and an audacity -combined which were certainly remarkable:</p> - -<p>‘Pardon me, I ask no names—indeed, I would rather you mentioned none; -but tell me, if you do not very much mind, this lady to whom honour -binds you—is she rich?’</p> - -<p>‘No.’</p> - -<p>‘Is she likely to be?’</p> - -<p>‘Not unless she becomes so by her own exertions.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[112]</span></p> - -<p>‘And there is no definite prospect of marriage for you?’</p> - -<p>‘As you may suppose, none—not even an indefinite one.’</p> - -<p>‘I could suppose so. Well ... remember I speak quite without knowledge -of the circumstances, but knowing exactly what I do—no more and -no less, I should say, I hope that lady is aware of what is being -sacrificed for her sake.’</p> - -<p>Jerome was perfectly silent. Perhaps he was not conscious of acting -like a cowardly hound. He did not realise, for Father Somerville was -too clever to allow him to do so—he did not then realise that the woman -who was his promised wife had been lightly spoken of—to him—and he had -lifted neither hand nor voice in protest.</p> - -<p>‘That is my feeling,’ repeated Somerville; ‘but after this, I have no -right to urge you. But I repeat my words—I would to heaven that you, -Jerome Wellfield, were master here! Good-night!’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[113]</span></p> - -<p>Wellfield wrung his hand, and took his homeward way. Somerville passed -slowly back towards the Brentwood Park, his hands clasped behind his -back, pondering, lost in thought, till at last he gave a sudden start -and stop.</p> - -<p>‘Fool that I am!’ he murmured. ‘Instead of giving up the marriage, I -should do all in my power to urge it on. This woman in the background -is——I wish she were out of the way. And yet, if I could marry them in -spite of her.... A man and wife who live together in a hell-upon-earth -<em>must</em> have resort to a third person for help, and it should go hard -if <em>I</em> were not that third person. Upon my soul, I like the scheme. -If Wellfield Abbey and the money of that insolent heretic who lives -there now were once more under the control of the Church—it would be a -meritorious act in whoever had brought it about—another jewel in Our -Lady’s shrine, and,’ with a faint, sarcastic smile, ‘a step upwards for -Pablo Somerville. The young - -<span class="pagenum">[114]</span> - -man himself is a Wellfield. If I can make -him act for our advantage, by playing upon that self of his, it is easy -to bring out the whip afterwards, when he has gone too far to retreat.’</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[115]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_IX"> - <img src="images/i_115_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX. -<br><br> -<small>‘DON’T FRET.’</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_a_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">August</span> was verging -slowly towards September; the hues of the flowers -were more gorgeous and more autumnal; the foliage of the trees had -taken a soberer, more mature tinge. The weather was sultry and still, -as it is wont at that time of the year to be.</p> - -<p>One afternoon, Nita Bolton, book in hand, and Speedwell by her side, -paced slowly up and down the river walk, looking a little pale and -drooping. Always soon and easily tired; never of the strong, robust -temperament, she had looked of late more delicate than usual, and - -<span class="pagenum">[116]</span> - -when questioned as to the reason of her heavy eyes and pale cheeks, -had replied that ‘it was the heat—the sultry weather; the Abbey stood -so low; and the end of the summer was, she was convinced, the most -tiring and trying time of the whole year.’ She pooh-poohed all attempts -to make her neglect any of her usual duties, and attended to both her -outdoor and indoor tasks with unabated diligence; but the zeal, the -pleasure in them was gone. Then her father proposed that they should go -away on one of their usual tours—she and he and John—but Nita thought -she would prefer to wait until later in the year: Wellfield was so -beautiful now. When they did go away, she wished, she said, to go to -the Italian lakes, and in a month later it would be time enough for -that. Her word at home was a mandate, and her injunction was obeyed, -though John, in his slow and deliberate manner, did remind her that -there was a little touch of inconsistency between her two statements: -first, that the Abbey lay so low, and that this was the most tiring - -<span class="pagenum">[117]</span> - -and trying time of the whole year; and, second, that Wellfield was -nicer now than at any other season. To which she answered, a little -wearily, ‘How you quibble about things! I don’t want to go away from -home. I hate changes.’</p> - -<p>Nita had always led a remarkably quiet life. Her friends in or about -Wellfield were very few; she had not a single intimate girlfriend. Her -father, and still more her cousin, John Leyburn, had always been her -greatest confidants. All things that a sister may say to and confide -in a brother whom she esteems and loves, and in whom she has the most -boundless trust and confidence, Nita had always been in the habit of -saying to and confiding in John Leyburn. His image was inseparable from -her scheme of life. She never saw him without a feeling of contented -pleasure—much the same feeling as that she experienced when Speedwell, -with a great sigh, came up to her, laid his great nose on her lap, and - -<span class="pagenum">[118]</span> - -looked with his honest brown eyes intently into her face. The idea of -life without John in it had never occurred to her. She was usually on -excellent terms with her father’s cousin, Miss Shuttleworth, knowing -her sterling worth; but her nature had not much real sympathy with the -sternly disciplinarian one of Aunt Margaret. Their terms were neutral. -The gaieties at Wellfield might be said to be—none. The Boltons visited -with none of the old families residing near the place; they were looked -upon, and they knew it, somewhat in the light of interlopers, which -fact had not troubled them much.</p> - -<p>It sounds, in description, a dull life; but Nita had never found it so, -hers being essentially one of those natures to which ‘peace at home’ is -the one thing needful. She did not care to seek distractions outside, -and no amount of distractions could have filled up the ache which would -have been there if she had felt that at home, in the background, - -<span class="pagenum">[119]</span> -there was a jar, a quarrel, a dissension of any kind. Indeed, I am not -sure that there may not be duller things for a girl than to live in a -beautiful home which she loves, with human interests around her, not -many, but deep, with a good father, a good friend, and a good dog as -her chief and almost her only associates. Such a life Nita Bolton had -led now for seven years—a silent, still, uneventful life, but one which -she had always found sufficient, nay, delightful. Vague yearnings after -lovers, and devotion, and romance, had been singularly absent from her -thoughts. She had literally wandered</p> - -<p class="center">‘In maiden meditation, fancy free.’</p> - -<p>Sometimes, after reading some very noble or beautiful poem, some very -striking and powerful novel, she had, it is true, wondered a little -if life was ever to contain any romance for her, and had thought -that such a romance would be pleasant. Then, being well endowed with -a certain shrewd, homely, common sense, she had often observed her - -<span class="pagenum">[120]</span> - -own reflection in the looking-glass, and had said to herself, ‘Nita, -my child, don’t flatter yourself that any man will ever fall in love -with you for your beauty; and if he should tell you he does, don’t -believe him. He might like you for some of your other qualities, if -he ever took the trouble to find them out, and no doubt many persons -might be found to love your money, and take you with it as a necessary -appendage; but I think you would do best to keep heart-whole, and not -marry anyone at all.’</p> - -<p>She had been very contented in this prospect, though it must be owned -she had never contemplated the future without placing in it the figure -of John Leyburn in the character of ‘guide, philosopher, and friend.’ -Then her father had appeared one afternoon, with Jerome Wellfield at -his side, and from that hour Nita’s fixed and settled plans for life -were upset.</p> - -<p>That she should have cast aside her crude, untried schemes and fancies - -<span class="pagenum">[121]</span> - -when the man appeared whom she loved, in spite of all efforts not to -love him, was perhaps not surprising; indeed, there was perhaps nothing -very surprising in the whole matter. But, in every deep, intense, -and powerful love there are tragic elements, and those elements were -present in this love of Nita’s. Not the least tragic one was, that -though, as time went on, Wellfield said many tender things to her, and -looked unutterable ones; though she loved him as her life, and would -have hailed as a foretaste of heaven the conviction that he loved her, -yet she never had that conviction. She did not feel that he loved -her; she only felt that the things which she had seen she now could -see no more, that her peace and repose of mind were gone, and that -thus it must be, until he or she were no more. She felt that she was -living in an unnatural manner—in a dream; that the equilibrium between -outward and inward things had received a shock. She knew, though she - -<span class="pagenum">[122]</span> - -would not have put it in those words, that, sooner or later, that -equilibrium must be readjusted—that something would come to restore it, -that the restoration might take many shapes. There was the equilibrium -which means happiness, the continuous adjustment of outer to inner -conditions; there was the imperfect adjustment of those conditions, -which meant more or less of sorrow and suffering; there is the final -equilibrium—that great adjustment of outward conditions to inward ones, -which we call death. Any of these things might come to her she vaguely -felt as she paced beside the river walk, with Speedwell beside her, and -saw the swirling eddies of the river, and heard its gurgle, and saw the -dull, hazy, sultry blue of the sky above her, and felt the warmth of -perfect summer in every vein.</p> - -<p>Turning and raising her eyes, she saw Wellfield coming from the great -gateway towards her. He was on his way from Burnham, where he had been - -<span class="pagenum">[123]</span> - -trying to learn how to become a business man in her father’s office.</p> - -<p>‘Good-afternoon, Miss Bolton. I have brought you good news.’</p> - -<p>‘Have you? What kind of news?’</p> - -<p>‘The news that I am at last going to relieve you of my presence -here, which you must have thought lately was to become a permanent -infliction. I have just been down to Monk’s Gate. The men wish to -persuade me that it is not nearly what it ought to be, but I told them -it would do very well for me, and that I should have no money to pay -them with if they did anything else. I showed them exactly what I would -have done. They are to finish to-night, by working an hour overtime, -and I shall go there to-morrow.’</p> - -<p>He had taken his place by her side, as if he were accustomed to walk -there; had deprived her of the book, which she had shut up, and of the -sunshade that she had been carrying, and now he looked down at her and - -<span class="pagenum">[124]</span> - -waited for her to speak.</p> - -<p>‘It—you—I think you have rather hurried them. Is it not rather a sudden -resolve?’</p> - -<p>‘Sudden action, perhaps. But for more than a week I have been chafing -at the delay, and at the way in which I have been obliged to quarter -myself upon you here—a proceeding for which I have not the least -justification.’</p> - -<p>‘Except that of having been often invited to remain as long as you -liked, or felt it convenient,’ said Nita, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>‘I know you and Mr. Bolton have been kindness itself, and I can never -be grateful enough to you.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t see why, I am sure. Who has so good a right as you to be here?’</p> - -<p>He laughed. ‘If I were obliged to bring a lawsuit for the restitution -of my property, I should like you to be the defendant,’ he said. ‘I -should win in a canter.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[125]</span></p> - -<p>Nita was silent.</p> - -<p>‘At least, I shall not be far away from the Abbey,’ he went on, ‘and I -am glad of it. You will let me come up and see you, I hope, sometimes, -though I don’t hope for such privileges as Leyburn enjoys.’</p> - -<p>‘John is like one of ourselves,’ said Nita, originally.</p> - -<p>‘And I am not. I know that, and am constantly reminded of it.’</p> - -<p>‘Shall you send for your sister now?’ asked Nita.</p> - -<p>‘Not at once. I must wait till things are a little more certain. I am -getting on in my lessons at Burnham. I know how to do book-keeping now, -and your father has so much foreign correspondence that he says I shall -be of use to him.’</p> - -<p>‘Do not speak in that way!’ exclaimed Nita; ‘you know I hate it.’</p> - -<p>‘I only do it in the hope of making you see how reasonable it all is, -and how absurd it would be in me to expect anything - -<span class="pagenum">[126]</span> - -else, and how -lucky I may feel myself.’</p> - -<p>‘And how unlucky you feel yourself in reality,’ she replied. ‘Don’t try -to deceive me by talking in that way. Well, I hope you will like Monk’s -Gate, and that you will be—happy there.’</p> - -<p>‘And I may come here sometimes?’</p> - -<p>‘Of course.’</p> - -<p>‘I shall invite you and Miss Shuttleworth to come and have tea with me. -I know Miss Shuttleworth honours that repast more than any other.’</p> - -<p>Nita laughed a little dry laugh.</p> - -<p>‘We will be sure to come,’ she said, ‘and we shall expect toast and -teacakes, and then bread and butter. I hope you will see that the tea -is strong enough, and that your servant puts a clean cloth on the -table. I hope you like housekeeping on that scale.’</p> - -<p>She spoke rather savagely, as if she took a delight in saying something -almost insulting to him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[127]</span></p> - -<p>‘What do you mean?’ he asked.</p> - -<p>‘Only that I wonder you can talk in such a manner. I wonder you -can submit to such an arrangement. It is monstrous!’ she answered, -indignantly.</p> - -<p>It was Wellfield’s turn to laugh.</p> - -<p>‘You are hopeless—so unpractical—so heroic in your ideas!’ he said. -‘And there is your father coming. Pray don’t favour him with such -remarks as you have just made to me, or he may say that if I am too -good for my place I can leave it, and then I wonder where I should be.’</p> - -<p>Nita was silent, her breast heaving. Mr. Bolton came up, and Jerome -repeated his news to him too. He received it with a calmness which his -daughter thought barbarous. They all three went into the house. That -evening ‘as it is the last,’ both Nita and Jerome said, he sang for -them again. John was not there, nor Miss Shuttleworth. The visits of -both had become less frequent. Jerome was not sorry, and Nita, carried -onwards - -<span class="pagenum">[128]</span> - -by her changed state of mind, was hardly conscious of it.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>She sat quite alone in the drawing-room, on the following evening. It -was Friday—a busy day with her father, who was in Manchester, attending -a meeting, and who would not return till the last train at night. -She had heard John promise to go to Monk’s Gate and sit an hour with -Wellfield—‘by way of a housewarming,’ the latter had said, with a -sarcastic little laugh. Miss Shuttleworth had a class of village girls -on this particular evening. Nita therefore found herself in the strange -and unwonted position of being absolutely alone.</p> - -<p>The stillness of the house grew oppressive to her, as the hours passed -by. It grew dark, and she sat alone. The day had been chilly and dull, -for the weather had suddenly changed, and the sun had not once during -the whole day shone out. Speedwell couched at her feet, and the lamp -was lighted and the - -<span class="pagenum">[129]</span> - -shutters closed, to shut out the dark trees and -the shadowy garden.</p> - -<p>As she sat thus alone, feeling her heart very desolate, the door was -opened, and John Leyburn came in.</p> - -<p>‘John, you!’ she exclaimed, springing up and running to meet him—‘I -thought you were going to Monk’s Gate.’</p> - -<p>‘So I am: on my way there now. But you didn’t think I should go without -looking in upon you—and your father away. You look remarkably desolate.’</p> - -<p>‘Do I? Everyone has gone, and it is dull.’</p> - -<p>‘If I had thought of it, I wouldn’t have gone to see Wellfield -to-night. I would have come and sat with you, my dear. Are you cold, -Nita? What’s the matter? Where’s your little red shawl? and why don’t -you have a fire?’</p> - -<p>‘I think it is rather chilly this evening,’ said Nita, letting him fold -the little shawl round her shoulders. ‘Autumn will soon be - -<span class="pagenum">[130]</span> - -here; and -then a day in Lancashire without sun is always cold, no matter what the -time of the year may be.’</p> - -<p>‘So it seems,’ replied John, who had gone on his knees before the -grate, and removing a bowl filled with peacock’s feathers, disclosed -what is known, in Lancashire at any rate, as ‘a cold fire,’ laid ready -in the grate.</p> - -<p>‘Where are the matches?’ he asked, finding them. He struck one, watched -the flame, and then came and sat down beside Nita.</p> - -<p>‘I will stay till it has burned up,’ said he. ‘Nothing is more cheerful -than a good fire, and nothing more dismal than one just struggling into -existence.’</p> - -<p>‘How kind you are, John,’ said Nita, looking up at him gratefully.</p> - -<p>‘Pooh! Who would be otherwise to such a desolate-looking little person -as you are? I suppose your father will come by the ten o’clock train?’</p> - -<p>‘I expect so. Oh, how nice that blaze is! I shall be quite happy now, - -<span class="pagenum">[131]</span> - -with this novel. It is one of those which you brought me from London.’</p> - -<p>‘Which I understood you were not going to read.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, but I am. I am very much interested in it; and—don’t you think Mr. -Wellfield will be expecting you? <em>He</em> will be lonely in his new house.’</p> - -<p>‘It will do him no harm if he is. But I see you want me to be off. -Now, look here, Nita, don’t fret; there’s nothing in this life worth -fretting about.’</p> - -<p>‘People fret because they can’t help it, not because things are worth -it or not worth it,’ said Nita, wearily. ‘Good-night! Thank you for -coming to cheer me up.’</p> - -<p>‘Good-night,’ said John, kindly and gravely; and he stooped and touched -her forehead with his lips. Nita smiled faintly.</p> - -<p>‘That is only for Christmas Days and birthdays,’ said she. ‘Three a -year, John; so the next one is forfeited.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[132]</span></p> - -<p>‘How do I know where we may both be when the next one falls due?’ he -replied, with a look in his eyes and a line upon his brow which she did -not quite understand. ‘Well good-night!’</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[133]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_X"> - <img src="images/i_133_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> -<br> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER X. -<br><br> -<small>INDIAN SUMMER.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_j_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Jerome</span> was not without visitors when he was fairly established at -Monk’s Gate. John Leyburn frequently found his way down there, and so -did Father Somerville, and in him Wellfield found his most congenial -companion. They formed a strange trio, for the three were often there -together.</p> - -<p>There was that year a short, gorgeous Indian summer, at the end of -September and the beginning of October. It was as warm as August; the -foliage a mass of beauty—a dying, sunset glow, ready to be whirled - -<span class="pagenum">[134]</span> - -away in showers at the first swirl of the equinoctial gales which would -assuredly succeed this calm. But in the meantime, while it lasted, it -was beautiful. They sat with open windows at Monk’s Gate, and with the -door set open too; and while the lamp burnt on the centre table, John -Leyburn stretched out his long limbs on the old settee, and smoked -his pipe; while Somerville, in the easy-chair at the other side of -the window, twisted cigarettes with his long, slender fingers; and -Jerome, at the piano, would play, or sing, or improvise, for hours. -Many a one of the village people, many a ‘lover and his lass,’ would -pause to lean upon the top of the gate and hearken to the broken, -fitful gusts of sound which came wafted to them from the open window -and door. Strange, weird harmonies of Liszt, and Chopin, and Schumann, -smote their astonished ears, and songs still stranger and more eerie -than the tunes—deep, mournful German melodies, or some wild, homely, - -<span class="pagenum">[135]</span> - -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Volkslied</i> would float out and strike them with wonder, such music -being assuredly for the first time heard in Wellfield.</p> - -<p>Once or twice on these evenings, sometimes alone, and sometimes with -John (when he was not at Monk’s Gate), always with her big dog by her -side, a girl’s figure had passed the gate as the music was going on. -Once it had been a passionate love-song that was borne to her ears, and -once again the overpowering sweetness of a movement of the so-called -‘Moonlight’ sonata. She had turned her face towards the place whence -the sounds came, but neither hurried nor stayed her sauntering walk, -and, returning the greetings of those who loitered and listened, had -passed on. Those evenings of music were the only pleasant part of -Jerome’s existence at that time. Then he forgot for a moment Nita’s -pale face and Sara’s letters; then the old student days seemed to -have returned again—the old days of music, of midsummer madness, of -‘carelesse contente.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[136]</span></p> - -<p>Letters came to him there, of course, from Sara and from his sister, -letters telling him of their every-day life, and of the incidents of -it. With each of these letters his mental debate was opened up afresh, -until he began to dread them, for he knew that they were noble. He -knew that the atmosphere in which Sara lived—of waiting, of patience, -of hope, and of steadfast love, was a reproach to his own wretched -vacillations of mind. Her calmness and strength oppressed him, overawed -him. It was no longer a question with him as to whether he should tell -Nita Bolton that he loved another woman; the question was now, how to -approach with Sara the subject of his desiring to be free. He did not -in the least know how the position had come about, but it was there. -Unable to make up his mind to <em>do</em> anything, he contented himself with -answering Sara’s letters in a strain far more ardent than that in which -she wrote to him, protesting the entire devotion for her which he felt, -as he wrote.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[137]</span></p> - -<p>It was, perhaps, Jerome Wellfield’s misfortune that these two women -loved him so much and so deeply that they let him see too easily how -dear he was to them. It is possible that a featherweight might have -turned the scale. Had Sara Ford not confessed her love with such an -utter frankness and self-abnegation—had he entertained any doubt as -to his success with her, surely he must have been more circumspect. -Dire necessity, and the fear of losing the prize, must have kept him -honest. And had Nita Bolton’s love been differently shown—in a less -subtile, coarser, opener way—most assuredly the charm there of wealth -and restored fortunes must have been powerless. But he knew that Sara -Ford worshipped him heart and soul, that he was the light of her eyes -and the joy of her life. And he knew that Nita Bolton loved him with -the love that is patient, and enduring, and tenacious; that his joy was -her joy, and his sorrow her sorrow; that for him or for his advantage - -<span class="pagenum">[138]</span> - -she would efface herself, and rejoice that she was permitted to do so. -And with affairs in this state the Indian summer came to an end.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[139]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_I"> - <img src="images/i_139_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> -<br> -<p class="center xxlarge"><b>STAGE III.</b></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/i_diamond-rule.png" width="250" height="50" alt="Decorated Horizontal Rule."> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I. -<br><br> -<small>INTERMEDIATE.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_t_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">The</span> Professor’s grand, rugged face and delicate, artist brow were -somewhat clouded. He rose from the chair before the easel, on which he -had been sitting, and laid his brush down.</p> - -<p>‘You have not done much since I was last here,’ he remarked.</p> - -<p>‘No, I’m afraid not,’ replied Sara Ford, who had been standing near -him watching him as he touched her picture here and there. The scene - -<span class="pagenum">[140]</span> - -was her atelier. The time was a broiling afternoon in September; but -here, in this sunless room, facing north, it was cooler than elsewhere. -She was dressed in a long, plain gown of some creamy white stuff. Her -face was pale, and her eyes somewhat heavy and languid. The masses of -wavy, chestnut hair lay somewhat heavily and droopingly over the white -temples and broad brow. The only spot of decided colour about her was -the glossy dark-green leaves of a <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr"> Gloire de Dijon</i> rose which was -stuck in the breast of her dress—a species of rose which Professor -Wilhelmi, with his keen and observant artist’s eye, had remarked his -favourite pupil had lately become very fond of wearing. He had noticed, -too, that during the past few weeks she had become, if possible, more -beautiful than ever, with a sudden glow and blaze of beauty which was -none the less brilliant in that it was accompanied by a silence and -quietness greater than of yore. Wilhelmi was an artist to his very - -<span class="pagenum">[141]</span> - -soul. Creed, nationality, and rank counted as nothing, and less than -nothing, with him. Genius was his care and his watchword. Two years -ago he had, he believed, found that Sara Ford had received a spark -of the divine fire, and from that moment she had been as his own -child to him—his soul’s child, the child of his highest and purest -individuality. And as time went on he had thought also to discover -in her the industry which some have said <em>is</em> genius. All had gone -triumphantly until at the end of last July she had returned from her -visit to Nassau, and he, coming to her to resume his lessons, had found -that something had taken flight—something else had appeared in its -place. The exchange was the more annoying in that he could not name -either the one thing or the other. As she spoke to him now, he glanced -down at her large white hand, which had been resting on the easel as he -and she spoke. Had that ring of sapphires which had replaced the old -diamond rose that she used to wear anything to do with the change in -her?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[142]</span></p> - -<p>‘How you have changed my inanimate little daub, Herr Professor!’ she -said. ‘It was without life. All that I do now seems without life. -Sometimes I think I had better put away my paint and my brushes, and -lock up my atelier for the next six months, and not look at a canvas -for that length of time.’</p> - -<p>‘Do so, if you can,’ he replied; ‘but if you do I shall know that your -nature has changed.’</p> - -<p>She was silent, still looking down upon the sketch. Wilhelmi, who -looked grave and concerned, did not speak for a short time. At last he -said:</p> - -<p>‘Do you know that poor Goldmark died this morning?’</p> - -<p>‘Did he!’ exclaimed Sara, a rapid flash of sorrow and sympathy passing -over her face. ‘How very sad! Such a talent and such a career cut off -in that manner.’</p> - -<p>‘Ay, sad enough. But there are sadder things than for a career to be - -<span class="pagenum">[143]</span> - -cut off by death. There is the palsy of self-satisfaction, which has -virtually killed the very finest talent over and over again, while -leaving the body as strong and flourishing as ever. Poor Goldmark was -rather too much the other way. Nothing that he did ever satisfied him.’</p> - -<p>‘Then do you not think he had genius?’ asked Sara.</p> - -<p>‘N——no—I cannot call his gift genius. It just fell short of the happy -inspired audacity of genius. It was talent of the very highest order.’</p> - -<p>‘That was always my idea of him. Won’t his wife and children be rather -badly off?’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid they will. But Frau Goldmark is rather a stirring little -woman. Something will be contrived for them, I doubt not.’</p> - -<p>‘Are you going? This has been a short lesson.’</p> - -<p>‘It has,’ he answered with the same ambiguous little fold in his -forehead. ‘You have not supplied me with much material to teach upon - -<span class="pagenum">[144]</span> - -this time. You must work, my dear child—work while it is to-day,’ he -added earnestly. ‘Bear my words in mind. Work while it is to-day, and -let nothing interfere, or you will have to repent your idleness in dust -and ashes.’</p> - -<p>With which, not waiting for any reply, he left her.</p> - -<p>Sara looked after him dreamily. ‘What does he mean?’ she speculated. -‘But I know. He finds a change in me; and I am changed, even to myself. -Sometimes I think the old spirit has completely left me, and yet how -can that be? It will all come right again, I suppose. But I wish—I wish -it might be soon.’</p> - -<p>She sighed as she put down her palette, and sat down before her easel -in the chair which Wilhelmi had lately occupied, and, amid the profound -stillness of the quiet afternoon, let her thoughts wander off there -where now they were for ever straying. She was too much under the -influence of her love for Wellfield to be able to reflect whether that - -<span class="pagenum">[145]</span> - -influence were a good or a bad one. That said, all is said; it contains -her mental history for the past two months, and accounts for the -depression which stole over Wilhelmi’s face and into his keen eyes as -he saw her; it accounts too for the nameless paralysis which had stolen -the cunning from her right hand, and from her soul the ardent zeal for -her art. She was Sara Ford still, but Sara Ford metamorphosed. Wilhelmi -sorrowfully told himself one day that there was now more life and -spirit in the water-colour sketches which <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> die Kleine</i>, as he called -Avice Wellfield, made, than in those of his dearest pupil, of which but -lately he had been so proud.</p> - -<p>‘I am certain it’s some wretched love affair!’ he muttered, as he -strode abstractedly away from the Jägerstrasse towards his own house. -‘Good heavens! to think of <em>that</em> woman’s talent being palsied by some -wretched sentimental <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Schwärmerei</i>; it is horrible. Why is not genius -created senseless, sexless, sentimentless? But then, of course, it - -<span class="pagenum">[146]</span> - -could never appeal to sense, and sex, and sentiment, as it must if it -is to be an influence. It is a thousand pities, it is lamentable. And -Falkenberg wrote of her in what might for him be called enthusiastic -strains. I wish there were some way of saving her. I wish the man would -play false, or that some shock would rouse her from this apathy!’</p> - -<p>It may here be casually observed that Professor Wilhelmi cherished a -conviction that he understood woman, and could account for and cure -all her vagaries, had he but the power placed in his hands. It was a -delusion broken every day by the conduct of his own wife and daughter, -to whom, in all matters outside his art, he was a slave, but he lived -in it still, and would live in it till he died.</p> - -<p>Meantime the Indian summer dawned, and flamed itself out here too, as -well as at Wellfield. September went out, and October was ushered in -with unusual mildness and glory. It was a sight to gladden the eyes of - -<span class="pagenum">[147]</span> - -an artist, even the low flat country which at Elberthal stretches for -unbroken miles on either side the broad Rhine. For there were glorious -sunsets, colouring river, and field, and town, with strange glorified -lights, and at that sunset-time in the Hofgarten, the yellow golden -beams shone in a glowing, dazzling mist through the autumn trees, and -flooded every twig, every stick and stone, with mellow radiance. At -that time the stalls of the old women at the street corners were piled -high with grapes, and plums, and russet pears, which fruits were to be -purchased for almost nothing. At that time it was good to sail down -the river to Kaiserswerth, or up the stream to Neuss, and to return at -sunset, and watch the pomp of it glorifying the majestic river. There -was no striking beauty of crag or waterfall, of castled Drachenfels or -magic Loreley, but there were the great plains stretching Hollandwards, -dressed in their autumn garments; the broad expanse of water sweeping -by, strong and untroubled; the busy humming town behind, with its - -<span class="pagenum">[148]</span> - -throb of varied life, its many interests, its treasures of art and joy, -its music and melody, inseparable from all true German life.</p> - -<p>The two girls lived on, happy and contented. To them came no word of -what was going on at Wellfield. They knew nothing of the long parley -which their best-beloved was even then standing to hold with baseness -and dishonesty, while honour and honesty stood by. Had they known, they -too could have told him what perhaps his own conscience had more than -once whispered to him: that honour and honesty will not continue such a -parley for ever. They will not always remain there, holding out their -neglected hands for us to clasp. There comes a time when they will wait -no longer, but will withdraw their hands, fold their mantles around -them, turn away, and leave us to consort with the company ourselves -have chosen.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[149]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_II"> - <img src="images/i_149_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> -<br> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II. -<br><br> -<small>LEBENDE BILDER.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_t_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Ten</span> days later, Sara, sitting one morning in her atelier, heard a knock -at her door, and answered abstractedly ‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Herein!</i>’</p> - -<p>Looking up to see who might be her visitor, she saw a little lady in -widow’s weeds.</p> - -<p>‘Frau Goldmark!’ she exclaimed, rising in astonishment. Frau Goldmark -was the widow of that young artist of promise, of whose sudden death -Wilhelmi had informed her. Sara had heard constant talk of her for the -last few days, to which talk she had listened in a vague, unheeding -way. Her acquaintance with her was very slight, and had never before - -<span class="pagenum">[150]</span> - -gone so far as an exchange of visits, and she was proportionately -surprised to see her now, and under the existing circumstances, in her -atelier.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> liebe</i> Miss Ford, it is I. And you may well look astonished, but -do only hear me.’</p> - -<p>‘Come into my sitting-room, then, Frau Goldmark, and tell me what I can -do for you,’ said Sara, leading the way to where Avice was seated with -a book in the parlour.</p> - -<p>Frau Goldmark was a slight, pretty, little woman, with round, -important, excited-looking eyes, and a general aspect which did not -altogether charm Miss Ford, who formed indeed, in appearance, and -manner, and everything else, a startling contrast to her visitor. Sara -had heard vague rumours which gave Frau Goldmark the name of a gossip, -and she had never felt any violent desire to make her acquaintance; -but her recent heavy loss, her widowhood, and the inevitable hard - -<span class="pagenum">[151]</span> - -struggle which lay before her, all combined to make Sara lay aside all -considerations save those of kindness. She offered Frau Goldmark a -seat, and waited to hear on what errand she had come.</p> - -<p>‘I have come to ask a favour, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> mein Fräulein</i>, an immense one; <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> ein -unerhörtes</i>,’ she began.</p> - -<p>‘Indeed! I wonder how I can serve you?’ asked Sara, in her most -gracious manner.</p> - -<p>Frau Goldmark looked at her keenly, despite her excitement, and found -time for the reflection, ‘She certainly is as beautiful as all these -men say, and if I can only get her to do it—I will ask for both the -scenes while I am about it.’</p> - -<p>‘You are aware, dear Miss Ford, of the most lamented death of my dear -good husband,’ said Frau Goldmark, with brimming eyes and a trembling -lip.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, indeed! I was most truly grieved to hear of it. We must all -lament it—you that you have lost a good husband, and we artists that a - -<span class="pagenum">[152]</span> - -brother of such promise is lost to us.’</p> - -<p>‘You speak most beautifully, Fräulein. It has been a sore blow to us. -I and my babes are left almost penniless. I shall have to work now -to find bread for them, and thanks to the goodness of my friends, I -believe it will be made easy for me.’</p> - -<p>‘What <em>can</em> she want?’ Sara was beginning to think, when Frau Goldmark -again took up her parable with great animation, saying:</p> - -<p>‘The artists, my husband’s friends, have not forsaken me in my -distress. Herr Professor Wilhelmi has behaved to me like a father.’</p> - -<p>‘He is goodness and generosity itself, I know,’ replied Sara, her full -contralto tones in strong contrast with the high-pitched notes of Frau -Goldmark’s voice. She had that great defect, common to so very many of -her countrywomen, a high, harsh, shrill voice.</p> - -<p>‘He asked me what he could do for me, and I related my plan to him, - -<span class="pagenum">[153]</span> - -which he approved of. I said that if I had but a little capital I could -earn a living for myself and my children. I would open a photographic -atelier. My father was a photographer, and I am perfectly acquainted -with everything belonging to the art.’ Sara suppressed a smile—this -from an artist’s wife. ‘A very little practice, and I should succeed -admirably. The money to start with remained the only difficulty.’</p> - -<p>‘I see,’ said Sara, wondering more than ever what she could be supposed -to have to do with it.</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps you have heard, Fräulein, that Professor Wilhelmi, and some -other gentlemen and ladies, have decided, out of their respect and -love for my husband’s memory, to give an entertainment on my behalf of -<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr"> tableaux vivants</i>, for which you know they are so celebrated here. -They are to be given in the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Malkasten</i> Club, or, if that is not large -enough, in the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Rittersaal</i> of the Tonhalle. - -<span class="pagenum">[154]</span> - -They think by this means that they can realise the sum necessary. Oh, -Fräulein Ford, I <em>beg</em> you to consent!’</p> - -<p>‘Consent—to what, my dear Frau Goldmark?’ she asked, in bewilderment.</p> - -<p>‘If you will take a part in the two principal pictures, the success is -assured of the whole entertainment,’ was her breathless reply, while -Frau Goldmark half rose from her chair and held out her hands towards -Sara, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> flehend</i>, as she herself would have said, in a theatrical manner.</p> - -<p>‘I—oh, I am afraid it is impossible!’ said Sara, hastily.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, do not say so, Miss Ford! Think what it means to me. There is no -one else here who can do it as you would do it. The Herr Professor -quite agreed with me. He gave me this note to bring to you.’</p> - -<p>Saying which, she suddenly pulled a little note from the bosom of her -dress, and gave it to Sara, who, astonished at the whole affair, read, -in Wilhelmi’s hand:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[155]</span></p> - -<div class="blockindent20"> -‘Do, if you possibly can, give your consent -to Frau Goldmark’s request, it is for a good -cause; and, if my approval is anything to -you, you have it to the full. -<span class="sig-left80 smcap">‘Wilhelmi.’</span> -</div> - -<p>Here Avice, who had been listening intently, and who had just realised -what it was all about, chimed in:</p> - -<p>‘Oh, do, Sara!—do!’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> mein Fräulein</i>, for taking my side,’ exclaimed Frau -Goldmark, quickly.</p> - -<p>‘What are the pictures you wish me to take part in?’ asked Sara. ‘Have -you decided upon them?’</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Natürlich, mein Fräulein.</i> They are the two principal ones—a scene -from Kleist’s <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Hermannsschlacht</i>, after the celebrated picture in the -public gallery, with you for Thusnelda, and Herr Max Helmuth, Fräulein -Wilhelmi’s <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Bräutigam</i>, as Hermann; and the last picture of my blessed -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Mann</i>; - -<span class="pagenum">[156]</span> - -his <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Ja, oder Nein</i>, which is still hanging unsold in the -Exhibition.’</p> - -<p>Sara was silent, pondering. She knew both the pictures. Frau Goldmark -proceeded:</p> - -<p>‘Professor Wilhelmi bade me come to you myself, for he said you -would do that for the poor and afflicted which you would not for the -prosperous and happy.’</p> - -<p>‘Are you sure that everyone wishes it?’ asked Miss Ford.</p> - -<p>‘As certain as I am that I am here,’ was the emphatic reply, ‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Denken -sie nur, Fräulein!</i> When the scheme was first proposed Amalia -Waldschmidt vowed she would have the part of the lady in my husband’s -picture—she, the stupid, heavy—but pardon! I ought to be grateful to -all; only the Herr Professor quite agreed with me that she was the -last person to take such a part. She has no <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Geist</i>, no <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Gefühl</i>. How -can she give to the picture the expression it requires? But she made -a point of taking that part; they say, because she is so anxious to - -<span class="pagenum">[157]</span> - -act with Ludwig Maas, who takes the part of the bold but poor lover.’ -Seeing a strong expression of distaste and disapproval upon Miss Ford’s -face, Frau Goldmark went on quickly:</p> - -<p>‘And you know, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> liebstes Fräulein</i>, her father is a man whom we dare -not offend, and <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> die</i> Amalia rules him with a rod of iron.’</p> - -<p>Sara bowed assent to this proposition. It was evident that to the -excited little widow this great entertainment formed the representative -event of the modern world.</p> - -<p>‘Imagine!’ she went on, ‘Amalia is suddenly taken ill with -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> scharlach-fieber</i>—scarlet fever you call it. Yes, it is so; and it is -providential. Naturally she cannot act the part, nor even appear at -the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> lebende Bilder</i>, for which <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Gott sei dank</i>! though I know it is -very wrong of me to say so. And I hope she will have the fever mildly -and make a speedy recovery; but ah, I am glad she comes not; and I do -<em>pray</em> of you, dear Miss Ford, to take the part, and also that of - -<span class="pagenum">[158]</span> - -Thusnelda. I shall bless you all my life if you only will.’</p> - -<p>‘I will take the parts, Frau Goldmark, and will do my best to act them -well,’ said Sara, composedly, anxious to put an end to the widow’s -exaggerated prayers and protestations. Her consent was received with a -perfect whirlwind of thanks and blessings and expressions of joy, which -she cut short by saying:</p> - -<p>‘But I beg you will not say anything comparing me with Fräulein -Waldschmidt. It would be very wrong, and if I heard of such a thing I -should instantly give it up.’</p> - -<p>‘You may trust me indeed, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> mein liebes Fräulein</i>! And now I go to the -Herrn Professor, to tell him of my success. He will let you know all -about the rest.’</p> - -<p>With the most affectionate adieux she departed. Sara and Avice, left -alone, both burst into a fit of laughter.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[159]</span></p> - -<p>‘What an absurd little woman!’ exclaimed Avice.</p> - -<p>‘Painfully so,’ responded Sara. ‘I own that I wonder to see her going -about doing this kind of thing herself. If it were not that the dear -old Professor evidently desires it so much’—she tossed Wilhelmi’s note -to Avice—‘I should refuse.’</p> - -<p>‘They are both very different subjects—the pictures, I mean,’ said -Avice, musingly. ‘You will look splendid as Thusnelda, Sara.’</p> - -<p>‘Shall I? It is a splendid picture, certainly.’</p> - -<p>It was a picture representing that scene in Kleist’s -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Hermannsschlacht</i>, in which Hermann, seated beside Thusnelda, listens -to her, while she indignantly relates how the Roman envoy, Ventidius, -had impertinently, and without her knowledge, clipped off a lock of -her hair, upon hearing which Hermann, with a grim and granite humour, -and a mirth bordering on the diabolical, describes to her how that -lock will probably go to - -<span class="pagenum">[160]</span> - -Rome, there to excite the cupidity of the -Roman women, who, he informs her, admire hair like that—‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> gold’ und -schön, und trocken so wie dein</i>,’—and sometimes have it—not growing -on their own heads, but shorn from those of other women, and that the -golden locks of a Teuton princess would be an ornament which they, any -of them, would especially glory in wearing. It was a noble picture, -by a celebrated artist, and Sara, already even, felt some thrills of -pleasure in the idea of taking a part in the representation of it. The -other picture was a rather ambitious <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr"> tableau de genre</i>, Goldmark’s -last, and was called <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Ja, oder Nein</i>.</p> - -<p>The next time that Wilhelmi saw Sara, she told him what she had done, -and added:</p> - -<p>‘I hope I have been right, but it seems to me that there are many girls -in Elberthal who ought to have had the parts offered to them—your -townspeople,’ she added, smiling.</p> - -<p>Wilhelmi laughed as he asked, ‘Do you seriously mean to say you think -there is any one young woman in Elberthal except yourself who would in - -<span class="pagenum">[161]</span> - -the least <em>look</em> the part of Thusnelda?’</p> - -<p>Sara laughed, but was obliged to confess that she did not.</p> - -<p>She wrote to Jerome, telling him what she was going to do; adding, -‘I hope you don’t mind. My Hermann will only be Max Helmuth; he will -look the part every inch, I must say, but he is quite harmless; he is -engaged to Wilhelmi’s daughter, and wildly in love with her; so say you -don’t mind, because they have set their hearts upon it.’</p> - -<p>Jerome replied that she must certainly take the part. ‘I suppose your -Hermann is a contrast to me. One can only think of that enlightened -barbarian as some fair-haired giant, with a fierce yellow moustache. -You will make an ideal Thusnelda, I must say, according to Heinrich -Kleist’s version, at any rate.’</p> - -<p>Relieved in her mind at having Jerome’s consent, and Wilhelmi’s -approval, Sara gave herself up with genuine artist’s delight to - -<span class="pagenum">[162]</span> - -rehearsing and preparing her parts; that of Thusnelda in especial, -giving her real joy and pleasure. The festival itself was fixed for the -middle of October.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[163]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_III"> - <img src="images/i_163_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> -<br> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III. -<br><br> -<small>THE SECOND MEETING.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_i_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">It</span> had at first been intended to give the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr"> tableaux vivants</i>, or as -they call them in Germany, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> lebende Bilder</i>, in the small hall of the -pretty little <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Malkasten</i>, or artists’ club; but so numerous had been -the applications for places, that it was decided instead to have them -in a larger room belonging to the building where all the concerts were -held—the public <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Tonhalle</i>. This proved quite successful, and every -seat was taken a week beforehand.</p> - -<p>It was a very pretty sight: all Elberthal was there; assembled, too, -in good time, and everyone talking, laughing, moving about with - -<span class="pagenum">[164]</span> - -a freedom, an ease, and an absence of ceremony peculiar to German -entertainments of the kind.</p> - -<p>Sara Ford and Avice went with the Wilhelmis, who, being important -persons in the affair, had naturally secured a number of the uppermost -seats. Sara’s parts were in the second and fourth pictures. She -accordingly had to go and dress for her part of Thusnelda while the -first picture was being given. She left Avice, seated between Luise -Wilhelmi and her mother, and therefore safely chaperoned. Luise was in -a state of wild excitement, which indeed was her chronic condition. -She was a very sprightly, pretty brunette, fond of brilliant colours, -and given to attiring herself in a somewhat stagey manner. On this -occasion she was strikingly but becomingly dressed in hues of amber and -pomegranate, with many slits and slashes, tags and ends and furbelows. -Nothing would induce her to yield to her father’s requests that she - -<span class="pagenum">[165]</span> - -would dress with a noble and classic simplicity, or to her lover’s -representations that white muslin and blue ribbon and a generally -inexpensive shepherdess style of thing would become her wonderfully -well. Fräulein Luise loved silk and satin, rich fabrics and bright -jewels, and so long as anyone could be found to provide her with them, -she would wear them. Avice Wellfield, beside her, looked like an -inhabitant of another world. It was the first time she had been out -anywhere since her father’s death; and her plain black frock and white -<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr"> crêpe</i> ruffles at neck and wrists formed a pointed contrast to Luise’s -flashing colours and glittering rings and chains and bangles. Avice had -plaited her hair up into a coronet, which gave her an older, staider -look. The girl was fulfilling, more and more every day, Sara’s prophecy -to her brother, that she would one day be beautiful. Her new life, -happier despite its poverty than the old one, had called forth that -beauty, while the intellect, which had formerly been repressed and was - -<span class="pagenum">[166]</span> - -now in every way encouraged to develop itself, gave dignity and depth -to the mere outward loveliness of hue and feature and moulding. She -sat quite still, watching with enchantment what was to her an entirely -new scene. It was her first entertainment of the kind; and she enjoyed -it with a zest only known in such long-deferred pleasures. Luise was -jumping up and sitting down twenty times in five minutes, teasing her -father to know how Max would ‘do,’ and if he was nervous—if it would be -better for her not to look at him too hard, at which Avice suppressed a -smile, and Wilhelmi, with his rollicking Jovine laugh, cried:</p> - -<p>‘Look at him as hard as you can stare, little simpleton. Do you think -he will turn his head to look at you? It would ruin the whole artistic -effect of the picture, and to-night it is Art who will be paramount -before even you.’</p> - -<p>At which she pouted, and the orchestra suddenly struck up most - -<span class="pagenum">[167]</span> - -eloquent music; delicious to hear, and unseen singers accompanied them. -It was a portion of Liszt’s <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Entfesselter Prometheus</i> that they played -and sang, a chorus of grape-gatherers, and the melody was exquisitely -sweet, and was dying gently away as the curtain rose upon a magic -scene—a ‘midday rest in the grape-harvest.’ The picture thus copied was -a celebrated one. A background of vine-covered, autumn-tinted Italian -hills, and in the foreground a richly picturesque group of men and -maidens, women and children, in every attitude of beauty and grace -that could be imagined. In the very centre stood a splendidly handsome -woman, dark, tall, and amply formed, in an Italian peasant’s dress; her -arms were thrown upwards as she shook a tambourine and looked behind -her to a youth who raised a spray of deeply tinted vine-leaves to bind -them in her abundant strong black hair. The others were variously -occupied; some in watching this principal couple and in jesting aside - -<span class="pagenum">[168]</span> - -about them. One child was industriously devouring grapes; two lads were -half wrestling with one another; a couple of girls were whispering with -their lovers. The music still played soft strains, and the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Chor der -Winzner</i> died into silence, while every figure stood out with a mellow -distinctness, breathing and living, yet still—still and motionless, as -the painted figures on the canvas themselves.</p> - -<p>Twice the beautiful picture was shown, amidst applause and delight. -Then ensued the first interval, during which comments were freely -exchanged, and much laughter and gossip about the various performers -went on.</p> - -<p>‘It must be fearfully difficult,’ remarked Avice, in an almost -awestruck tone. ‘How could she go on holding the tambourine for so long -without its making even one tiny tinkle?’</p> - -<p>‘Wait till the next,’ said Wilhelmi, who appeared to have pinned his -hopes on the - -<span class="pagenum">[169]</span> - -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Hermannsschlacht</i> picture. ‘Luise, pray that thy Max may -not lose his heart to the Princess of Germania.’</p> - -<p>Luise laughed a heart-whole laugh. The frantic devotion of her huge -lover to his tyrannical little bride was too well-known for her to feel -any qualms of jealousy.</p> - -<p>Just then the band began to play a solemn battle march, through -which might be heard, like an undercurrent, the clashing of martial -instruments, and the angry mutter of war. Then slowly the curtain -rose. Expectation grew so intense, that even applause was hushed, and -only a murmur went through the assembly, when at last the picture was -fully displayed before them. The picture which was copied gave the very -spirit of the poet’s dream, as he pictured that ancient chieftain and -his princess, and the living picture was an idealisation of the painted -one.</p> - -<p>They appeared to be seated beneath a mighty spreading oak—a primeval -monarch of the forest. The trunk of the tree was at the extreme - -<span class="pagenum">[170]</span> - -left. Above, its foliage overhead spread over almost the entire -scene. Stretching away to the right from Hermann and Thusnelda, -appeared a soft, grassy sward, fallen leaves, and forest flowers. In -the background, almost in the centre, burnt a steady, reddish light, -while to the right a high-flaming cresset cast fitful gleams upon -the centre-point of interest—Hermann, Prince of the Cherusker, and -Thusnelda, his wife.</p> - -<p>The warrior, in the armour and dress of his tribe, was reclined upon -the ground, half raised on one elbow; his short coat of mail, and -small-pointed helmet, with the crest a-top, his long yellow hair and -moustache, wild and fearless blue eyes; the massive and almost savage -grace and power of the whole figure were splendid. A half-smile, at -once grim and bitter, curved his lips as he looked up into Thusnelda’s -face, and with one great hand lifts up a heavy lock of the waving, -golden-brown hair which sweeps over her shoulders, and touches the - -<span class="pagenum">[171]</span> - -ground, confined above by a gorgeous diadem of gold and precious -stones, the one which she has previously told him ‘thou brought’st me -of late from Rome;’ the diadem which Ventidius had arranged for her, -with what intent has she not just heard from Hermann?</p> - -<p>Sara Ford, as Thusnelda, is also seated upon the ground at the foot -of the tree, clad in a loose, flowing white dress of some fine soft -web. Leaning a little over towards the warrior, she rests her weight -upon her left hand, and appears to question him with amazement and -indignation. The music stopped, and behind the scenes some one read a -portion of that magnificent scene—a scene such as perhaps no one but -Heinrich von Kleist could have written quite in that way.</p> - -<p>The unseen readers recited, or read, with dramatic effect.</p> - -<p class="center smcap">Thusnelda.</p> - -<div class="blockindent26"> -I think thou dream’st, thou rav’st.<br> -Who is’t will shear <em>my</em> head?<br> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[172]</span></p> - -<p class="center smcap">Hermann.</p> - -<div class="blockindent26"> -Who? Pooh! Quintilius Varus and the Romans,<br> -With whom I just have sealed a firm alliance.<br> -</div> - -<p class="center smcap">Thusnelda.</p> - -<div class="blockindent26"> -The Romans! How?<br> -</div> - -<p class="center smcap">Hermann.</p> - -<div class="blockindent26"> -Yea, what the devil think’st thou?<br> -And yet the Roman ladies really must,<br> -When they adorn themselves, have decent hair.<br> -</div> - -<p class="center smcap">Thusnelda.</p> - -<div class="blockindent26"> -Have then the Roman women none at all?<br> -</div> - -<p class="center smcap">Hermann.</p> - -<div class="blockindent26"> -None, I say, save what’s black—all black and stiff, like witches;<br> -Not fair, and dry, and golden, like this of thine.<br> -</div> - -<p>The voices ceased, and at this point the applause burst out in a -storm. Avice passed her hand over her eyes, starting violently at -being thus dragged back to the every-day world. So life-like had been -the scene, one seemed to be transported to those strange, far-back -primitive days—the days before that dim and distant <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Hermannsschlacht</i>, -about - -<span class="pagenum">[173]</span> - -which historiographers are even yet not agreed. But far more -wonderful to Avice was the way in which her friend had, as it were, -transformed herself from the collected, well-bred, sophisticated young -lady of to-day, into an ancient Teuton chieftainess, a primal Germanic -mother, in whose beautiful face there were not wanting passion and -fierceness—whoso reads the rest of the play may learn the pitiless -brutal vengeance which Thusnelda wreaked upon Ventidius—not wanting -her elements of ‘the tiger and the ape.’ And yet how grand she was—how -majestic! And how tameless looked this Teuton princess! It was not fear -that troubled her—she felt no fear—but anger, and boundless haughty -astonishment. The Roman women, forsooth! What was she to them, or they -to her? She felt as if she could crush a dozen of them with one blow of -her ample hand.</p> - -<p>This picture was shown twice. Wilhelmi rubbed his hands in rapture.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[174]</span></p> - -<p>‘Splendid!’ he cried, ‘worth coming miles to see. Didn’t she do it -grandly?—didn’t she look every inch the Teuton queen?’</p> - -<p>‘Max might have given me one look!’ said Luise; ‘he <em>knew</em> I was in the -very front row. I shall scold him about it.’</p> - -<p>‘Foolish baby! I forbid thee to do anything of the kind. Where would -the picture have been if he had been ludicrously rolling his eyes about -in search of thee? And why should he look for thee? Was not Thusnelda -his lawful consort?’ said her father, delighted to torment her if -possible.</p> - -<p>Luise was about to make some malicious retort, when an official came -and whispered something to Wilhelmi, who, with an exclamation of -pleased surprise—a ‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Nun, das freut mich!</i>’—rose, and made his way -towards the bottom of the crowded room.</p> - -<p>The third picture was soon put on the stage. It was a ‘Village -Funeral,’ and was excellently well done, but it lacked the poetry and -excitement of the last scene. The curtain went down, and still the - -<span class="pagenum">[175]</span> - -Professor did not return. Sara remained behind the scenes; she took a -part in the next picture—the part of a lady of high degree, on whose -‘Yes’ or ‘No’ her lover of low degree waits anxiously. There was a long -interval, full of noise and talking and laughing. When the curtain rose -again, Wilhelmi had still not returned; and Luise, who was never happy -without him at such a scene, muttered discontentedly, ‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Wo bleibt denn -der Papa?</i>’</p> - -<p>This picture—this <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Ja, oder Nein</i>—had an interest, apart from its style -and subject, in the fact that it was the last one finished by the -artist who had died.</p> - -<p>A long, old-fashioned, richly-furnished room was displayed, and, -standing in the midst of the grandeur, plainly dressed, proud and -upright, a young man in the costume of the present-day. He was -handsome, and had a fine, open, resolute face. The expression of -earnest, attentive, eager waiting, not degenerating into anxiety or -servility, was admirable. Nothing showed that he was nervous—he - -<span class="pagenum">[176]</span> - -had not taken the trouble to get himself up in visiting costume. -It appeared that he had been walking: his shoes were dusty and -travel-soiled, his dress a rather shabby grey suit, hands gloveless, -wrists cuffless, nothing either costly or fashionable about him; -and yet, one of nature’s gentlemen. His white straw-hat lies on a -table beside him. He has been speaking, you see, probably strongly, -earnestly, and ardently, and now he waits the answer. The young lady -who stands before him, in a highly fashionable costume of the present -day, as rich and costly as his is poor and worn, holds a fan in one -hand, and with the other seems to be half closing it. The attitude is -one of reflection, of pausing; the eyes are downcast. Will she say -‘Yes,’ or ‘No’?</p> - -<p>Beautiful groups of vine-reapers, primæval forests, and historical -legends have their charms, no doubt; but a yet more potent spell is -excited when the poetry is touched which underlies this present-day - -<span class="pagenum">[177]</span> - -life of ours—when romance is manifest, clothed in a grey tweed suit -and a fashionable afternoon costume. He is unabashed by her wealth and -splendour. Will she resent his audacity, or accept it? In the painting -there was a sweet mystery: none could say, from looking at it, what -course would be taken by that fair lady. Sara Ford was perhaps thinking -of some past scene. There was the shadow of an expression upon her face -which caused a murmur:</p> - -<p>‘After all, she will say yes.’</p> - -<p>It was at this juncture—just when the interest was deepest, when necks -were being craned forward, and whispers exchanged—comments upon him -and her: ‘How well Ludwig does it!’—‘Of course she will say yes!’—‘How -<em>wild</em> Amalia Waldschmidt would be if she saw Ludwig now!’ and so -on, that Professor Wilhelmi, accompanied by another man, returned to -his seat. There was an empty chair next to Avice Wellfield, and the - -<span class="pagenum">[178]</span> - -stranger took it, and fixed his eyes upon the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> lebendes Bild</i> on the -stage. Suddenly the face of the lady became no more like the face of a -picture. It changed—it was certainly a living face. Most distinctly her -eyes moved, her expression altered; some persons said afterwards that -she had started, but that may be a libel. What is quite certain is, -that the expression of the face did change, and that the gentleman who -had come in with Professor Wilhelmi turned to Avice Wellfield with a -smile, and remarked in a low voice:</p> - -<p>‘Miss Ford has recognised me, and is so surprised to see me that she -has moved.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you know Miss Ford?’ asked Avice, not moving her eyes from the -picture.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ replied Rudolf Falkenberg. ‘I met her a month or two ago at -Ems—Nassau, rather, at the Countess of Trockenau’s.’</p> - -<p>He continued to gaze intently at the living picture, while Miss Ford -on her part soon had her features and expression entirely under her - -<span class="pagenum">[179]</span> - -own control again. She posed admirably for the remainder of the scene, -and for the repetition of it which was stormily demanded. The shade of -expression on the lady’s face was of the very slightest; but it was -enough for the audience to be all of one mind as to what it meant, and -‘She will have him’ was the universal verdict.</p> - -<p>At last the curtain finally fell upon this picture, and with it ended -Sara’s share in the performance. The two last ‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Bilder</i>’ were also -admirably done, but they did not excite the interest which had been -called out by the last. One was a scene from Schiller’s <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Wallenstein</i>, -and the other from Goethe’s <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Egmont</i>.</p> - -<p>In the bustle of the interval ensuing between the two last pictures, -Sara came into the room with Wilhelmi, who had been behind the scenes -to fetch her away. Everyone was standing up, and almost everyone in -animated conversation, so that Miss Ford gained her place almost -unobserved.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[180]</span></p> - -<p>Not altogether unnoticed, though, for before anyone else could speak, -Falkenberg had held out his hand with a smile, saying:</p> - -<p>‘Thus we meet again, Miss Ford.’</p> - -<p>‘Not exactly “thus,”’ said Sara, laughing. ‘I saw you suddenly, and was -so surprised that I am afraid I moved, or laughed, or something. The -impulse to bow to you, and say “How do you do?” below the breath, as -one does, was almost irresistible.’</p> - -<p>‘I ought to have remained in the background where I was, and from -whence I saw you in Thusnelda. I would not have disturbed <em>that</em> for -the world.’</p> - -<p>‘And that reminds me,’ here observed Fräulein Wilhelmi in a plaintive -voice, ‘Miss Ford, where is my poor Max?’</p> - -<p>‘Behind the scenes, dressing for Egmont,’ replied Sara, laughing.</p> - -<p>‘I shall never consent to this sort of thing again,’ said Luise. ‘Or -if I do, I shall take a part as well. Did you only come to-day, Herr - -<span class="pagenum">[181]</span> - -Falkenberg, or did papa know that you intended to visit us?’</p> - -<p>‘No; I only decided yesterday to come, and I only arrived by the -evening train from Frankfort. I went to your house, and found where you -all were, and came here.’</p> - -<p>‘Of course you are staying with us, as usual?’ observed Luise.</p> - -<p>‘Your father has kindly asked me to do so,’ he replied, smiling.</p> - -<p>Sara, watching his face, felt an indescribable satisfaction in it, -and as if an old friend, and one who could be trusted, had suddenly -been present. Those were the same honest, critical brown eyes which -had looked kindly upon her, as they sat and spoke of friendship in -the little <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Ruheplatz</i> beneath the cathedral walls at Lahnburg. As -for Falkenberg, after the first words of greeting, he scarcely spoke -to Sara, but allowed himself to be monopolised by Luise, who, true to -her nature, had flirted with him, or tried to do so, since she was two -years old. Though he did not speak much to Sara, his eyes wandered now - -<span class="pagenum">[182]</span> - -and then towards her with an inquiring, considerate expression. She -was very quiet, but looked marvellously handsome, in her black velvet -gown and pearl necklace. Excitement, pleasure, high, strong emotion, -never made her talkative, but they brought a soft glow to her dark grey -eyes, which beautified her wonderfully. To-night the pleasure had been -very great, the excitement very strong, and she looked proportionately -splendid.</p> - -<p>Here the curtain went up for the last picture, and when that was over, -came the crush to get out of the hall.</p> - -<p>‘Look here, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> mein Bester</i>!’ observed Wilhelmi to Herr Falkenberg. ‘My -womenkind will be more than enough for me. Will you take Miss Ford and -Miss Wellfield under your charge, and see them home?’</p> - -<p>‘With pleasure,’ was the reply; and with an exchange of hasty -good-nights, the Wilhelmis were carried forward in the crowd, while - -<span class="pagenum">[183]</span> - -Falkenberg and the two English girls made their way slowly after them.</p> - -<p>Seated in their <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Droschke</i>, and driving towards the Jägerstrasse, -Falkenberg said:</p> - -<p>‘May I call at your atelier soon, Miss Ford, as I am staying here? I -dare say I shall be at the Wilhelmis’ for some little time.’</p> - -<p>‘I shall be very glad if you will,’ responded Sara; ‘though,’ she -added, after a pause, ‘I am afraid there is not much for you to see.’</p> - -<p>‘To-morrow afternoon,’ he suggested, ‘or will you be too tired?’</p> - -<p>‘I shall not be tired at all. Pray come, and have coffee with me, if -you care to remain.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you. I shall not fail,’ he answered, as the cab stopped, and he -handed them out.</p> - -<p>‘We all owe you a debt of thanks, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> mein Fräulein</i>, for acting as you -did to-night,’ he said, as he shook hands with her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[184]</span></p> - -<p>‘I am glad you were pleased, and I hope the affair will bring some -money to poor little Frau Goldmark. Then, till to-morrow, Herr -Falkenberg.’</p> - -<p>‘Till to-morrow. <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Gute nacht, meine Damen.</i>’</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[185]</span></p> - -<br> -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_IV"> - <img src="images/i_185_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV. -<br><br> -<small>HERR FALKENBERG’S FRIENDSHIP.</small><br></h2> - -<div class="blockindent35"> -‘Oh, snows so pure—oh, peaks so high,<br> -I lift to you a hopeless eye;<br> -I see your icy ramparts drawn,<br> -Between the sleepers and the dawn.<br> - -*             -*             -*             -*             -* -<br> - -I see you, passionless and pure,<br> -Above the lightnings stand secure;<br> -But may not climb....’<br> -</div> - -<br> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_w_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">When</span> Herr Falkenberg arrived the following afternoon in the -Jägerstrasse, he found Miss Ford alone in her atelier. She had sent -Avice out with Ellen, she told him, to walk off the excitement of -yesterday.</p> - -<p>‘I am glad you have come early,’ she added, ‘while it is yet to-day. - -<span class="pagenum">[186]</span> - -The evenings darken down so quickly now, don’t they?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, very; but for me, these chilly autumn evenings have a great -fascination.’</p> - -<p>‘Have they? And for me too. Do you know, there is nothing I like better -than to put on my hat and shawl on a fine, sharp October evening, such -as this is going to be, before it is quite dark, while the sky is still -light; in fact, just at the time the lamplighter goes his rounds. There -is a strange, unusual feeling in the air, and people go by like figures -in a dream.’</p> - -<p>‘I know the feeling. And what is your favourite haunt at such times?’</p> - -<p>‘I like to pass through some of the most crowded streets first, then -gradually to leave them and walk through the quieter Allee, till I -get to the Hofgarten. I never get tired of it, small though it is. -That well-worn round space, called the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Schöne Aussicht</i>, remains my -favourite spot. Very few people go there at this season, and at that -time in the evening. I can sit, or stand, or pace about as long as I - -<span class="pagenum">[187]</span> - -choose, and watch the Rhine, and the remains of the sunset, and the -bridge of boats, and think of all the villages which the distance -hides. It is very beautiful, I think, though you may laugh at me for -saying so.’</p> - -<p>‘I am not all inclined to laugh, for I like the same kind of thing -myself. I have a special fondness for the “still, sad music of -humanity,” which one comprehends best at such times.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, it is a music worth listening to. But the music of humanity is -not always sad, Herr Falkenberg, is it?’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Rudolf, looking down at her. He was standing, Sara was -seated on a low chair, leaning forward, and looking up at him with an -earnest, large gaze, and in her eyes was so deep, so triumphant and -secure a happiness, that he could not fail to see it—it made her face -glorious with its reflection. Falkenberg, looking at her, repressed - -<span class="pagenum">[188]</span> - -the words of admiration he would fain have uttered, and sighed before -he answered her, in his usual courteous, collected fashion. ‘No,’ he -repeated; ‘it is often glad, I think, and when it is so, it is very -glad. Pardon me, Miss Ford,’ he went on, with a slight smile, ‘I think -it has been glad for you lately; you look as if your life’s music were -pitched just now in a major key.’</p> - -<p>Her cheek flushed, and her eyes fell, as she answered, in a low tone:</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I have had a great happiness lately. I am very happy.’</p> - -<p>‘I am very glad to hear it,’ said he, and he was at no loss to guess to -what kind of happiness she alluded. If he had been—his eyes fell upon -her hands, clasped upon her knee, and upon the solitary sapphire hoop -which decked the third finger of the left hand, with the broad tight -gold guard above. That was enough. He had observed her hands in days -gone by, and then, he knew, when they were at Ems and Nassau, she had - -<span class="pagenum">[189]</span> - -worn several rings, old-fashioned, but valuable—a diamond one, and a -pearl and emerald one, and others. They were gone. Nothing remained but -the sapphire hoop.</p> - -<p>‘Let me congratulate you on your happiness,’ he added, ‘and forgive my -saying that the ring you wear is a good omen. Those blue stones mean -steadfastness and faith.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I know. Those qualities are about the best things we can have. -Don’t you think so?’</p> - -<p>‘They are very good things,’ he replied slowly, as he thought within -himself, ‘Two can be steadfast: one may steadfastly give up, as well as -steadfastly cling to a thing.’</p> - -<p>‘Are you not tired with your exertions last night?’ he asked.</p> - -<p>‘I—oh no! I am very strong; I do not easily get tired. I should like -always to feel as I did feel last night: as if nothing would ever be -difficult again, as if one’s powers would easily sweep away every -obstacle. Do you know, in the scene from Hermann and Thusnelda, I was - -<span class="pagenum">[190]</span> - -wishing, with all my heart, that I was here in my atelier, with an -appropriate subject. I felt as if I could have painted then.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, one lives a full life at such moments. That reminds me that at -this season daylight rapidly departs. May I not see your pictures now?’</p> - -<p>‘With pleasure, such as they are,’ she answered, rising, and pushing an -easel round, so as to show the picture in the best light.</p> - -<p>‘This is but a sketch,’ said he, standing before it. ‘Have you nothing -finished?’</p> - -<p>‘N—no,’ said Sara, pausing; and as she forced herself to make the -calculation, she found that she had never finished anything since her -visit to Ems; since she had known Jerome Wellfield.</p> - -<p>‘I have finished nothing lately,’ she exclaimed, struck with the -thought, and involuntarily speaking out her reflections. ‘I finish - -<span class="pagenum">[191]</span> - -nothing now. I begin things, and then the impulse fades away, and they -are neglected.’</p> - -<p>‘It is as well not to insist upon working out every crude attempt,’ -he said—and she thought his face took an expression of gravity, as he -continued to look at the sketch—‘because if you do that, you are not -an artist any more, but a machine; but it is also well occasionally -to persevere in carrying out some conception, even if you do not -find yourself altogether in sympathy with your first idea. That is -discipline, which in moderation is good. What is this?’ he added, so -drily, and so abruptly, that she started.</p> - -<p>‘That?’ she answered, a little hurriedly; ‘oh, it was a verse from a -little poem of Sully Prudhomme’s which struck my fancy. Where is it?’</p> - -<p>She found a scrap of paper on the edge of the easel, on which paper -were scribbled Sully Prudhomme’s exquisite little lines, <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr"> Si - -<span class="pagenum">[192]</span> - -vous saviez</i>. The verse she had tried to illustrate was the one running:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container40"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Si vous saviez ce que fait naître</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Dans l’âme triste un pur regard,</div> - <div class="verse">Vous regarderiez ma fenêtre</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Comme au hasard.’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>‘It is not very good,’ said Sara, apologetically; ‘it is a stupid, -sentimental little thing after all.’</p> - -<p>‘As you have sketched it, it is,’ he answered, and said no more.</p> - -<p>Sara, with an uneasy thrill of feeling, remembered his words to her at -Trockenau: ‘If I thought it atrocious, I am afraid I should say it was -so, much though I might dislike having to do it.’</p> - -<p>She felt that he had just now said ‘atrocious,’ or something very -like it, and her heart sank. Silently she placed another canvas above -the first. It was a vague, indistinct scene; what appeared some wild, -wind-blown trees on rising ground to the left—clouds riven asunder, and -silvered by a moon which did not actually appear; the hint of a deep, - -<span class="pagenum">[193]</span> - -rapid, sullen stream, with tall rushes, in the foreground.</p> - -<p>‘That is imaginary!’ he said abruptly, ‘You did not go to Nature for -this.’</p> - -<p>‘No, not altogether. It is—it is only a sketch.’</p> - -<p>‘Scarcely that. Is it meant to typify anything?’</p> - -<p>‘I believe I was thinking of Shelley’s stanzas: “Away! the moor is dark -beneath the moon!” But it is bad. I have failed,’ she added, a sudden -sense of being very small and insignificant rushing over her, and also -a conviction of how entirely she had failed.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, you have failed,’ he answered, somewhat sarcastically. ‘I should -not imagine, in the first place, that you knew what the lines meant.’</p> - -<p>‘No, I don’t think I do,’ Sara owned, deprecatingly.</p> - -<p>‘Let us hope you never may. The meaning, when you come at it, is - -<span class="pagenum">[194]</span> - -bitter—as bitter as anything well can be. Well’—he turned to her, and -looked her in the face, with eyes which she felt were full of severity -and full of concern—‘is that all?’</p> - -<p>‘It is all I can show you,’ she replied hastily, ‘when I see how -displeased you are.’</p> - -<p>‘You are afraid of hearing the truth?’ asked Falkenberg, with a mocking -smile.</p> - -<p>With compressed lips, and a face which had grown pale, she threw a -cover from another canvas, a larger one, on a second easel, and, -leaving him to study it, turned away, and stood at the window, looking -out, her heart beating so wildly that its throbs deafened her. Yet she -heard him say:</p> - -<p>‘Ah! at least one knows what this is intended for.’</p> - -<p>It was a sketch merely, all except the head of the figure, in neutral -first tints; and there was certainly no mistaking the subject. A man’s -figure in imperial robes, leaning eagerly forward, stretching out his -hands; his eyes fixed, his lips parted towards the sun, which suddenly - -<span class="pagenum">[195]</span> - -bursts with a flood of light into the room, and illumines the desk and -tablets, on which he had been inscribing his great <em>Hymn</em>. One could -just catch this meaning; and the head of Julian the Apostate, which was -boldly finished and beautiful, was a likeness of Jerome.</p> - -<p>‘H’m!’ observed Falkenberg. ‘The Apostate—a curious idea.’ Then, after -a pause, ‘I suppose that <em>is</em> all?’</p> - -<p>‘All, except the studies I am doing with Herr Wilhelmi,’ she said, -feeling all the pretty conceits with which she had tried to gloss over -her work, small in amount, poor in execution, of the last three months, -swept away, as cobwebs might be swept from a roof, till not a trace -remained.</p> - -<p>‘And has the Herr Professor praised your performances of late?’</p> - -<p>‘He has not—he has blamed them,’ said she, her cheek burning, but -firmly resolved to confess the worst—to conceal nothing.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[196]</span></p> - -<p>‘It would have been odd indeed if he had done so. Has he seen this last -one that I have just been looking at?’</p> - -<p>‘No one has seen it but yourself,’ she replied, almost inaudibly.</p> - -<p>‘It is not quite so bad as the other two. The head shows some signs of -good workmanship, but the whole thing is poor and meretricious; and -you know it is. Those other two studies, or attempts at studies, show -a distinct and visible falling off. They are not so good by a long way -as the little sketch you showed me at Trockenau. They are careless, -sketchy, weak, and horribly amateurish. They are second-rate in every -way—fit for magazine woodcuts—but as works of art! They are dreadful, -and quite destitute of workmanship, and I am very sorry to see them.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Herr Falkenberg!’ she exclaimed, aghast. ‘You—but I deserve it. -They are all that you say.’</p> - -<p>She spoke with a proud humility, but her voice was stifled with - -<span class="pagenum">[197]</span> - -suppressed sobs. His relentless words had aroused, as if by magic, -the old spirit of eager ambition which, until a few months ago, had -animated her. It was as if some one roughly shook her from some -pleasant drowsy dream back into reality. In her own mind she had -tried—not very successfully, it is true, but still with the effect of -lulling herself into contentment—to call those inadequate attempts at -pictures ‘vague fancies,’ ‘thoughts too subtle at once to take shape.’ -Consummate criticism, neutral, calm and unimpassioned, fixed its -piercing eyes upon them, and instantly pronounced them—daubs.</p> - -<p>She had come nearer to him as she spoke. Now she turned away again, -consumed by a feeling of burning, scorching shame, and walked back -to the window, and stood there, feeling utterly miserable. ‘Love is -enough,’ she had lately read somewhere; but it was not true, she -found—it did not support or comfort her under this just condemnation. - -<span class="pagenum">[198]</span> - -It did not enable her to feel callous and indifferent under the -disapproval and displeasure of such a man as Rudolf Falkenberg.</p> - -<p>She remained standing by the window. He had begun to pace about the -studio, his hands clasped behind him. Presently he spoke:</p> - -<p>‘I congratulated you just now on your happiness,’ he said. ‘If this is -to be the result, I must withdraw those congratulations.’</p> - -<p>‘Herr Falkenberg, don’t—please don’t say that!’ she implored, in a -voice that was pitiable, though so low.</p> - -<p>‘But I must, if you allow it thus to enervate you—to emasculate your -power. Pardon my frankness, and what may seem my intrusiveness; but you -know my motives. Do you mean to give up your art?’</p> - -<p>‘No—oh no! I never thought of such a thing.’</p> - -<p>‘Then look to what you are doing. Such things as those you have showed -me—such thin, weak, boneless, bloodless things are a mere prostitution - -<span class="pagenum">[199]</span> - -of one of the noblest and most glorious of arts. For heaven’s sake, if -you do not intend to do better than that, give it up altogether. Surely -you are above such amateur dabbling, such sentimental prettinesses—you, -who might do well and worthily, even nobly, I believe, if you only -would. And, if you intend to persevere, let me tell you that the -“happiness,” or the “good fortune,” or whatsoever it may be, which -degrades your powers instead of expanding them, is <em>bad</em>. Sorrow -rightly borne, and noble joy rightly worn, should elevate, not degrade. -There is no evading this law, and no escaping it for those who have -souls at all; and I was firmly convinced that you had. What has one of -your own countrymen said, one of the most consummate art-critics that -ever lived? He has said just the same thing—“accurately, in proportion -to the rightness of the cause, and the purity of the emotion, is the -possibility of the fine art— ... with absolute precision, from the - -<span class="pagenum">[200]</span> - -highest to the lowest, the fineness of the possible art is an index -of the moral purity and majesty of the emotion it expresses.” That is -one of the hardest things ever written, and one of the truest. Measure -yourself by it, with <em>those</em>—and where are you?’</p> - -<p>Sara had cast herself into a chair, and with her hands before her face, -was controlling her sobs as best she might. Never before had she felt -thus humbled and scorched, and burnt up, as it were. It was terrible, -yet not one pang of anger or resentment mingled with her emotion. She -knew that what he said was just—no more, no less; and being noble, she -liked him the better for his having said it. There was no carping, -no prejudice or temper in what he said—no scolding for the sake of -rousing her to retort or to deprecate; there was the sorrowful, stern -condemnation of one who knew she had belied herself, and had sufficient -regard for her to tell her so, and she bowed to it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[201]</span></p> - -<p>He did not speak for a little time, and gradually her sobs grew -quieter. At last he stopped before her, and said:</p> - -<p>‘Miss Ford!’</p> - -<p>Sara removed her hands from before her face, picked up her -handkerchief, dried her eyes with it, and looked at him. His eyes were -full of kindness; they were not hard; his face was not the face of a -hard judge, and his voice was soothing as he said:</p> - -<p>‘I do not beg you to forgive me for what I have said to you. If you -are what I take you to be, that is not necessary. I do not say I am -sorry to have wounded you. I honour you so much as to feel sure that -you appreciate my reasons for so speaking. But I ask you, do you know -yourself the reason of this quick and lamentable falling off?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I know it,’ she replied, looking at him with a face pale indeed, -but with eyes which did not waver. ‘The reason is, that I have dreamed -of myself and my own happiness to the exclusion of everything else. I - -<span class="pagenum">[202]</span> - -have let my love master me, instead of being myself master of my love. -And I am punished for it.’</p> - -<p>‘And will you go on dreaming? Will you not rather try to awaken?’</p> - -<p>Sara looked at him, and thought of Jerome—of the love she bore him. -Subdue that, make it bondslave to her art, second to something else? -She knew that if she meant to be what she had all along striven for—a -great artist, that she must do so; the question was, could she? Had -she not been in reality the slave of her love for Wellfield, since it -had arisen, since he had told her he loved her? Not confessedly so, -but indeed, and in fact? Yes, it was so. It suddenly dawned upon her -mind that such love might be absorbing—might be exquisite at the time; -but her nobler self told her that it was not good to be bound hand and -foot in the bonds of this passion, that it was unworthy, that she had -yielded to the infatuation that paralyses, not the love that inspires.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[203]</span></p> - -<p>‘I cannot be free in a moment,’ said she, ‘but I can endeavour to be -so. I will try, and I give you my hand upon it.’</p> - -<p>With a simple, proud gesture, she placed her hand in his. He knew what -she meant. That love of hers was not to be given up; she held it holy, -justifiable. But she was no longer to be its bondslave.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ he thought, ‘it is doubtful, but if there is a woman who can do -it, she can.’</p> - -<p>He grasped her hand firmly.</p> - -<p>‘And our friendship?’ he asked.</p> - -<p>‘Do you still wish for my friendship, Herr Falkenberg?’</p> - -<p>‘Now, more than ever, your friendship appears precious and desirable to -me.’</p> - -<p>‘It is yours, so long as you care to keep it,’ she answered. ‘At least, -do not desert me till I have found the strait and narrow path again.’</p> - -<p>‘That is not hard,’ he answered. ‘Go to Nature, and paint the humblest -plant you can find—the most rugged visage you may meet in the street, - -<span class="pagenum">[204]</span> - -but paint it—you know how, as well as I do. Do not smear into it -your own vague fancies. Study it, to find what God has hidden behind -its exterior covering. Think of it and its meaning; not of yourself, -and what you would like it to be. Reverence, reverence, and for ever -reverence, as that same great countryman of yours has said; and I -promise you that if it be but a tuft of dandelions, or the head of the -most weather-beaten <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Mütterchen</i> on the marketplace, it shall be more -worth hanging up and looking at than a thousand of those things.’</p> - -<p>‘Your sayings are hard, but true,’ she answered, with a return of life -in her cheek and eye; ‘and I thank you for your lesson, though it has -been a stern one. Only tell me—you don’t despair of me?’</p> - -<p>‘I never felt such confidence in you as I do now,’ he replied, with a -smile, and looking at her as if he wished she would return it. But Sara -could not do that yet. She sat still, resting her cheek on her hand, -and he paced about the studio talking to her, his heart beating fast - -<span class="pagenum">[205]</span> - -too, thinking.</p> - -<p>‘Fine-tempered—true and pure gold. Does the man know what sort of a -woman he has won? Judging by my own experience of such affairs—not.’</p> - -<p>When Avice came in from her walk, she found Sara and Herr Falkenberg in -the parlour, looking over engravings. Then Ellen hastened to bring the -coffee, and Rudolf disburthened his mind of an invitation committed to -his charge by Fräulein Wilhelmi, bidding Sara to a musical party on the -following evening. She promised to go; and he, departing, held her hand -somewhat long as he asked:</p> - -<p>‘You have understood, I hope?’</p> - -<p>‘Perfectly, and am grateful.’</p> - -<p>‘Then, till to-morrow evening,’ he replied, bowing, and taking his -departure.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[206]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_V"> - <img src="images/i_206_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> -<br> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V. -<br><br> -<small>THE LION AND THE MOUSE.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_o_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">On</span> the following evening, Sara, when she arrived at the Wilhelmis’, -found a large, gay party assembled, consisting chiefly of those who -had distinguished themselves in the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> lebenden</i> <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Bildern</i> the night -before, or who had given useful service in preparing them. Sara was -almost shocked to recognise, amongst others, little Frau Goldmark, -for whose benefit the entertainment had been given. To her intense -nature it appeared strange and even indecorous that the young widow -should present herself in this sparkling mixed company—under the - -<span class="pagenum">[207]</span> - -circumstances. Certainly she did not put herself forward; she sat on -an ottoman, in a rather retired corner, from which she did not move, -and those who desired to have speech of her could do so by going and -talking to her. Sara found herself near her during the evening, and, -at the moment, no one else was close to them. She turned and spoke to -her, wishing her good-evening rather gravely. Indeed, since yesterday -afternoon, she had felt grave, though by no means sad. She had -reflected upon Falkenberg’s strictures, and the more she thought upon -the subject the more convinced she was that he had spoken the words of -justice—of truth and soberness.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, Miss Ford!’ exclaimed Frau Goldmark, effusively, ‘how very much I -have to thank you for!’</p> - -<p>‘Do not mention it, Frau Goldmark. What little I could do, I did with -great pleasure; and I am very glad if it succeeded.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[208]</span></p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Ach, ungeheuer!</i>’ cried she, using an exaggerated expression not -beloved of Sara, who wondered more and more that the little woman had -not had the sense to remain at home—‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Ungeheuer!</i> it will be a small -fortune to me. It is entirely your influence, of course, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> liebes -Fräulein</i>, which has induced Herr Falkenberg to be so generous. And I, -who had been thinking that the picture was only so much buried capital, -that never would be realised!’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid I don’t understand you,’ said Sara, becoming conscious -that some event of which she knew nothing was alluded to, and aware, -too, of a disagreeably significant meaning in the smile with which Frau -Goldmark looked at her.</p> - -<p>‘But you must know surely that, yesterday morning, Herr Falkenberg went -straight to the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Ausstellung</i>, where my husband’s picture hung, and -that he bought it—bought it then and there; and when Herr Lohe of the -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Ausstellung</i> said that it was a fine picture, - -<span class="pagenum">[209]</span> - -Herr Falkenberg replied that to anyone who had seen Miss Ford in that -character the night before, it could not fail to be a fine picture. -Now, what do you think?’</p> - -<p>Frau Goldmark laughed, never having imagined that she would have the -good fortune to be the first to communicate this news to Miss Ford. The -reply surprised and appalled her.</p> - -<p>‘I think your information most uncalled for, and that, if true, it is -not of the slightest importance to me,’ replied the young lady, raising -her head to its utmost height, and, without deigning another word, -walking away.</p> - -<p>Frau Goldmark recoiled. She had imagined that the information would be -considered most piquant and gratifying, and behold, the result had been -annihilation almost.</p> - -<p>Though Sara had walked away with such dignity, a most unpleasant -sensation had taken possession of her. It was most unlike all she knew -of Falkenberg that he should make such a vulgar remark as that would - -<span class="pagenum">[210]</span> - -certainly have been; and yet the glibness with which Frau Goldmark had -repeated it, staggered her. She stood, absently conversing with Ludwig -Maas, the very man with whom she had acted in the picture, and was -chiefly conscious of repenting bitterly that she had ever taken any -part in the affair, and Herr Maas was wondering a little why Miss Ford, -who, with all her dignity, had been so sociable and pleasant to him two -days ago, should wear so cold and unapproachable an expression this -evening, when Falkenberg came up to them.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Ford,’ said he, ‘I have been talking to Frau Goldmark.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed!’ was the frigid reply.</p> - -<p>‘I had better go,’ decided Ludwig within himself; and with a murmured -excuse he left them.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ pursued Rudolf. ‘I saw that she had offended you by something -she had said. She is a tiresome, vulgar little woman, who used to - -<span class="pagenum">[211]</span> - -annoy me a good deal in former days when I had dealings with her -husband.’</p> - -<p>‘I can quite imagine it,’ said Sara, ‘but as I feel quite indifferent -towards her, we need not talk about her.’</p> - -<p>There was a laugh in Falkenberg’s eyes as he said:</p> - -<p>‘But I do not feel at all indifferent towards her, finding as I do, -that she has been misrepresenting me to you.’</p> - -<p>Sara’s face flushed, and her head was lifted again.</p> - -<p>‘Pray let us leave the subject,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘No, I must ask you as a favour to hear me. Frau Goldmark has a way of -putting the cart before the horse sometimes, which, if innocent, is -still annoying. She told you that <em>I</em> had said to Herr Lohe—something -which, if I had said it, under the circumstances, would have been the -height of impertinence, though the poor little woman seems to imagine -that it was a charming compliment.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[212]</span></p> - -<p>‘Well, and did you not say it?’ she asked, still in the same -unapproachable manner.</p> - -<p>‘Can you for a moment suspect me of it? I observed to Herr Lohe that it -was a charming picture, upon which he threw up his hands, exclaiming, -“<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Ach! mein Herr</i>, it was always charming, but since one has seen Miss -Ford in it, it is <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr"> à ravir</i>.”’</p> - -<p>Sara smiled involuntarily. Herr Lohe was a well-known character in the -Elberthal artist world. The words and the manner were so exactly his, -that she could no longer have even a shade of doubt on the matter.</p> - -<p>‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, all the stiffness melting suddenly from -her attitude and expression, ‘for ever listening to such a story. It -took me by surprise.’</p> - -<p>‘Now you look less terrible, and more human,’ he said, laughing; ‘less -like those “snows so pure, those peaks so high,” to which the poet said -he lifted “a hopeless eye.”’</p> - -<p>‘You are laughing at me,’ said Sara, laughing in her turn. ‘I felt - -<span class="pagenum">[213]</span> - -insulted, I confess. What a tiresome, mischievous little woman that is!’</p> - -<p>‘Very. But,’ he added earnestly, and in a low voice, ‘you were not -insulted yesterday, when I said some rather strong things to you, the -reverse of complimentary, and yet now——’</p> - -<p>‘That was quite different,’ she replied, her cheek flushing again. ‘And -you know it, Herr Falkenberg; but you wish to torment me because you -think I am exaggerated in everything.’</p> - -<p>‘Since that is your opinion of my opinion of you, let it stand,’ was -all he would reply.</p> - -<p>Frau Goldmark sat in her corner, and watched the proceedings from afar. -After having been made so much of for so long, this was a grievous -way in which to be treated. Her feelings were assuredly akin to those -expressed by the oysters when the walrus and the carpenter threatened -to eat them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[214]</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container38"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘After such kindness, that would be</div> - <div class="verse">A dismal thing to do.’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Lieber Himmel!</i>’ thought Frau Goldmark, who was accustomed, even -mentally, to the use of exaggerated expressions, ‘how could I know? -But who does know what will please an Englishwoman? Not I, I am sure. -I wish I had given her back her stare, but I never have my wits about -me at the right moment, and I dare say she thought I was overwhelmed -with confusion. And when he came up to me’—here an expression akin to -cunning developed itself upon Frau Goldmark’s face—‘these men think -they have but to speak, and that then we believe them. He “thought I -had made a mistake,” indeed. Whether I may have been mistaken about -that or not, can I not see him now, talking to her, and the look in -his eyes? Bah! it is easy enough to see what it all means. People -like her think they have a right to toss their heads if one hazards a -joke. Would not she be glad enough to catch him, if she could? And - -<span class="pagenum">[215]</span> - -if she does, will it not be through me that they have been brought -together—their happiness made out of my misfortune? <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Ach, ja!</i>’</p> - -<p>Which leads one to reflect that there is a celebrated fable concerning -a lion and a mouse, which relates how the former magnanimously thanked -the latter on being set free from his toils through that humble -agency—leads one also to wonder a little what some mice might feel -supposing they had received favours of crushing importance from the -kingly beast, and had later been rebuked for flippancy of behaviour. -Perhaps the feelings of the mouse on such an occasion might not be -altogether without resemblance to those just now entertained by Frau -Goldmark towards her two most substantial benefactors.</p> - -<p>Late the following evening, Falkenberg was pacing up and down the space -jutting out from the Hofgarten towards the river, and known as the -Schöne Aussicht. (Schöne Aussicht—Belle Vue—Bella Vista: why have we - -<span class="pagenum">[216]</span> - -no name for it in England, we who have so much of the thing itself?) It -was the very hour which Sara had mentioned as being her favourite one -for strolling about. Had Falkenberg had any idea of meeting her there? -Hardly. He was scarcely the man to go with such a purpose, especially -in the case of Sara Ford. He had come, partly because he wished to be -alone, and partly because she had said she loved the place. So much he -confessed to himself; nor did it disturb him in that he knew it was a -dream that he cherished.</p> - -<p>He was thinking about her now as he paced about, thinking of what she -had said about loving to watch the river, the Rhine. Falkenberg watched -it too, as it flowed majestically along, eleven hundred feet across, -from one low flat bank to the other, making a low, sedate music as -he seemed to march by, with his grand, broad, unintermittent sweep, -having gathered in might and volume during his long journey past - -<span class="pagenum">[217]</span> - -castle and crag and town, between the walls of Mainz and beneath the -frowning escarpments of Ehrenbreitstein, between rock and vineyard and -village and hamlet, until he came to proud Cologne, the fairest gem in -his crown, and then, broader and stronger and older and greyer, went -sweeping on past the other villages and towns, towards Rotterdam and -Holland and the sea.</p> - -<p>Rudolf saw not another human creature. He ceased his walk, and placed -himself on one of the benches looking towards the river, and, leaning -his elbow on the back of it, smoked, and abstractedly watched a -great American Rhine steamer, with <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Kaiser Wilhelm</i> inscribed on her -paddle-box, which was steaming slowly into the harbour to stay there -and be repaired before the next tourist season began. The lights on her -poop and deck cast bright rays athwart the sullen grey of the stream, -but he did not see them though he was looking at them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[218]</span></p> - -<p>‘I wish she was not engaged to this fellow,’ he thought. ‘It’s young -Wellfield, I suppose, unless I was very much deceived by what I saw -at Trockenau that night. I may do him injustice, but I have an idea -that when all comes to the point, he will look first to his precious -self. It is not surprising if he is both vain and selfish, after the -ordeal he has gone through of flattery and gratuitous love affairs and -desperate cases, and girls who have made fools of themselves about -him. But it is a pity that at last a noble woman should have fallen a -victim. God forgive me if I do the lad injustice. I hope I do. One can -but wait the event.’</p> - -<p>He knocked the ash from his cigar, and gazed across the river at the -outline, now very dim, of a battered-looking tree on the opposite shore.</p> - -<p>‘It is time I came to some conclusion,’ he thought. ‘I have been -dangling here long enough. I have her friendship—I see and know that -her love is given elsewhere. It would be simple madness in me to try - -<span class="pagenum">[219]</span> - -to win it. I am only burning my fingers and making a fool of myself by -remaining here—and getting more in love with her every day.... Ay, and -I do love her!’</p> - -<p>He flung his cigar away, and leaned forward, gazing intently out into -the darkness, thinking.</p> - -<p>‘If ever I had the chance of marrying her—if by any means I could -induce her to take me, I would do it, let the risk be what it might.... -Shall I stay a little longer? Is the pleasure worth the concomitant -pain? When I know that I may not tell her I love her, any more than -she, if she loved me, could tell me so.’</p> - -<p>As he thus reflected, and reflected, too, that it was all a -chance—everything was a chance—he watched how two men on the big -steamer threw out a rope to two men in a little boat which was rocking -in the swell in the wake of the big one. Twice they threw, and missed; -then prepared to cast it out a third time.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[220]</span></p> - -<p>‘If they catch it this time,’ decided Rudolf, ‘I’ll stay; if they miss -again, I’ll say good-bye to her to-morrow, and go home.’</p> - -<p>A third throw of the rope, a lurch of the little boat, and the cry:</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Gut! Jetzt hab’ ich’s.</i>’</p> - -<p>‘I stay. <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Gut!</i> I take my holiday in Elberthal instead of in Rome. What -does it matter to anyone but myself?’</p> - -<p>He arose, and walked straight back to Wilhelmi’s house, where there -was, as usual, a large company, many of whom had been invited expressly -to meet him. He went amongst them, and made himself agreeable to them -for the rest of the evening. He promised himself a month’s holiday -from now. The chances were—for something happening to Sara, to Jerome, -to anyone, which should lead events in the direction he desired—one. -Against that, ten thousand. And for the sake of the one he stayed.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[221]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_VI"> - <img src="images/i_221_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> -<br> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI. -<br><br> -<small>UNAWARES.</small><br></h2> - -<div class="blockindent30"> -<span class="sig-left40">‘What’s this thought,</span><br> -Shapeless and shadowy, that keeps flitting round<br> -Like some dumb creature that sees coming danger,<br> -And breaks its heart, trying in vain to speak?’<br> -</div> - -<br> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_p_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Perhaps</span> Sara Ford was the solitary person who never gave a thought -as to why Rudolf Falkenberg paid so long a visit to the Wilhelmis’. -Everyone else, from Frau Goldmark upwards, had arrived at the -same conclusion, and felt a just and honourable pride in his own -astuteness—the conclusion that Herr Falkenberg was what is euphoniously -called, ‘paying attention’ to Miss Ford. He knew the report well - -<span class="pagenum">[222]</span> - -himself, and knowing that to the principal person concerned—herself—it -was as if it had not been, and not caring a straw what was said or -thought about him, he took no trouble to enlighten anyone on the -subject. He came and went like an old friend in and out of Sara’s -presence. He was perfectly certain that Jerome Wellfield was kept fully -informed of all that was said and done in their interviews, and that -being so, he felt that he had no other person to account to for his -action in the matter. And he knew that his presence invigorated and -did her good. She had cast aside all her dreamy fancies, and had gone -humbly to Nature, as he had bidden her do, and Nature had not betrayed -‘the heart that loved her.’ Sara had made some studies, on seeing -which, Wilhelmi, all unconscious of what had gone before, had drawn -a long breath of relief, saying, ‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Was, Kind!</i> You are again coming -to your senses.’ Falkenberg had not frowned, if he had not smiled at - -<span class="pagenum">[223]</span> - -them; he had said:</p> - -<p>‘So you have laid hold of the clue at last, which leads back to the -narrow path?’</p> - -<p>‘I shall never rest,’ said Sara, cheerfully, ‘until I have done -something which you will not scorn to hang up somewhere near the roof -of your picture-gallery. Then I shall feel sure that I not only have -the clue, but am back on the stony road again.’</p> - -<p>‘Some day you will do something which the world will not allow to be -buried in any picture-gallery of mine. Patience, patience, and ever -patience!’</p> - -<p>It was the morning after they had held this conversation. Sara and -Avice were seated at breakfast.</p> - -<p>‘I wonder,’ observed the latter, ‘whether Jerome will come over here -for Christmas? Do you think he will? Does he ever say anything to you?’</p> - -<p>‘Never,’ said Sara, with a smile. ‘But I have very little doubt that he -will come.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[224]</span></p> - -<p>‘It would be so delightful—a real German Christmas at the Wilhelmis’, -with a tree, and everything proper.’</p> - -<p>‘For that matter, you may have a tree here, if you like. But—ah, here’s -the postman. And a letter from Jerome,’ she added, as she took it from -Ellen’s hand, and read it.</p> - -<div class="blockindent20"> -<span class="smcap sig-left5">‘Dearest Sara,</span><br> -<span class="sig-left10">‘I write in exceeding haste to tell you that an excellent opportunity</span> -offers for Avice to come to England. My friend Father Somerville, -of whom I have so often spoken to you, is travelling at present in -Belgium on business connected with the college. He has to visit -Cologne before his return, and means to travel by way of Elberthal, -Rotterdam, and Harwich, and he has offered to take charge of my -sister. He will be about two days in Elberthal, and I asked him to -call upon you at once, to explain his arrangements. I expect it - -<span class="pagenum">[225]</span> - -will be the end of this week before he arrives. This had all been -arranged in such haste that I could not possibly let you know before. -And now I have no time to write as I should wish to do. I have had -troubles—money troubles. I will explain as soon as I am able to write -to you. Meantime this must go to the post. Excuse its hastiness. Give -my love to my sister, and believe me,<br> - -<span class="sig-left70">‘Your devoted</span><br> -<span class="sig-left90">‘J. W.’</span><br> -</div> - -<p>When Sara had finished reading this letter, she passed her hand over -her eyes, trembling strangely. She could not understand it. It was -like some hateful, inexplicable nightmare. That the hand which had all -along caressed, should thus suddenly strike—and strike hard—passed -her comprehension. The voice which had been so tender was in a -moment shouting out a harsh command. No reasons given—no one word of -explanation as to why Avice was so suddenly to be taken away from -her. It was incredible. There had never been any spoken or written - -<span class="pagenum">[226]</span> - -agreement, but always a tacit understanding that Avice was to remain -with her until she and Jerome were married, and that then she should -share their home. It seemed it was not to be so.</p> - -<p>‘What is the matter, Sara? Has anything happened to Jerome—tell me!’</p> - -<p>For all answer, Sara handed her the letter. She could not speak—could -not explain it.</p> - -<p>‘What—why?’ exclaimed the girl, in a tone of dismay. ‘I do not -understand.’</p> - -<p>‘Nor I, dear!’ was the answer. ‘I know exactly as much about it as you -do.’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure I don’t want to go travelling with this strange man—carried -off as if I had done something wrong,’ said Avice, less and less -charmed with the prospect.</p> - -<p>‘If you have to go, I shall see that you do not go alone,’ was all -Sara could answer. She could eat no more. She rose from her chair. -Leaving Avice with the letter, to follow her own devices, she retired -to her atelier, and there tried to reason it all out, and comprehend - -<span class="pagenum">[227]</span> - -it—and failed. It grew more inexplicable, and more horrible, the more -thought she gave to it, until at last an idea flashed into her mind, -which left her cold and trembling and miserable, with a misery such as -she had never known before. Had any change come over him?—did he love -her less? She laughed at it, put it aside, argued it away, and at last -did attain to a pretty certain conviction that she was wrong; but the -misery remained. It was there, like a dead, leaden weight at her heart. -She might argue away her first impression—the first subtle intrusion of -the idea, or the shadow or the ghost of the idea, false, but she could -not get rid of the wretchedness caused by the fact that the idea had -intruded—that something had happened so strange as to open the door for -it to enter by.</p> - -<p>She tried to paint, but could not. She passed a morning of -misery—heavy, unrelieved, and indescribable. When she returned to -Avice, she found her too dejected, puzzled, unhappy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[228]</span></p> - -<p>‘I don’t want to go,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what Jerome means, or -wants. If I go to England, he ought to come and fetch me.’</p> - -<p>He had said no word of coming, as Sara remembered, with a heartache.</p> - -<p>‘He wrote in haste, and promised to let us hear again,’ she replied. -‘There is sure to be a letter to-morrow explaining.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t see how it is to be explained,’ said Avice, despondently. ‘But -if Jerome thinks he can tyrannise over me, he is mistaken.’</p> - -<p>Her lips closed one upon the other with an expression of obstinacy.</p> - -<p>‘Hush! as if he had any thought of such a thing!’ said Sara, coldly; -but this exchange of ideas had not resulted in lightening the heart of -either one or the other of them.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[229]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_VII"> - <img src="images/i_229_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> -<br> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII. -<br><br> -<small>‘AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS.’</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_t_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">The</span> postman did not call at all the following morning, and Sara, she -scarcely knew why, felt sick at heart. What a martyrdom those four or -five postal deliveries per diem of a great town may and do inflict -upon some of those who are eagerly waiting for <em>something</em> to come, -and it never appears. The postman goes past, or calls, with terrible -regularity. Scarcely has one bitter disappointment been tided over, -than one sees him again, with the bundle of letters in his left hand, -passing along the street, or running up the steps. There is the - -<span class="pagenum">[230]</span> - -sharp fall of a letter in the box, the sickening interval before the -servant comes in with the salver, and on it a circular, an invitation, -a bill—never the thing one is longing for so desperately. Under the -circumstances, give us rather by all means the one delivery during -the day of the dark and barbarous village which is five miles from -everywhere. There one is at least secure of an interval of twenty-four -hours between each ordeal.</p> - -<p>Dinner, their midday dinner, was over; and the afternoon was advancing. -Sara could not paint; so, saying she had a headache, she did not enter -her studio, but remained in the other room with a book. Ellen and Avice -were both in the atelier. Ellen with her sewing, which she usually -took there when her mistress was not painting, and sometimes when -she was. Avice was painting. She had a very pretty talent for making -water-colour drawings; and Wilhelmi, out of his regard for Sara, had -given her a few hints on different occasions, by which she had not - -<span class="pagenum">[231]</span> - -failed to profit.</p> - -<p>Thus Sara had her book, her parlour, and her thoughts to herself, and -felt the monopoly to be of anything but an exhilarating character. -She scarce saw the printed page; she was so engrossed in her wonder -as to what had really been in Jerome’s mind when he wrote her that -letter, and by the bitter sense of indignity she experienced in -the utter silence of to-day. Not a line; not a word from him. It -was amazing—incomprehensible! She had not answered the letter. She -was wondering whether she should do so, whether she should wait -another day; in the hope of hearing from him that he had been hasty, -ill-advised; that he had decided not to let his sister return with -Father Somerville.</p> - -<p>Then some one knocked at the door, and in answer to her <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Herein!</i> -Rudolf Falkenberg entered.</p> - -<p>‘Send me away if I disturb you,’ he said, pausing, and looking rather -doubtfully at her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[232]</span></p> - -<p>‘Not in the least. Pray come in, Herr Falkenberg, and try to instil -some of your wisdom into me, for I am a very foolish person.’</p> - -<p>‘As how?’ he asked, taking a chair near her, when she had given him -her hand; ‘and what has happened, that I find you sitting here in the -middle of the afternoon, like——’</p> - -<p>‘Like a banker on his holiday, or a lady of independent means, or some -other equally enviable person,’ said Sara.</p> - -<p>‘You will own that the position for you is an anomaly, at least.’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose it is. I cannot paint to-day. I have other things to think -of.’ Her face clouded. ‘I am going to lose my dear little companion.’</p> - -<p>She told him this as a fact, though she had been debating within -herself whether to wait till she heard ‘certainly’ from Wellfield.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Wellfield! Is she going?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes. Her brother is ready for her to come home, and as a suitable - -<span class="pagenum">[233]</span> - -escort offers, he has sent for her.’</p> - -<p>‘I see. And that will leave you alone.’</p> - -<p>‘When she is gone, and you are gone, I shall be quite alone.’</p> - -<p>She looked at him as she spoke with a frank, unconscious regret, openly -expressed in her glance, and in the tone of her voice, before which -he averted his eyes. It was at moments like these that he felt the -‘burnt fingers’ he had pictured to himself, give twinges and pangs of -pain which were hard to bear without either word or exclamation. <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr"> Tout -vient à point à qui sait attendre</i>, had been a favourite proverb with -him, and he still believed in it a good deal, though he was aware, -as most men and women who have passed the boundary of youth must -be, either from observation or experience, that these trite, dull, -hackneyed proverbs have a trick of realising themselves in a fashion -the reverse of delightful. ‘Everything comes to pass for him who knows -how to wait for it.’ But how does it come to pass? The oracle sayeth - -<span class="pagenum">[234]</span> - -not, and he is a fool who asks. ‘And he shall give them their hearts’ -desire’—another poetical, grandiloquently sounding promise. But how do -they sometimes receive their hearts’ desire? Often in such fashion as -to break the heart that has been waiting and desiring so long.</p> - -<p>‘I am the bearer of an invitation to you from Fräulein Wilhelmi,’ he -said, not answering her look and tone of regret. ‘Or rather, I might -say, a mandate—a command.’</p> - -<p>‘What sort of a command? Luise wishes to command everyone,’ said Sara, -with a languid smile.</p> - -<p>‘She has arranged some private theatricals for to-morrow evening, and——’</p> - -<p>‘Does she wish me to take part in them?’</p> - -<p>‘No; only to be a guest.’</p> - -<p>‘And to see her and Max Helmuth in them. I shall have to ask you to -make my excuses, Herr Falkenberg. Until Avice has gone, I shall not go - -<span class="pagenum">[235]</span> - -out. She leaves at the end of this week, and I cannot leave her.’</p> - -<p>‘I think you have ample excuse, certainly; though of course I should -wish, so far as I am concerned, to see you there.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you. Luise’s parties have been a different thing since you did -come. I often wonder she does not get utterly wearied of them—I don’t -mean that I feel myself superior to such things, but the monotony of it -all. Luise goes very little away from home, and while at home there is -scarcely one night without some entertainment, either at her father’s -house, or some one else’s. She sees the same people; hears the same -jokes, the same stories; dances with the same partners; receives the -same compliments. It must be unutterably wearisome.’</p> - -<p>‘Why so? In it she is fulfilling her vocation, just as much as you by -studying art fulfil yours.’</p> - -<p>‘Does she? That never struck me. What do you call her vocation?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[236]</span></p> - -<p>‘To please and attract is her vocation, to become an expert in which -she has studied diligently and practised laboriously since she was a -mere baby, and that under every kind of circumstances, and upon every -variety of subject.’</p> - -<p>‘It is true. And she is very fascinating, without doubt.’</p> - -<p>‘She is.’</p> - -<p>‘Since she practises upon every variety of subject, I suppose she has -practised upon you? Has she succeeded?’</p> - -<p>‘In winning me? Yes. I have been her slave for many years; that is, -when I saw that it was necessary to her self-respect that I should -bend the knee before her, I bent it, and have enjoyed the greatest -amiability and kindness from her ever since.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh—that! I don’t call that being won,’ said Sara, with rather a -disdainful curl of the lip.</p> - -<p>‘No? What, then, is your idea of being won?’ he asked, as he trifled -with the leaves of a plant standing in a pot near to him. - -<p><span class="pagenum">[237]</span></p> - -<p>‘In the case of a man or of a woman, do you mean?’</p> - -<p>‘Of—say of a man.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, Luise has not won you. Have you read any of Browning’s poetry?’</p> - -<p>‘Very little. Why?’</p> - -<p>‘There is a little poem of his about wearing -a rose. It concludes:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container40"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘“Then, how grace a rose?</div> - <div class="verse indent4">I know a way.</div> - <div class="verse indent6">Leave it, rather,</div> - <div class="verse indent6">Must you gather;</div> - <div class="verse">Smell, kiss, wear it, and then throw away.”’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>‘That is severe,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘But true. And you are no more won by Luise than the man who could so -write of a rose was won by it. But that is not the way in which she has -won Max Helmuth. And she does not care to win any other in that way.’</p> - -<p>‘I believe you are right. She has more power than I thought. - -<span class="pagenum">[238]</span> - -Then do you think she could really win me in the end?’</p> - -<p>‘No; I should think not,’ said Sara. ‘I know some one who, I think, -would be much more likely to win you.’</p> - -<p>‘Who?’ he exclaimed, so eagerly that she looked at him in surprise. He -was skirting dangerous ground, and he knew it and enjoyed it.</p> - -<p>‘Avice Wellfield, if she were old enough.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Wellfield?’ he echoed, and looked at her with a look she did -not understand. ‘Miss Wellfield before Fräulein Wilhelmi, certainly. -Yes, there is a wonderful charm about her. If you were not so strict -in your definition of “won,” I should say she had won me already by -the mystery and poetry which seems to envelop her. But you will not -allow me to say “won,” of a feeling like that. In the same way,’ he -continued composedly, ‘I should say that you had won me long ago by -your simplicity.’</p> - -<p>‘By my simplicity?’ echoed Sara, not giving a thought to the serious - -<span class="pagenum">[239]</span> - -and decidedly personal turn the conversation was taking; feeling only -that it was a pleasant break in the far from easy or pleasant current -of her reflections while alone.</p> - -<p>‘Yes; your almost classical simplicity and freedom from every sort of -affectation—a simplicity which extends to your whole nature, and which -is so engrained that you are quite unconscious of it. My telling you -of it will not cause you to lose it. I defy you to lose it. I should -not wonder if some day it led you into doing or saying something which -conventional people would call outrageous.’</p> - -<p>‘You are remarkably candid this afternoon,’ she said, much amused. ‘I -do not see why you should have a monopoly of it. I will tell you what -it was in you that “won” me, as you call it.’</p> - -<p>‘And what was that?’ he asked tranquilly, though he knew that never in -his life before had he been on such dangerous and difficult ground. - -<span class="pagenum">[240]</span> - -The temptation of hearing her tell him that she liked him, and why she -liked him, was irresistible.</p> - -<p>‘First, the unconsciousness with which you wore your riches and your -celebrity—for you are celebrated, you cannot deny it; and next, your -trustworthiness.’</p> - -<p>‘Trustworthiness!’ he echoed, as she had done.</p> - -<p>‘Yes; you are trustworthy. “My telling you about it will not cause you -to lose it. I defy you to lose it. I should not wonder if some day it -drove you to doing or saying something which more conventional people -would call”—foolish.’</p> - -<p>Sara smiled a little as she looked upon him from her deep eyes, and -Falkenberg answered the smile with a thrill of exquisite pleasure. It -was sweet indeed to know this. ‘Two can be steadfast,’ as he had more -than once said to himself. These words of hers simply confirmed his -love, strengthened his purpose. He would still wait. If he waited long - -<span class="pagenum">[241]</span> - -enough, the day might come on which he might be able to serve her.</p> - -<p>‘Why, you give me a <i xml:lang="la" lang="la"> quid pro quo</i>,’ he said. ‘I did not know you could -make jokes.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you call that a joke? Perhaps I am not so “simple” as you think me. -Perhaps Luise Wilhelmi and I are in one another’s confidence.’</p> - -<p>‘Upon what?’ asked Falkenberg. He was leaning forward, his face resting -upon his hand; his beautiful, steadfast brown eyes looking directly -into hers. He paused in this attitude, waiting for her answer, and, -during the pause, the door was opened, and Ellen said:</p> - -<p>‘A gentleman, ma’am, to see you.’</p> - -<p>She put a card into Sara’s hand, upon which card its owner instantly -followed. So quickly, that, when she had perused the words:</p> - -<div class="center"> -<span class="smcap">‘The Rev. Pablo Somerville, S.J.,</span><br> -<i>Brentwood College,<br> -Lancashire</i>,’ -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[242]</span></p> - -<p>and raised her eyes, he stood before her, bowing, and regarding her -piercingly, but not in the least obtrusively, from his deep-set, -inscrutable eyes.</p> - -<p>Sara rose instantly, a deep flush mantling her face, which flush -Somerville did not fail to note; while Falkenberg, whose composure when -he felt himself <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr"> bien</i>, well-off, at his ease, it was almost impossible -to disturb, merely raised his head, and transferred the gaze of his -calm brown eyes from Sara’s face to that of Somerville.</p> - -<p>Sara was deeply disturbed and surprised. The visit was totally -unexpected, on that day at least. Like a flood there rushed over her -mind the miserable conviction that Jerome had behaved at any rate -with unpardonable carelessness, if not with deliberate intention of -wrong-doing. She knew nothing of how far this man was in her lover’s -confidence (and Somerville had no intention of furnishing her with -any information on that point). She had not had time to consider and -decide whether she should receive him cordially or otherwise. All this - -<span class="pagenum">[243]</span> - -gave embarrassment and uncertainty to her manner, and made it quite -unlike her usual one; while Somerville, as will readily be supposed, -was as perfectly, as entirely self-possessed and at his ease here as in -the Lecture Theatre at Brentwood, or pacing about the garden at Monk’s -Gate with Jerome Wellfield, and recommending him to marry Anita Bolton.</p> - -<p>Being a very clever man, he had formed a theory of his own with regard -to Sara, when Jerome had told him her occupation and given him her -address. He had instantly imagined that she was the woman to whom -Wellfield was ‘in honour bound.’ Now that he saw her, he was convinced -of it, and he was not going to give her any assistance by making casual -observations. All he said was:</p> - -<p>‘I fear I come inopportunely.’</p> - -<p>‘I heard of your intended visit to Elberthal, Mr. Somerville, but had - -<span class="pagenum">[244]</span> - -no idea you could be here so soon,’ she replied, distantly.</p> - -<p>‘My business in Brussels and Bruges was over sooner than I expected,’ -was the courteous reply, as he took the seat she pointed to. ‘Mr. -Wellfield asked me to call here immediately on my arrival, and said he -would write to you.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I have heard from him,’ replied Sara, reflecting with a cruel, -bitter pang on the strange style of that communication, distracted -how to act. Somehow she could not accept as final Jerome’s letter of -yesterday. She still clung to an idea—a hope that she should hear from -him countermanding the abrupt mandate. But she could not betray as much -to this priest, for, from his entire manner, it was evident that he at -least was following up arrangements which had not been contradicted.</p> - -<p>‘I thought it best to call now,’ pursued Somerville, pleasantly, -perfectly conscious of her disturbance, ‘as I am absolutely obliged to - -<span class="pagenum">[245]</span> - -leave for England the day after to-morrow, and felt that you ought to -be informed of the fact.’</p> - -<p>‘The day after to-morrow? Mr. Wellfield in his letter spoke of the end -of the week.’</p> - -<p>‘When I left Brentwood, I quite supposed it would be the end of -the week. But I am not my own master in this journey. I am under -instructions.’</p> - -<p>‘Which, of course, have to be obeyed?’ observed Falkenberg, -nonchalantly.</p> - -<p>‘Exactly so,’ answered Somerville, turning his eyes upon him with the -rapidity of lightning. Falkenberg met them with the same utter calm and -unconcern. He had not moved from his chair close to Sara’s side.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Wellfield’s last wish would be to hurry or incommode you,’ -continued Somerville, again turning to Sara, ‘but if Miss Wellfield -could be ready by the time I mention——’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Wellfield will be quite ready when she is required to go home,’ - -<span class="pagenum">[246]</span> - -said Sara, with crushing coldness; her pride in mad rebellion at what -she called to herself the insolence of this strange man in telling -<em>her</em>, of all persons, what were Jerome Wellfield’s wishes in respect -to his sister.</p> - -<p>‘Here is Miss Wellfield herself,’ she added, as Avice came in, and -she introduced her to Somerville. Avice looked and felt cold and -constrained, though Somerville’s charm of manner soon removed her -objections to him personally. He began to talk to her, pointedly -going into details about her brother, and his great desire to see her -and have her with him again, which details soon began to interest -Avice exceedingly. Sara writhed (mentally) at this conduct, yet she -could not speak, for from all Somerville’s demeanour she came to the -conclusion that, however friendly Jerome might have been with him, he -had not confided to him the fact of their engagement. It was therefore -perfectly natural that the priest, if he were unaware of this, should - -<span class="pagenum">[247]</span> - -look upon the sister as more interested than the friend, and should -turn to her with all his remarks and details.</p> - -<p>Somerville himself saw it all, and his own reflections were:</p> - -<p>‘<em>Mon Dieu!</em> A rare piece of pride and beauty, I must own. He might -well turn upon me in the way he did when I suggested his marrying the -little Bolton heiress. This is a prize not lightly to be resigned, -though I think his hold upon it now is loose enough. How she chafes -at the treatment she has had lately, and what would not this other -man give if he could carry her off? Well, perhaps his wish may be -gratified. I am sure I have every desire to further it.’</p> - -<p>By-and-by Ellen brought in coffee, and while they were drinking it, -Wilhelmi and his daughter called. Introductions and explanations -followed, given by Sara in the coldest of cold tones; but Wilhelmi, -seeing only some one in some way connected with his favourite -pupil, invited Somerville to spend the evening at his house, and - -<span class="pagenum">[248]</span> - -Luise, perceiving an opportunity of maintaining her self-respect -by captivating a stranger, added the prettiest entreaties, and the -invitation and the entreaties were accepted by the object of them. Sara -steadily refused to leave her own home until after Avice had gone, and -Luise, her attention diverted by Somerville’s appearance on the scene, -was less insistent than usual when her will was crossed.</p> - -<p>Then they all went away in a body, not without Somerville’s having -observed that Falkenberg lingered behind the rest to touch his -hostess’s hand, and look earnestly and inquiringly into her face. His -lynx-eye saw the faint, sorrowful smile which answered that look; and -as he went away, he said triumphantly in his heart:</p> - -<p>‘The way is clear, friend Wellfield. Surely you would not be so selfish -as to stand between her and such a marriage as is waiting to be -accepted by her!’</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[249]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_VIII"> - <img src="images/i_249_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> -<br> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII. -<br><br> -<small>FATHER SOMERVILLE GATHERS THE THREADS<br>TOGETHER.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_s_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Sara</span> had a short visit on the following morning from Father Somerville, -paid ostensibly for the purpose of telling her his arrangements, and -asking if Avice could be ready by a certain hour on the following day.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ replied Sara; ‘if you will be at the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Bergisch-Märk’sche</i> -station at the hour you mention, Miss Wellfield and my servant will -meet you in ample time.’</p> - -<p>Somerville’s countenance changed a little.</p> - -<p>‘Surely there is no need for you to inconvenience yourself by parting - -<span class="pagenum">[250]</span> - -with your servant,’ he began.</p> - -<p>‘Allow me to judge what is necessary. Miss Wellfield will not leave me -except under my maid’s care, who will see her to her brother’s house, -and can then return to me.’</p> - -<p>He bit his lips and apologised, saying that no doubt Miss Ford was -perfectly right.</p> - -<p>In the evening, despite her protestations against it, she was made to -go to the Wilhelmis’. Luise ‘made a point of it,’ and Sara, weary of -striving, and wishing also to avoid painful conversation with Avice, -who insisted upon having all kinds of messages given for Jerome, who -she was sure would be dreadfully disappointed if she presented herself -to him without such proofs of affection—Sara, sad and spiritless, went -about eight o’clock to the big house in the Königsallée.</p> - -<p>All the beautiful rooms were thrown open: there was talking and -laughing, music and dancing going on. As Sara entered, looking pale and -indifferent, but splendidly handsome, as usual, in her cream-coloured - -<span class="pagenum">[251]</span> - -cashmere and pale roses with glossy leaves, Luise Wilhelmi came dancing -up to her, looking sparklingly beautiful, and glowing with life and -excitement. She was followed of course by her gigantic Max, smiling, -handsome, devoted, ineffably happy, as usual.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Sara, your Father Somerville is delightful!’ exclaimed Luise. ‘I -have quite lost my heart to him. If he were not a priest I should run -away with him—do you hear, Max?’</p> - -<p>Sara saw nothing in this even to smile at. What was a light jest to -Luise Wilhelmi, was deadly pain and misery to her. Max Helmuth laughed -a mighty, not very meaning laugh. Was he not in honour bound to laugh -at all the jokes or would-be jokes of this sprightly little lady, who, -so everyone said, was so much cleverer than himself?</p> - -<p>‘Look how amiable he is!’ pursued Luise; ‘even making himself agreeable -to the poor Goldmark there.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[252]</span></p> - -<p>Sara turned hastily, and looked across the room to where indeed -Somerville was seated beside Frau Goldmark; his pale, handsome face -leaning a little towards her, in marked contrast with her flushed -excited countenance.</p> - -<p>‘Really, Luise, I wonder that Frau Goldmark persists in coming to these -large parties under the circumstances!’ she exclaimed involuntarily.</p> - -<p>‘It does look rather odd, doesn’t it? But who would grudge her a little -amusement? she will soon have to work hard enough.’</p> - -<p>‘Certainly; but I think if my husband had been dead not six weeks, and -I had cared at all for him, I should not be very anxious for amusement.’</p> - -<p>‘I think Fräulein Ford is right,’ said Max, audaciously hazarding an -independent remark.</p> - -<p>‘Max! He only says that because he has the greatest veneration for you, -Sara, and thinks all you say and do is right.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[253]</span></p> - -<p>‘Does he?’ said Sara, with rather a feeble smile, while her eyes -wandered restlessly around, as they had done ever since her arrival. -‘Ah!’ she added, a light breaking over her pale face, ‘there is Herr -Falkenberg; I wondered where he was.’</p> - -<p>He came up to her and shook hands, and remained beside her. Luise and -Max moved off, she lightly leaning on his arm and whispering in his ear:</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Nun, mein Lieber</i>, what do you think? Will you still say there -is nothing between them? Did you not see how dismal she was—quite -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> verstimmt</i>, I declare, until Falkenberg came up, when in a moment -everything became <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr"> couleur de rose</i>. As for him, I really begin to -think that the unapproachable and fastidious Rudolf has fallen a victim -at last.’</p> - -<p>‘And what wonder?’ murmured Max, peaceably.</p> - -<p>‘Not much, I confess. But say what you like, it is a tremendous match -for her.’</p> - -<p>‘Why so tremendous?’ inquired Herr Helmuth, who appeared not quite so - -<span class="pagenum">[254]</span> - -complaisant as usual this evening. ‘I am sure even Falkenberg never met -a more beautiful or charming woman.’</p> - -<p>‘<em>Even</em> Falkenberg! I can tell you, Herr Bräutigam, that if it had -not been for a certain long-legged, stupid fellow, who has not a -word to say for himself, and on whom I took pity because I could not -bear to see him look always as if he were on the brink of tears or -suicide—if it had not been for this fellow, I say, who put me into this -predicament, <em>I</em> would have shown you whether <em>even</em> Falkenberg was -impervious to everyone except a stony Englishwoman like Miss Ford.’</p> - -<p>Highly delighted, and completely restored to acquiescence and -submission, Max laughed again, a mightier laugh than ever, and they -repaired to the dancing-room.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>Father Somerville had a very long conversation with Frau Goldmark, -relating entirely to Miss Ford and Herr Falkenberg. He had won her - -<span class="pagenum">[255]</span> - -heart by telling her that at Brentwood there was a small but beautiful -picture of her husband’s—a St. Agatha.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> die heilige Agathe</i>!’ replied Frau Goldmark, artlessly. ‘Yes, a -very handsome housemaid of ours sat for it—an <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Elsässin, die</i> Lisbeth. -It made a beautiful picture.’</p> - -<p>This opened the way to a conversation about the pictures in general -of the late Herr Goldmark, then to a description of the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> lebenden -Bildern</i>, and the pictures in which Sara Ford had taken part: to -the fact that in ‘Yes or No’ she had looked so beautiful, that Herr -Falkenberg had bought the picture the very next morning.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! he bought it, did he? That is he, I think, talking to Miss Ford -now.’</p> - -<p>‘Most certainly, that is he. He appears to spend most of his time in -talking to Miss Ford. We have all come to the conclusion that the only -thing which keeps him so long in Elberthal is Miss Ford’s presence.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[256]</span></p> - -<p>‘Ah! you think he wishes to marry Miss Ford.’</p> - -<p>‘It looks like it. What is quite certain is, that she would be -overjoyed if he asked her.’</p> - -<p>If Frau Goldmark could have caught the expression in Father -Somerville’s half-veiled eyes at that moment, she might have changed -her opinion as to his extreme affability. The look said: ‘How dare a -little insect like you presume to pass judgment on that woman!’ The man -had no good designs towards Sara and her happiness. She stood between -him and the accomplishment of a purpose which had now crystallised in -his mind into a set scheme and plan, which he was resolved to do all -in his power to carry out; but though he would crush her himself, and -smite down her life, no spite would enter into his arrangements. He -perfectly comprehended what she was, and knew that had he been other -than he was, he would have sacrificed all he had for the chance of -winning her; he knew that she had about as much desire to captivate - -<span class="pagenum">[257]</span> - -Rudolf Falkenberg as he had himself; and he knew that the woman beside -him had a small mind which could not rise to the level of those who -had roused her enmity, by first doing her great kindnesses, and then, -perhaps, snubbing her a little.</p> - -<p>That was nothing to the purpose. He encouraged Frau Goldmark to ramble -on, giving him one proof after another of the attachment existing -between Falkenberg and Sara. The latter he felt to be a mistake. Sara -did not love Falkenberg—she loved Jerome Wellfield; but the former -he believed and grasped at. Every sign of devotion on Rudolf’s part -put a weapon into his hands for the furtherance of his plan. He heard -glowing accounts of Falkenberg’s riches and great possessions; of -his status in the world of finance; of his interviews with royal and -imperial personages and their ministers; of what changes a word of his -could work in the state of the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Börse</i>; in short, every word that Frau -Goldmark said convinced him that here was a splendid alliance, waiting - -<span class="pagenum">[258]</span> - -for Sara Ford to ratify it; that nothing prevented that ratification, -except the insignificant fact that she was bound to Jerome Wellfield, -and, incidentally, of course, that she loved him as her life.</p> - -<p>He left early, excusing himself on the plea that he had to travel early -the following day, and that he had one or two important letters to -write that night—which was true. He repaired to his hotel, to his own -room, drew out writing-materials, and wrote:</p> - -<div class="blockindent20"> -<span class="smcap sig-left5">‘Dear Wellfield,</span><br> -<span class="sig-left10">‘I am going to send this off by the midnight post, and as it is now</span> -nearly eleven, I have not too much time. By doing this, you will -receive it twelve hours before my arrival with Miss Wellfield. I -called at Miss Ford’s house yesterday, and found her at home. Do you -know, once it came into my head that Miss Ford might be the lady to - -<span class="pagenum">[259]</span> - -whom you told me honour bound you, but I very soon abandoned that -idea, for all the world credits her with being betrothed, or about to -be betrothed, to Rudolf Falkenberg, the great Frankfort banker. You -know whom I mean. If I may judge from my own observation, I should -say report was right. He was sitting with her when I arrived, and I -saw that I was unwelcome to both. He certainly pays her most devoted -attention, and she, I should imagine, was far from feeling indifferent -to him. These envious German women say: “What a match for her;” but I -think you will agree with me that an Englishwoman like Miss Ford (for -I take it for granted that you do know her pretty well) is more than -worthy of anything that any man of any nation may have to offer her. -She certainly is a magnificent being. But enough of this. Your sister -will no doubt regale you with the same news, for she appears devoted -to Miss Ford. The latter sends her maid to travel along with Miss - -<span class="pagenum">[260]</span> - -Wellfield. I suppose we shall arrive at Wellfield about five in the -afternoon. I have been wondering how your affairs are progressing. How -glad I should be to hear on my arrival that the thing I so wish for -were accomplished, and that you had decided to take that place which -you assuredly ought to have. Well, I shall soon see you, I suppose. By -the way, on our way through London we shall call at the Great Western -Hotel to breakfast or rest, that will be the morning of the day after -to-morrow. If you have any communication telegraph to me there. -Time presses, so, until I place Miss Wellfield under your brotherly -protection, farewell.<br> - -<span class="sig-left30">‘Yours ever,</span><br> -<span class="sig-left40 smcap">‘Pablo Somerville.’</span> -</div> - -<p>Somerville himself sallied forth with this to the General Post, -ascertained that it was in time for the night-mail, and that it would -reach its destination on the following evening. Then he returned to his -hotel, sighed, undressed, stretched himself upon his couch, and slept - -<span class="pagenum">[261]</span> - -that sleep of the labouring man, which we are told is sweet.</p> - -<p>Sara Ford, too, had left the party early, and, accompanied by -Falkenberg, had walked home. They maintained an almost unbroken silence -till they arrived at the great doorway of her home. Then they paused, -and Falkenberg said:</p> - -<p>‘After to-morrow morning, I suppose, you will be alone for a few days.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes; till Ellen can go to Wellfield, have a night’s rest, and return -to me.’</p> - -<p>‘Then I must not call so often, I fear.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps it will be better not. This place is a very nest of gossip and -scandal, and though I do not ever allow such things to interfere with -anything I may choose to do that I feel to be right, yet I never could -see the sense of going out of my way to make them talk. But should you -have any reason for calling, Herr Falkenberg, or anything particular to -say to me, pray defy the gossips of Elberthal, and come. I shall be - -<span class="pagenum">[262]</span> - -only too glad to see you.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you. And—forgive me. From things you have said to-night, I fancy -you are in some trouble of mind.’</p> - -<p>‘I am,’ she answered briefly.</p> - -<p>‘Will you remember that I am your friend and servant, and that any -service in my power, I would render you with delight, whether it gave -rise or not to gossip?’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you. You are a friend indeed. If I require help or counsel, I -will come to you. But so long as I can, I must fight out my trouble -alone.’</p> - -<p>They exchanged a handshake, and separated; he to go back to the -Wilhelmis’, and bear his part as best he might in the merriment; she -to her room to slowly undress, and bitterly to decide that to write to -Jerome under the circumstances was out of the question, to realise with -a rush, the great, sad change and dreariness which had suddenly crept -over everything, and to recollect Rudolf Falkenberg as one lost in a - -<span class="pagenum">[263]</span> - -wilderness recollects some group of strong, sheltering trees, seen on -the far horizon; distant, but safe when one should attain them.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[264]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_IX"> - <img src="images/i_264_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading."> -</div> -<br> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX. -<br><br> -<small>ABSCHIED UND RÜCKKEHR.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_t_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">The</span> morning dawned, and brought the hour at which they were to be at -the station. There was the brief time of waiting there, the averted -eyes and stealthily-clasped hands. The train came in—another long -clinging kiss; then a brief, noisy interval of bustle and shouting—a -last wave of the hand from Avice—a last glimpse of Father Somerville’s -pale face and deep eyes—then they were gone, and she returned to her -‘sad and silent home.’</p> - -<p>The travellers were to arrive at Wellfield late on the afternoon of - -<span class="pagenum">[265]</span> - -the following day. Ellen was to have one night’s rest, and to return -on the following day to Elberthal, so that Sara could not expect to -see her until the third evening after the day of departure. It is best -not to go into the history of those days—those three nights and four -days which Sara spent by herself. It is enough, that as each day went -by, and brought neither word nor sign from Wellfield, she felt her -heart wither and die within her. Hope was quenched. She did not hope -for Ellen’s return, but she looked to it for information: Ellen would -perhaps have made some observation, would have learnt something as to -the reason of all this strange mystery, which, while it lasted, so -bewildered her that she scarce knew whether she was in her sane mind or -out of it. She scarcely hoped for an explanation; she did not see how -the case admitted of one, but she waited—waited with a forced patience, -a false quiet, which forced her to put an almost unbearable strain -upon her nerves, and which consumed her like a fever. She would not - -<span class="pagenum">[266]</span> - -reproach; she would not accuse; she would wait, wait, wait, she said to -herself, a hundred times, and this waiting was eating out her heart, -while her pride was humbled to the dust.</p> - -<p>On the second afternoon, Rudolf Falkenberg called. He started when he -saw her.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Ford! You are ill. What is the matter?’</p> - -<p>‘I am not ill, only a little headachy and nervous. I want to see Ellen, -and hear that Avice has arrived at home.’</p> - -<p>His heart was wrung, but he could not say more; he saw from her manner -that she was in no mood for conversation, friendly or otherwise. -He went away with a sense of deep depression hanging over him; a -disagreeable <i xml:lang="de" lang="de"> Ahndung</i>, as if some thunder-storm lurked in the -atmosphere, ready to burst upon and annihilate all around.</p> - -<p>On that fourth day—the day of Ellen’s return, Sara verily thought once - -<span class="pagenum">[267]</span> - -or twice that she was going mad. The horrible strain and tension; the -dead, unbroken silence, suspense, waiting; the horrible conviction, -which yet she could not prove without this eternity of waiting, that -she was being slighted, insulted, betrayed; it formed altogether an -ordeal more scorching than any of which her philosophy had hitherto -even surmised the existence.</p> - -<p>At length, in the evening, she heard a step on the stair; the door was -opened, and Ellen entered, looking utterly broken-down and exhausted.</p> - -<p>‘Ellen!’ she exclaimed, starting up, and fixing dilated eyes upon her; -‘are you ill?’</p> - -<p>‘I’m not very well. Excuse my sitting down, Miss Sara. I can stand no -more. I’m not a good traveller, you know, especially by sea.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor old Ellen! I’ll get you some wine. Loose your shawl and your -bonnet-strings. Did you get a rest at Wellfield? - -<span class="pagenum">[268]</span> - -Did you stay all night?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, ma’am; I stayed all night. I might have stayed longer if I’d -chosen to. Miss Wellfield begged me to remain another day.’</p> - -<p>‘But you preferred to return to me?’ said Sara, her hand trembling so -violently as she poured out the wine, that she had to desist.</p> - -<p>‘I did, Miss Sara. I could not remain there.’</p> - -<p>‘Not remain: why?’</p> - -<p>‘I did not like the things I heard there; and besides, Mr. Wellfield -gave me a letter for you.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! where is it?’ she almost panted.</p> - -<p>Ellen opened a little handbag which she had beside her, and gave Sara -an envelope which she took from it. Sara opened it, read the words -contained in it, and looked blankly round, with a face which seemed in -a moment to have turned ashen-grey. All the days of preparation, of - -<span class="pagenum">[269]</span> - -suspicion and suspense, had been powerless to diminish the force of the -blow when it came.</p> - -<p>‘My God!’ she whispered, crushing the paper in her hand, and then -suddenly dropping it from her fingers as if it scorched or stung them.</p> - -<p>As Ellen came nearer, alarmed from her weariness, Sara put her hand -upon the woman’s shoulder, grasping it with a grip of iron, and -confronting her straitly, said:</p> - -<p>‘Tell me the whole truth. What have you heard? What has happened? What -did you hear of or from Mr. Wellfield, that made you wish to leave? -Speak out, Ellen—the whole truth.’</p> - -<p>‘I heard that he was engaged to the young lady at the Abbey—Miss -Bolton.’</p> - -<p>‘And do you think it is true?’</p> - -<p>‘I do, ma’am. Miss Wellfield did nothing but cry from half an hour -after the time we got into the house. When she said good-bye to me, she -said: “Tell Sara—no, I can send her no message; I am not fit to look - -<span class="pagenum">[270]</span> - -at her again—none of us are!”’</p> - -<p>Her arm dropped from Ellen’s shoulder. She put her hand to her head.</p> - -<p>‘Where is the letter?’ she said, wearily. ‘Oh, here!’ And she stooped -forward to pick it up; but, as if growing suddenly dizzy, dropped upon -her knees, stretched out her arms, and would have fallen had not Ellen, -running up, caught her, and pillowed her head upon her breast.</p> - -<p>‘My poor child! my darling Miss Sara! Oh, my dear young lady, don’t -take on so. ‘There isn’t a man worth it in this world.... Well, cry -then; it will do you good.’</p> - -<p>But Sara made neither moan nor cry. For a short time, at least, she had -in unconsciousness a respite from her woe.</p> - -<p>‘That man is a devil,’ observed the old nurse beneath her breath. ‘I -suppose he has looked after his miserable <em>self</em>, as men always do; and -my young lady may die or go mad of it, for aught he cares. I hated him - -<span class="pagenum">[271]</span> - -from the first moment I saw him, with his soft voice and cruel eyes.’</p> -</div> -<br> -<br> - -<p class="center">END OF VOL. II.</p> - -<br><br> - -<hr class="r41"> -<p class="center small">BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD.</p> - -<p class="pend"> -<i>J. S. & Sons.</i><br> -</p> -<br> -<hr class="chap"> -<br> - -<div class="tnotes"> -<p class="large smcap">Transcriber's Notes.</p> -<p> 1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical - errors.</p> -<p> 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="full"> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELLFIELDS ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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. -</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™ 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™ 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™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ -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™ electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg™ 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. “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™ 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™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the -Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg™ 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™ mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg™ 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™ 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™ 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™ License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ 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: -</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™ 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™ -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™ 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™ 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™ -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. -</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™ 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™ work in a format -other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ 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™ 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™ 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™ electronic works -provided that: -</div> - -<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ 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.” - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • 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™ - 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™ - works. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • 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'> - • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg™ 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™ 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™ 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™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ -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. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg™ 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 ‘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. -</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™ electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ -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™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ 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™ -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ 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™’s -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ 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™ 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’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. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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 -</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™ 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™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ 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™, -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/69498-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/69498-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 9a316bc..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_001_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_001_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index b9c429c..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_001_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_003_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_003_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 6820e5e..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_003_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_047_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_047_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 1ee30cb..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_047_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_077_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_077_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index b9c429c..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_077_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_115_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_115_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 238c007..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_115_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_133_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_133_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 6820e5e..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_133_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_139_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_139_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 403fc1f..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_139_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_149_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_149_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index aac0c25..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_149_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_163_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_163_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 6820e5e..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_163_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_185_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_185_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 1cf9949..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_185_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_206_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_206_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 403fc1f..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_206_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_221_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_221_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 1ee30cb..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_221_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_229_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_229_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 213e44d..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_229_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_249_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_249_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 3303d87..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_249_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_264_deco.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_264_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 3303d87..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_264_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_a_cap.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_a_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index ec70da8..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_a_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_crossrule.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_crossrule.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 68780b8..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_crossrule.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_diamond-rule.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_diamond-rule.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 16397d9..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_diamond-rule.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_i_cap.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_i_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 87e9eaa..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_i_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_j_cap.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_j_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index e51db80..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_j_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_o_cap.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_o_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 2f506ae..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_o_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_p_cap.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_p_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 0bda3a0..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_p_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_r_cap.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_r_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index d719754..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_r_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_s_cap.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_s_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 6f52685..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_s_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_t_cap.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_t_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f86a955..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_t_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/i_w_cap.png b/old/69498-h/images/i_w_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index b98ef0c..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/i_w_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69498-h/images/title.png b/old/69498-h/images/title.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 4003ad8..0000000 --- a/old/69498-h/images/title.png +++ /dev/null |
