Decorated HeadingCHAPTER IV.DOUBTS.‘I pray you, is death or birthThe thing that men call so weary?’Decorated First Letter.Thedays of her convalescence passed to Sara like a long, vague dream. Slowly, very slowly, she recovered strength–as if some inner instinct made her unwilling to return to her place amongst that common humanity which had lately dealt her so bitter a blow. December was waning–Christmas was close at hand–before she had gained sufficient strength to walk from one room to the other. That feat was first accomplished with the assistance of Rudolf’sarm. Then she was able to do it alone. It was after this that she gained strength daily, and with physical strength also returned mental strength. She had drifted on, seeing no visitors save one, and even that one, Rudolf, had been absent for some days, on the plea of business. He had left no word as to when he should return, or what his plans were.It was the 22nd of December. Falkenberg had been absent for five days, and it was now that doubts and fears began to distress Sara’s soul. For the last few days she had been reflecting, deeply and uneasily, as Ellen saw, watching the face she loved. She dreaded the result of those meditations. Falkenberg’s cause was her cause, and she wished he would return. But this afternoon she had a duty to perform, and, seeing Sara sitting lost in thought, and that thought apparently of no pleasant nature, she said:‘You look a deal better, ma’am, this afternoon. Do you think you wouldbe equal to looking at the letters that have come for you while you were ill?’‘Letters! Are there any letters for me?’ she demanded eagerly, her whole aspect changing. ‘Bring them at once. Why did you not tell me before?’‘The doctor said you had better not have them, and Herr Falkenberg said I was on no account to give you them till you were stronger,’ said Ellen, unlocking a drawer, and taking them out. Her back was turned to Sara, or she might have seen the sudden start of the latter at this decided mention of Falkenberg’s name, and this close connection of him and his orders with her and her affairs. Her colour changed, and she bit her lip. But she did not speak as Ellen put the letters into her hand. Her cheek flushed as she turned them over. There was one with the postmark Nassau upon it, and a countess’s coronet on the flap. That was from Frau von Trockenau. And there was one directed in AviceWellfield’s hand. Her face changed as she looked at them, and observed the dates on the postmarks. They had both been written lately–the countess’s since her marriage, for it was addressed–Sara turned hot and cold and trembled as she saw the superscription–to Frau Rudolf Falkenberg. She opened this letter first, and read it:‘DEAREST SARA,‘How can I describe the feelingswith which I have heard of the strange things that have happened to you–of your illness (thank God that you are now restored to us!)–and of your marriage to Rudolf Falkenberg? I knew he loved you. I flatter myself that I was the very first to discover how suitable and delightful such a marriage would be. I can only offer to both of you my most hearty, unmixedcongratulations.Ja, ich gratulire vom ganzen Herzen, und mein Mann auch.I think, if ever there was a noble, generous, good fellow, it is the man you have married. I should say he was perfect if I were speaking to an ordinary person, but I know you agree with me that perfect people must be so very horrid, and it always sounds to me more of an insult than anything else to call a person perfect. But it is a perfect arrangement all the same. How seldom, dear Sara, do we find the ways of Providence exemplified thus clearly and simply–everything working together for good in so palpable a manner that he who runs may read.’ [The countess’s moral reflections had been wont, in former days, to excite Sara’s intense amusement. Even now, in the tumult of her feelings, she could not help smiling at this specimen of them.] ‘It does my heart good–it does indeed. I feel as happy as I did myself when I had just been married to Fritz. Write, or get yourhusband to write, as soon as possible, to tell me how soon you will come to see us, and what your movements are going to be. How I long to see you both!‘Yours,‘CARLA VON TROCKENAU.’Sara drew a long breath as she finished reading this effusion, and the colour rushed over her cheeks and brow and throat. Now, for the first time, she began to realise what the step meant that she had taken.In vain she tried to reassure herself by recalling Rudolf’s promise that she should not repent, and that he would never repent. She could not be calm; she could not view the matter indifferently. She could not rid herself of the idea that she had hurried and hastened to take an irrevocable step; that in her agony of outraged pride and love repulsed, she had promised, and in her after state of helpless weakness and weary indifference she had done that which might mar a good man’slife, and make her own even more miserable than she had expected it would be.What was she to do? How to meet him? When he came she must brace herself to the task of coming to some explanation, and she shrank in anticipation from what must be so intensely painful an interview.Thus meditating, her eye fell upon Avice’s letter. At first she could only look at it, she could not open it. With the sight of that familiar handwriting there came rushing over her mind a vivid recollection of all the past sweetness and bitterness connected with Avice and those belonging to her. There came the recollection of Jerome–a memory which had slumbered since her illness, and which she had never allowed to awaken. Now it sprang forth again, irresistible, strong, and overpowering. Again she felt his influence, recalled to mind the love she had borne him, the–what was this feeling she experienced even now? Surely she did not love him yet? ‘No!’ cried every voice within her.And yet, beyond them all, was a whisper, more potent than any of them, asking what it was that she felt, demanding to know the meaning of this eager longing, thisSehnsucht, this yearning.‘I am sure I have done wrong. I have made a horrible mistake!’ she repeated to herself. ‘What am I to do? How shall I repair it?’With an effort she opened Avice’s letter, and read it with a throbbing heart. The girl gave a full account of her arrival at home, and of all that had happened since. She implored Sara to remember that she had known nothing of all that was going on, and not to punish her for Jerome’s sin. She related how the marriage was over, how Jerome and Nita were away, and she was at the Abbey with Mr. Bolton and Miss Shuttleworth as her companions; how Mr. Bolton was going to live at Monk’s Gate, ‘when they came home,’ but that she, Avice, was to liveat the Abbey with ‘them.’With beating heart Sara read Avice’s description of Nita, and understood at once that it must have been Wellfield throughout, who had played a double game, and had deceived both the woman he loved, and the woman whom he had married.This was no case of a vulgar heiress who was anxious to ally herself with a man of old name; it was the case of a very simple-hearted loving girl, who had lost her heart irrevocably, and who would evidently suffer as intensely in her way, if not so passionately, as Sara Ford herself had suffered, if ever she knew the truth.Avice betrayed again and again her liking for her new surroundings–a liking which she uneasily felt that she could not gratify without some disloyalty to her friend. As for Jerome–such had been the revulsion of feeling caused by his conduct, that Avice could not write ofhim without a certain tinge of bitter sarcasm cropping up through her words; and more than once occurred a kind of apology for even mentioning his name in a letter to Sara.‘Tell me what to do,’ she concluded. ‘You have been my guide for so long; I trust you so implicitly that I feel lost without you. Send me one word, Sara, for whatever you say or do must be right.’‘Poor child!’ thought her friend, sorrowfully. ‘This must be answered at once. I must set her mind at rest. And, I suppose, when I tell her whatIhave done, she will change her opinion as to all I do and say being right. Perhaps it is as well that her illusion should come to an end betimes.’She determined to make her first essay in letter-writing since her illness, and began by writing that afternoon to Avice and to Frau von Trockenau. To Avice she wrote explaining why she had not been able toanswer her letter earlier. Then she told her of her marriage, calmly, and in a matter-of-fact way, with the remark that she could not enter into her reasons for the course she had taken, and that Avice would probably not understand them if she did. Of Jerome she made not the slightest mention, but she urged Avice to do all in her power to love and be kind to her sister-in-law. ‘From what you tell me, I am sure she is good. In being her friend, and doing all you can to make her happy, you will grow happier yourself. It is the only thing you can do–the only right thing, that is.’She felt that she had at least been right in urging this upon Avice; and then she wrote a brief note to Countess Carla, thanking her for her good wishes, and adding that she knew absolutely nothing of any plans for the future–she left everything to Herr Falkenberg; she excused the brevity of her letter on the plea of illness, and fastened it up.She had expected to be exhausted by this exertion, but found to her surprise and pleasure that she was less tired than before. Ellen had lighted the lamp, and the room was warm and cheerful. Sara began slowly to pace up and down the room, her thoughts running intently on the letters she had received, and the ideas they had conjured up. Her long, plain dress hung loosely upon the once ample and majestic figure, now wasted to a shadow of its former beauty.‘The loose train of her amber-dropping hair’was gathered up into a knot upon her neck; there was a faint glow–the harbinger of returning health–upon her wasted cheek. While she thus slowly promenaded to and fro some one knocked at the door.‘Herein!’ she answered, turning to see who it was, and confronting Rudolf Falkenberg.She stood suddenly still, colouring highly.‘You did not expect me,’ he said, pausing, with the door-handle in his hand. ‘Perhaps I intrude!’There was a look of disappointment in his eyes, which she saw, and made a hasty step forward.‘Indeed you do not. Only this afternoon I was wishing that I could see you, for I have many things to ask you. Please come in,’ she added, holding out her hand.Rudolf took it, and looked at her.‘You are better,’ he said. ‘You have been writing. I hope you have not been doing too much?’‘No, I assure you I have not. I feel better for it. If you will let me take your arm, I think I could walk about a little longer.’He gave her his arm, and they paced about for a short time, slowly and in silence.‘I have much to say to you, Herr–I mean Rudolf,’ she began.‘Have you? I also have something to say to you. Well?’‘To-day Ellen gave me my letters. I had not had them before.’‘And you have answered them at once?’ he said, smiling. ‘I like a prompt correspondent. This augurs well for the future, Sara.’‘I–I wish you to read them,’ she said, with a heightened colour. ‘Read this of Avice Wellfield’s first.’She gave it to him, and he read it; then said:‘Poor little girl! she is in great distress. Is it allowable to ask what you replied, and whether you intend to keep up the correspondence?’‘Not if you object in the least,’ said Sara, hastily.‘I? No. I would not insult you with such an objection if you wrote toand heard from her twice a day,’ he replied, with a rather proud smile.‘Thank you. And now this from Countess Carla. It has disturbed me very much.’He read that too, and his countenance also changed.‘This disturbed you–why?’ he asked.Sara withdrew her hand from his arm, and sat down.‘I ought to speak about something,’ she faltered; ‘about the future. Everyone–all the world knows that I am married to you. I cannot go on living here just as if nothing had happened, and yet—’‘What business had you to be thinking about things?’ he asked, with a half smile. ‘Part of the bargain was that I was to do the thinking, as you must remember. You cannot surely suppose that I have let all this time elapse without thinking upon the subject as well?’‘Oh! if you would decide, and tell me what is best, I would so gladly do it!’ she exclaimed.‘I have decided everything. The plan is ready, and only waits your approval to be carried out.’‘And what is it? If I couldonlyget away from here!’‘You remember Lahnburg, and my house there?’‘Where we spent the day when I was at Nassau?Mein Genügen–oh yes, I remember it.’‘You are so much stronger than I had dared to hope or expect, that I think you could bear the journey there at any time almost, if I have a special carriage for you, and take care that you don’t get cold. Christmas will be here, you see, directly. To-morrow is the last day before the festivities begin.’‘Yes. And people will come and want to see me, and I shall not be ableto refuse some of them; and yet it would almost kill me, I think.’‘Of course it would. Well, Lahnburg is a quiet, out-of-the-way place enough. If I took you there to-morrow, and settled you there with Ellen, you would avoid all the bustle here. It is a beautiful place. You don’t care to go out, and are not fit for it if you did. I don’t think you will find it duller than this, and certainly less painful; for you will not be under the constraint of feeling that you are known and observed. What do you think?’‘I should like that,’ said Sara, slowly; and then, after a long pause, she asked in a low voice:‘And you?’‘I,’ replied Falkenberg, with an assumption of indifference, ‘oh, I neverlivein the country in winter. I detest it. Frankfort must be myHauptquartier. My manager is loading me with reproaches for my neglect of money-matters, and I feel there is justice inhis complaints. I shall be very much engaged for at least a couple of months to come. I may find time to run over to Lahnburg and see you, once or twice; but you must not expect me to be very attentive. You know,’ he concluded, smiling, and glancing at her again, ‘six weeks–or, rather, two months ago, I did not suppose I should be married to you, and I made all sorts of engagements, public as well as private–the former at least must be kept. Well, what do you say to my plan?’‘What do I say?’ she repeated, in a voice full of emotion; ‘I say that you are too generous, Rudolf, too chivalrous. Believe me, if I had not so lately gone through what I have done, I would offer you more than words of gratitude–I would lay my very life at your feet.’‘Don’t agitate yourself; that is forbidden,’ he replied, trying to smile with cheerful indifference. Perhaps a ray of hope had inspiredhim–some faint idea that she might say, ‘Are not you also coming toMein Genügen?’ If that had been the case, he promptly repressed the feeling, and added:‘All I ask of you is to get well, and try to be contented,in your own way. Do not think of me. Perhaps that may come in the future. Nay, do not cry, Sara. I cannot bear to seethat.’‘Do not scold me. I almost think I begin to see my way now. They say that much is granted to those who watch and pray.’She spoke the last words half to herself.‘That is true, in a sense, if not literally,’ he replied. ‘Well, I will see after a carriage to take you by the noon train to-morrow to Lahnburg; so tell Ellen to have everything ready. Now I must go. I will take your letters, if they are ready.’Sara wished he would not go at that moment, but something preventedher from speaking out her wish, and he departed.‘I must be in some wonderful dream,’ she repeated to herself, when she was alone. ‘It is too wildly impossible to be true. And yet, how well I know that he has been here. He never comes without bringing with him a purer, rarer atmosphere. He looks at things, and tells you how he sees them, and they are never quite the same afterwards. Now with Jerome–Hyperion to—’ She paused abruptly, biting her lip, and thinking, ‘After all, I never saw which was Hyperion. I have no right to sneer. Shall I ever love him? Surely, at any rate, the remembrance of that other love will wear off enough for me to be able to say to my husband, “Come, let us travel hand in hand at last!” Heaven send it, at least!’
Decorated HeadingCHAPTER IV.DOUBTS.‘I pray you, is death or birthThe thing that men call so weary?’Decorated First Letter.Thedays of her convalescence passed to Sara like a long, vague dream. Slowly, very slowly, she recovered strength–as if some inner instinct made her unwilling to return to her place amongst that common humanity which had lately dealt her so bitter a blow. December was waning–Christmas was close at hand–before she had gained sufficient strength to walk from one room to the other. That feat was first accomplished with the assistance of Rudolf’sarm. Then she was able to do it alone. It was after this that she gained strength daily, and with physical strength also returned mental strength. She had drifted on, seeing no visitors save one, and even that one, Rudolf, had been absent for some days, on the plea of business. He had left no word as to when he should return, or what his plans were.It was the 22nd of December. Falkenberg had been absent for five days, and it was now that doubts and fears began to distress Sara’s soul. For the last few days she had been reflecting, deeply and uneasily, as Ellen saw, watching the face she loved. She dreaded the result of those meditations. Falkenberg’s cause was her cause, and she wished he would return. But this afternoon she had a duty to perform, and, seeing Sara sitting lost in thought, and that thought apparently of no pleasant nature, she said:‘You look a deal better, ma’am, this afternoon. Do you think you wouldbe equal to looking at the letters that have come for you while you were ill?’‘Letters! Are there any letters for me?’ she demanded eagerly, her whole aspect changing. ‘Bring them at once. Why did you not tell me before?’‘The doctor said you had better not have them, and Herr Falkenberg said I was on no account to give you them till you were stronger,’ said Ellen, unlocking a drawer, and taking them out. Her back was turned to Sara, or she might have seen the sudden start of the latter at this decided mention of Falkenberg’s name, and this close connection of him and his orders with her and her affairs. Her colour changed, and she bit her lip. But she did not speak as Ellen put the letters into her hand. Her cheek flushed as she turned them over. There was one with the postmark Nassau upon it, and a countess’s coronet on the flap. That was from Frau von Trockenau. And there was one directed in AviceWellfield’s hand. Her face changed as she looked at them, and observed the dates on the postmarks. They had both been written lately–the countess’s since her marriage, for it was addressed–Sara turned hot and cold and trembled as she saw the superscription–to Frau Rudolf Falkenberg. She opened this letter first, and read it:‘DEAREST SARA,‘How can I describe the feelingswith which I have heard of the strange things that have happened to you–of your illness (thank God that you are now restored to us!)–and of your marriage to Rudolf Falkenberg? I knew he loved you. I flatter myself that I was the very first to discover how suitable and delightful such a marriage would be. I can only offer to both of you my most hearty, unmixedcongratulations.Ja, ich gratulire vom ganzen Herzen, und mein Mann auch.I think, if ever there was a noble, generous, good fellow, it is the man you have married. I should say he was perfect if I were speaking to an ordinary person, but I know you agree with me that perfect people must be so very horrid, and it always sounds to me more of an insult than anything else to call a person perfect. But it is a perfect arrangement all the same. How seldom, dear Sara, do we find the ways of Providence exemplified thus clearly and simply–everything working together for good in so palpable a manner that he who runs may read.’ [The countess’s moral reflections had been wont, in former days, to excite Sara’s intense amusement. Even now, in the tumult of her feelings, she could not help smiling at this specimen of them.] ‘It does my heart good–it does indeed. I feel as happy as I did myself when I had just been married to Fritz. Write, or get yourhusband to write, as soon as possible, to tell me how soon you will come to see us, and what your movements are going to be. How I long to see you both!‘Yours,‘CARLA VON TROCKENAU.’Sara drew a long breath as she finished reading this effusion, and the colour rushed over her cheeks and brow and throat. Now, for the first time, she began to realise what the step meant that she had taken.In vain she tried to reassure herself by recalling Rudolf’s promise that she should not repent, and that he would never repent. She could not be calm; she could not view the matter indifferently. She could not rid herself of the idea that she had hurried and hastened to take an irrevocable step; that in her agony of outraged pride and love repulsed, she had promised, and in her after state of helpless weakness and weary indifference she had done that which might mar a good man’slife, and make her own even more miserable than she had expected it would be.What was she to do? How to meet him? When he came she must brace herself to the task of coming to some explanation, and she shrank in anticipation from what must be so intensely painful an interview.Thus meditating, her eye fell upon Avice’s letter. At first she could only look at it, she could not open it. With the sight of that familiar handwriting there came rushing over her mind a vivid recollection of all the past sweetness and bitterness connected with Avice and those belonging to her. There came the recollection of Jerome–a memory which had slumbered since her illness, and which she had never allowed to awaken. Now it sprang forth again, irresistible, strong, and overpowering. Again she felt his influence, recalled to mind the love she had borne him, the–what was this feeling she experienced even now? Surely she did not love him yet? ‘No!’ cried every voice within her.And yet, beyond them all, was a whisper, more potent than any of them, asking what it was that she felt, demanding to know the meaning of this eager longing, thisSehnsucht, this yearning.‘I am sure I have done wrong. I have made a horrible mistake!’ she repeated to herself. ‘What am I to do? How shall I repair it?’With an effort she opened Avice’s letter, and read it with a throbbing heart. The girl gave a full account of her arrival at home, and of all that had happened since. She implored Sara to remember that she had known nothing of all that was going on, and not to punish her for Jerome’s sin. She related how the marriage was over, how Jerome and Nita were away, and she was at the Abbey with Mr. Bolton and Miss Shuttleworth as her companions; how Mr. Bolton was going to live at Monk’s Gate, ‘when they came home,’ but that she, Avice, was to liveat the Abbey with ‘them.’With beating heart Sara read Avice’s description of Nita, and understood at once that it must have been Wellfield throughout, who had played a double game, and had deceived both the woman he loved, and the woman whom he had married.This was no case of a vulgar heiress who was anxious to ally herself with a man of old name; it was the case of a very simple-hearted loving girl, who had lost her heart irrevocably, and who would evidently suffer as intensely in her way, if not so passionately, as Sara Ford herself had suffered, if ever she knew the truth.Avice betrayed again and again her liking for her new surroundings–a liking which she uneasily felt that she could not gratify without some disloyalty to her friend. As for Jerome–such had been the revulsion of feeling caused by his conduct, that Avice could not write ofhim without a certain tinge of bitter sarcasm cropping up through her words; and more than once occurred a kind of apology for even mentioning his name in a letter to Sara.‘Tell me what to do,’ she concluded. ‘You have been my guide for so long; I trust you so implicitly that I feel lost without you. Send me one word, Sara, for whatever you say or do must be right.’‘Poor child!’ thought her friend, sorrowfully. ‘This must be answered at once. I must set her mind at rest. And, I suppose, when I tell her whatIhave done, she will change her opinion as to all I do and say being right. Perhaps it is as well that her illusion should come to an end betimes.’She determined to make her first essay in letter-writing since her illness, and began by writing that afternoon to Avice and to Frau von Trockenau. To Avice she wrote explaining why she had not been able toanswer her letter earlier. Then she told her of her marriage, calmly, and in a matter-of-fact way, with the remark that she could not enter into her reasons for the course she had taken, and that Avice would probably not understand them if she did. Of Jerome she made not the slightest mention, but she urged Avice to do all in her power to love and be kind to her sister-in-law. ‘From what you tell me, I am sure she is good. In being her friend, and doing all you can to make her happy, you will grow happier yourself. It is the only thing you can do–the only right thing, that is.’She felt that she had at least been right in urging this upon Avice; and then she wrote a brief note to Countess Carla, thanking her for her good wishes, and adding that she knew absolutely nothing of any plans for the future–she left everything to Herr Falkenberg; she excused the brevity of her letter on the plea of illness, and fastened it up.She had expected to be exhausted by this exertion, but found to her surprise and pleasure that she was less tired than before. Ellen had lighted the lamp, and the room was warm and cheerful. Sara began slowly to pace up and down the room, her thoughts running intently on the letters she had received, and the ideas they had conjured up. Her long, plain dress hung loosely upon the once ample and majestic figure, now wasted to a shadow of its former beauty.‘The loose train of her amber-dropping hair’was gathered up into a knot upon her neck; there was a faint glow–the harbinger of returning health–upon her wasted cheek. While she thus slowly promenaded to and fro some one knocked at the door.‘Herein!’ she answered, turning to see who it was, and confronting Rudolf Falkenberg.She stood suddenly still, colouring highly.‘You did not expect me,’ he said, pausing, with the door-handle in his hand. ‘Perhaps I intrude!’There was a look of disappointment in his eyes, which she saw, and made a hasty step forward.‘Indeed you do not. Only this afternoon I was wishing that I could see you, for I have many things to ask you. Please come in,’ she added, holding out her hand.Rudolf took it, and looked at her.‘You are better,’ he said. ‘You have been writing. I hope you have not been doing too much?’‘No, I assure you I have not. I feel better for it. If you will let me take your arm, I think I could walk about a little longer.’He gave her his arm, and they paced about for a short time, slowly and in silence.‘I have much to say to you, Herr–I mean Rudolf,’ she began.‘Have you? I also have something to say to you. Well?’‘To-day Ellen gave me my letters. I had not had them before.’‘And you have answered them at once?’ he said, smiling. ‘I like a prompt correspondent. This augurs well for the future, Sara.’‘I–I wish you to read them,’ she said, with a heightened colour. ‘Read this of Avice Wellfield’s first.’She gave it to him, and he read it; then said:‘Poor little girl! she is in great distress. Is it allowable to ask what you replied, and whether you intend to keep up the correspondence?’‘Not if you object in the least,’ said Sara, hastily.‘I? No. I would not insult you with such an objection if you wrote toand heard from her twice a day,’ he replied, with a rather proud smile.‘Thank you. And now this from Countess Carla. It has disturbed me very much.’He read that too, and his countenance also changed.‘This disturbed you–why?’ he asked.Sara withdrew her hand from his arm, and sat down.‘I ought to speak about something,’ she faltered; ‘about the future. Everyone–all the world knows that I am married to you. I cannot go on living here just as if nothing had happened, and yet—’‘What business had you to be thinking about things?’ he asked, with a half smile. ‘Part of the bargain was that I was to do the thinking, as you must remember. You cannot surely suppose that I have let all this time elapse without thinking upon the subject as well?’‘Oh! if you would decide, and tell me what is best, I would so gladly do it!’ she exclaimed.‘I have decided everything. The plan is ready, and only waits your approval to be carried out.’‘And what is it? If I couldonlyget away from here!’‘You remember Lahnburg, and my house there?’‘Where we spent the day when I was at Nassau?Mein Genügen–oh yes, I remember it.’‘You are so much stronger than I had dared to hope or expect, that I think you could bear the journey there at any time almost, if I have a special carriage for you, and take care that you don’t get cold. Christmas will be here, you see, directly. To-morrow is the last day before the festivities begin.’‘Yes. And people will come and want to see me, and I shall not be ableto refuse some of them; and yet it would almost kill me, I think.’‘Of course it would. Well, Lahnburg is a quiet, out-of-the-way place enough. If I took you there to-morrow, and settled you there with Ellen, you would avoid all the bustle here. It is a beautiful place. You don’t care to go out, and are not fit for it if you did. I don’t think you will find it duller than this, and certainly less painful; for you will not be under the constraint of feeling that you are known and observed. What do you think?’‘I should like that,’ said Sara, slowly; and then, after a long pause, she asked in a low voice:‘And you?’‘I,’ replied Falkenberg, with an assumption of indifference, ‘oh, I neverlivein the country in winter. I detest it. Frankfort must be myHauptquartier. My manager is loading me with reproaches for my neglect of money-matters, and I feel there is justice inhis complaints. I shall be very much engaged for at least a couple of months to come. I may find time to run over to Lahnburg and see you, once or twice; but you must not expect me to be very attentive. You know,’ he concluded, smiling, and glancing at her again, ‘six weeks–or, rather, two months ago, I did not suppose I should be married to you, and I made all sorts of engagements, public as well as private–the former at least must be kept. Well, what do you say to my plan?’‘What do I say?’ she repeated, in a voice full of emotion; ‘I say that you are too generous, Rudolf, too chivalrous. Believe me, if I had not so lately gone through what I have done, I would offer you more than words of gratitude–I would lay my very life at your feet.’‘Don’t agitate yourself; that is forbidden,’ he replied, trying to smile with cheerful indifference. Perhaps a ray of hope had inspiredhim–some faint idea that she might say, ‘Are not you also coming toMein Genügen?’ If that had been the case, he promptly repressed the feeling, and added:‘All I ask of you is to get well, and try to be contented,in your own way. Do not think of me. Perhaps that may come in the future. Nay, do not cry, Sara. I cannot bear to seethat.’‘Do not scold me. I almost think I begin to see my way now. They say that much is granted to those who watch and pray.’She spoke the last words half to herself.‘That is true, in a sense, if not literally,’ he replied. ‘Well, I will see after a carriage to take you by the noon train to-morrow to Lahnburg; so tell Ellen to have everything ready. Now I must go. I will take your letters, if they are ready.’Sara wished he would not go at that moment, but something preventedher from speaking out her wish, and he departed.‘I must be in some wonderful dream,’ she repeated to herself, when she was alone. ‘It is too wildly impossible to be true. And yet, how well I know that he has been here. He never comes without bringing with him a purer, rarer atmosphere. He looks at things, and tells you how he sees them, and they are never quite the same afterwards. Now with Jerome–Hyperion to—’ She paused abruptly, biting her lip, and thinking, ‘After all, I never saw which was Hyperion. I have no right to sneer. Shall I ever love him? Surely, at any rate, the remembrance of that other love will wear off enough for me to be able to say to my husband, “Come, let us travel hand in hand at last!” Heaven send it, at least!’
Decorated Heading
‘I pray you, is death or birthThe thing that men call so weary?’
‘I pray you, is death or birthThe thing that men call so weary?’
‘I pray you, is death or birthThe thing that men call so weary?’
‘I pray you, is death or birthThe thing that men call so weary?’
‘I pray you, is death or birth
The thing that men call so weary?’
Decorated First Letter.
Thedays of her convalescence passed to Sara like a long, vague dream. Slowly, very slowly, she recovered strength–as if some inner instinct made her unwilling to return to her place amongst that common humanity which had lately dealt her so bitter a blow. December was waning–Christmas was close at hand–before she had gained sufficient strength to walk from one room to the other. That feat was first accomplished with the assistance of Rudolf’sarm. Then she was able to do it alone. It was after this that she gained strength daily, and with physical strength also returned mental strength. She had drifted on, seeing no visitors save one, and even that one, Rudolf, had been absent for some days, on the plea of business. He had left no word as to when he should return, or what his plans were.
It was the 22nd of December. Falkenberg had been absent for five days, and it was now that doubts and fears began to distress Sara’s soul. For the last few days she had been reflecting, deeply and uneasily, as Ellen saw, watching the face she loved. She dreaded the result of those meditations. Falkenberg’s cause was her cause, and she wished he would return. But this afternoon she had a duty to perform, and, seeing Sara sitting lost in thought, and that thought apparently of no pleasant nature, she said:
‘You look a deal better, ma’am, this afternoon. Do you think you wouldbe equal to looking at the letters that have come for you while you were ill?’
‘Letters! Are there any letters for me?’ she demanded eagerly, her whole aspect changing. ‘Bring them at once. Why did you not tell me before?’
‘The doctor said you had better not have them, and Herr Falkenberg said I was on no account to give you them till you were stronger,’ said Ellen, unlocking a drawer, and taking them out. Her back was turned to Sara, or she might have seen the sudden start of the latter at this decided mention of Falkenberg’s name, and this close connection of him and his orders with her and her affairs. Her colour changed, and she bit her lip. But she did not speak as Ellen put the letters into her hand. Her cheek flushed as she turned them over. There was one with the postmark Nassau upon it, and a countess’s coronet on the flap. That was from Frau von Trockenau. And there was one directed in AviceWellfield’s hand. Her face changed as she looked at them, and observed the dates on the postmarks. They had both been written lately–the countess’s since her marriage, for it was addressed–Sara turned hot and cold and trembled as she saw the superscription–to Frau Rudolf Falkenberg. She opened this letter first, and read it:
‘DEAREST SARA,‘How can I describe the feelingswith which I have heard of the strange things that have happened to you–of your illness (thank God that you are now restored to us!)–and of your marriage to Rudolf Falkenberg? I knew he loved you. I flatter myself that I was the very first to discover how suitable and delightful such a marriage would be. I can only offer to both of you my most hearty, unmixedcongratulations.Ja, ich gratulire vom ganzen Herzen, und mein Mann auch.I think, if ever there was a noble, generous, good fellow, it is the man you have married. I should say he was perfect if I were speaking to an ordinary person, but I know you agree with me that perfect people must be so very horrid, and it always sounds to me more of an insult than anything else to call a person perfect. But it is a perfect arrangement all the same. How seldom, dear Sara, do we find the ways of Providence exemplified thus clearly and simply–everything working together for good in so palpable a manner that he who runs may read.’ [The countess’s moral reflections had been wont, in former days, to excite Sara’s intense amusement. Even now, in the tumult of her feelings, she could not help smiling at this specimen of them.] ‘It does my heart good–it does indeed. I feel as happy as I did myself when I had just been married to Fritz. Write, or get yourhusband to write, as soon as possible, to tell me how soon you will come to see us, and what your movements are going to be. How I long to see you both!‘Yours,‘CARLA VON TROCKENAU.’
Sara drew a long breath as she finished reading this effusion, and the colour rushed over her cheeks and brow and throat. Now, for the first time, she began to realise what the step meant that she had taken.
In vain she tried to reassure herself by recalling Rudolf’s promise that she should not repent, and that he would never repent. She could not be calm; she could not view the matter indifferently. She could not rid herself of the idea that she had hurried and hastened to take an irrevocable step; that in her agony of outraged pride and love repulsed, she had promised, and in her after state of helpless weakness and weary indifference she had done that which might mar a good man’slife, and make her own even more miserable than she had expected it would be.
What was she to do? How to meet him? When he came she must brace herself to the task of coming to some explanation, and she shrank in anticipation from what must be so intensely painful an interview.
Thus meditating, her eye fell upon Avice’s letter. At first she could only look at it, she could not open it. With the sight of that familiar handwriting there came rushing over her mind a vivid recollection of all the past sweetness and bitterness connected with Avice and those belonging to her. There came the recollection of Jerome–a memory which had slumbered since her illness, and which she had never allowed to awaken. Now it sprang forth again, irresistible, strong, and overpowering. Again she felt his influence, recalled to mind the love she had borne him, the–what was this feeling she experienced even now? Surely she did not love him yet? ‘No!’ cried every voice within her.And yet, beyond them all, was a whisper, more potent than any of them, asking what it was that she felt, demanding to know the meaning of this eager longing, thisSehnsucht, this yearning.
‘I am sure I have done wrong. I have made a horrible mistake!’ she repeated to herself. ‘What am I to do? How shall I repair it?’
With an effort she opened Avice’s letter, and read it with a throbbing heart. The girl gave a full account of her arrival at home, and of all that had happened since. She implored Sara to remember that she had known nothing of all that was going on, and not to punish her for Jerome’s sin. She related how the marriage was over, how Jerome and Nita were away, and she was at the Abbey with Mr. Bolton and Miss Shuttleworth as her companions; how Mr. Bolton was going to live at Monk’s Gate, ‘when they came home,’ but that she, Avice, was to liveat the Abbey with ‘them.’
With beating heart Sara read Avice’s description of Nita, and understood at once that it must have been Wellfield throughout, who had played a double game, and had deceived both the woman he loved, and the woman whom he had married.
This was no case of a vulgar heiress who was anxious to ally herself with a man of old name; it was the case of a very simple-hearted loving girl, who had lost her heart irrevocably, and who would evidently suffer as intensely in her way, if not so passionately, as Sara Ford herself had suffered, if ever she knew the truth.
Avice betrayed again and again her liking for her new surroundings–a liking which she uneasily felt that she could not gratify without some disloyalty to her friend. As for Jerome–such had been the revulsion of feeling caused by his conduct, that Avice could not write ofhim without a certain tinge of bitter sarcasm cropping up through her words; and more than once occurred a kind of apology for even mentioning his name in a letter to Sara.
‘Tell me what to do,’ she concluded. ‘You have been my guide for so long; I trust you so implicitly that I feel lost without you. Send me one word, Sara, for whatever you say or do must be right.’
‘Poor child!’ thought her friend, sorrowfully. ‘This must be answered at once. I must set her mind at rest. And, I suppose, when I tell her whatIhave done, she will change her opinion as to all I do and say being right. Perhaps it is as well that her illusion should come to an end betimes.’
She determined to make her first essay in letter-writing since her illness, and began by writing that afternoon to Avice and to Frau von Trockenau. To Avice she wrote explaining why she had not been able toanswer her letter earlier. Then she told her of her marriage, calmly, and in a matter-of-fact way, with the remark that she could not enter into her reasons for the course she had taken, and that Avice would probably not understand them if she did. Of Jerome she made not the slightest mention, but she urged Avice to do all in her power to love and be kind to her sister-in-law. ‘From what you tell me, I am sure she is good. In being her friend, and doing all you can to make her happy, you will grow happier yourself. It is the only thing you can do–the only right thing, that is.’
She felt that she had at least been right in urging this upon Avice; and then she wrote a brief note to Countess Carla, thanking her for her good wishes, and adding that she knew absolutely nothing of any plans for the future–she left everything to Herr Falkenberg; she excused the brevity of her letter on the plea of illness, and fastened it up.
She had expected to be exhausted by this exertion, but found to her surprise and pleasure that she was less tired than before. Ellen had lighted the lamp, and the room was warm and cheerful. Sara began slowly to pace up and down the room, her thoughts running intently on the letters she had received, and the ideas they had conjured up. Her long, plain dress hung loosely upon the once ample and majestic figure, now wasted to a shadow of its former beauty.
‘The loose train of her amber-dropping hair’
was gathered up into a knot upon her neck; there was a faint glow–the harbinger of returning health–upon her wasted cheek. While she thus slowly promenaded to and fro some one knocked at the door.
‘Herein!’ she answered, turning to see who it was, and confronting Rudolf Falkenberg.
She stood suddenly still, colouring highly.
‘You did not expect me,’ he said, pausing, with the door-handle in his hand. ‘Perhaps I intrude!’
There was a look of disappointment in his eyes, which she saw, and made a hasty step forward.
‘Indeed you do not. Only this afternoon I was wishing that I could see you, for I have many things to ask you. Please come in,’ she added, holding out her hand.
Rudolf took it, and looked at her.
‘You are better,’ he said. ‘You have been writing. I hope you have not been doing too much?’
‘No, I assure you I have not. I feel better for it. If you will let me take your arm, I think I could walk about a little longer.’
He gave her his arm, and they paced about for a short time, slowly and in silence.
‘I have much to say to you, Herr–I mean Rudolf,’ she began.
‘Have you? I also have something to say to you. Well?’
‘To-day Ellen gave me my letters. I had not had them before.’
‘And you have answered them at once?’ he said, smiling. ‘I like a prompt correspondent. This augurs well for the future, Sara.’
‘I–I wish you to read them,’ she said, with a heightened colour. ‘Read this of Avice Wellfield’s first.’
She gave it to him, and he read it; then said:
‘Poor little girl! she is in great distress. Is it allowable to ask what you replied, and whether you intend to keep up the correspondence?’
‘Not if you object in the least,’ said Sara, hastily.
‘I? No. I would not insult you with such an objection if you wrote toand heard from her twice a day,’ he replied, with a rather proud smile.
‘Thank you. And now this from Countess Carla. It has disturbed me very much.’
He read that too, and his countenance also changed.
‘This disturbed you–why?’ he asked.
Sara withdrew her hand from his arm, and sat down.
‘I ought to speak about something,’ she faltered; ‘about the future. Everyone–all the world knows that I am married to you. I cannot go on living here just as if nothing had happened, and yet—’
‘What business had you to be thinking about things?’ he asked, with a half smile. ‘Part of the bargain was that I was to do the thinking, as you must remember. You cannot surely suppose that I have let all this time elapse without thinking upon the subject as well?’
‘Oh! if you would decide, and tell me what is best, I would so gladly do it!’ she exclaimed.
‘I have decided everything. The plan is ready, and only waits your approval to be carried out.’
‘And what is it? If I couldonlyget away from here!’
‘You remember Lahnburg, and my house there?’
‘Where we spent the day when I was at Nassau?Mein Genügen–oh yes, I remember it.’
‘You are so much stronger than I had dared to hope or expect, that I think you could bear the journey there at any time almost, if I have a special carriage for you, and take care that you don’t get cold. Christmas will be here, you see, directly. To-morrow is the last day before the festivities begin.’
‘Yes. And people will come and want to see me, and I shall not be ableto refuse some of them; and yet it would almost kill me, I think.’
‘Of course it would. Well, Lahnburg is a quiet, out-of-the-way place enough. If I took you there to-morrow, and settled you there with Ellen, you would avoid all the bustle here. It is a beautiful place. You don’t care to go out, and are not fit for it if you did. I don’t think you will find it duller than this, and certainly less painful; for you will not be under the constraint of feeling that you are known and observed. What do you think?’
‘I should like that,’ said Sara, slowly; and then, after a long pause, she asked in a low voice:
‘And you?’
‘I,’ replied Falkenberg, with an assumption of indifference, ‘oh, I neverlivein the country in winter. I detest it. Frankfort must be myHauptquartier. My manager is loading me with reproaches for my neglect of money-matters, and I feel there is justice inhis complaints. I shall be very much engaged for at least a couple of months to come. I may find time to run over to Lahnburg and see you, once or twice; but you must not expect me to be very attentive. You know,’ he concluded, smiling, and glancing at her again, ‘six weeks–or, rather, two months ago, I did not suppose I should be married to you, and I made all sorts of engagements, public as well as private–the former at least must be kept. Well, what do you say to my plan?’
‘What do I say?’ she repeated, in a voice full of emotion; ‘I say that you are too generous, Rudolf, too chivalrous. Believe me, if I had not so lately gone through what I have done, I would offer you more than words of gratitude–I would lay my very life at your feet.’
‘Don’t agitate yourself; that is forbidden,’ he replied, trying to smile with cheerful indifference. Perhaps a ray of hope had inspiredhim–some faint idea that she might say, ‘Are not you also coming toMein Genügen?’ If that had been the case, he promptly repressed the feeling, and added:
‘All I ask of you is to get well, and try to be contented,in your own way. Do not think of me. Perhaps that may come in the future. Nay, do not cry, Sara. I cannot bear to seethat.’
‘Do not scold me. I almost think I begin to see my way now. They say that much is granted to those who watch and pray.’
She spoke the last words half to herself.
‘That is true, in a sense, if not literally,’ he replied. ‘Well, I will see after a carriage to take you by the noon train to-morrow to Lahnburg; so tell Ellen to have everything ready. Now I must go. I will take your letters, if they are ready.’
Sara wished he would not go at that moment, but something preventedher from speaking out her wish, and he departed.
‘I must be in some wonderful dream,’ she repeated to herself, when she was alone. ‘It is too wildly impossible to be true. And yet, how well I know that he has been here. He never comes without bringing with him a purer, rarer atmosphere. He looks at things, and tells you how he sees them, and they are never quite the same afterwards. Now with Jerome–Hyperion to—’ She paused abruptly, biting her lip, and thinking, ‘After all, I never saw which was Hyperion. I have no right to sneer. Shall I ever love him? Surely, at any rate, the remembrance of that other love will wear off enough for me to be able to say to my husband, “Come, let us travel hand in hand at last!” Heaven send it, at least!’