diff options
41 files changed, 17 insertions, 16172 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..98eb1d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69428 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69428) diff --git a/old/69428-0.txt b/old/69428-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ceab1a7..0000000 --- a/old/69428-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6267 +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 - Vol. 1 of 3 - -Author: Jessie Fothergill - -Release Date: November 26, 2022 [eBook #69428] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Peter Becker, Brian Wilsden and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELLFIELDS *** - -Transcriber’s Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - - - - -THE WELLFIELDS. - - - - - THE WELLFIELDS. - - A Novel. - - BY - JESSIE FOTHERGILL, - AUTHOR OF ‘THE FIRST VIOLIN’ AND ‘PROBATION.’ - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - VOL. I. - - [Illustration] - - LONDON: - RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, - Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen. - 1880. - - [_All Rights Reserved._] - - - - - To - - MY FRIENDS AT LOWESWATER, - - IN REMEMBRANCE OF SOME PLEASANT DAYS - SPENT THERE WITH THEM. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CONTENTS OF VOL. I. - - - PAGE - - PRELUDE 1 - - - STAGE I. - - CHAPTER - - I. EMS 16 - - II. FRAU VON TROCKENAU’S ‘GESELLSCHAFT’ 41 - - III. A LANDPARTEI 72 - - IV. OF THE WELLFIELDS 116 - - V. FATHER AND SON ARRANGE ACCOUNTS 133 - - VI. AVICE READS A CHAPTER OF A NEW BOOK 155 - - VII. LIFE’S FULLEST STREAM 163 - - VIII. ‘CONTENT THEE WITH ONE BITTER WORD, ADIEU!’ 183 - - IX. ELLEN’S OPINION 195 - - - STAGE II. - - I. WHAT MR. NETLEY SAID 204 - - II. MONK’S GATE 217 - - III. THE NEW MAN AND THE OLD ACRES 229 - - IV. NITA’S DIARY 258 - - V. WITH THE STREAM 265 - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE WELLFIELDS. - - - - -PRELUDE. - - -In very early days, in the beginnings of Saxon Christianity, a certain -Saxon potentate erected a church at Wellfield, now a village in the -north-east corner of a great and wealthy English county. This church he -called, as many churches in those times were called, the White Church; -and since it stood in a peculiar situation, in close proximity to the -foot of a lovely wooded rise, he added the further distinguishing -title of ‘under the Hill,’ and for hundreds of years it was known as -the ‘White Church under the Hill.’ Generations came and went, and -worshipped there, and led lives pious or otherwise: it was a wild -race of people that dwelt in that well-watered valley, and the White -Church under the Hill was known far and wide, long before such things -as monasteries and cloisters, with their attendant good and evil, were -thought of. It was a wild and lovely region, watered by three fair -streams well stocked with fish, while venison and game abounded in the -woods and on the moors around. Gradually a village clustered around -the White Church. Wealthy and pious persons made gifts to it, and -built houses in the vicinity of it, until the Normans came, and soon -after that changes took place. Monasteries and abbeys and nunneries -sprang up, here and there, throughout the land; and it so chanced that -a certain pious baron presented to a company of Cistercian monks a -very fair site by the river, and not far from the White Church. There -they began to build themselves an abbey, the fame of which soon spread -far and wide in the land. Its farms were fat, its lands productive, -its abbots proud, its hospitality unbounded; for three centuries they -built at it and lavished upon it all manner of beauty, in the shape -of rare carvings of oak and stone. Its church was as large as many a -cathedral; it stood on an exquisite site beside the river, and the size -of the abbey-grounds soon exceeded that of the whole village and the -White Church counted into the bargain. Then, while it was still in its -glory and still unfinished, while the proudest and most domineering of -its abbots was ruling the land around with a rod of iron, and hunting -out witches and chasing them over Penhull, the great hill hard by, -and burning them when he caught them, and was rioting in power—then, -under the ferocious auspices of the Eighth Harry of glorious memory, -a reform was effected—a reform which took the shape of a sack of -the glorious abbey. Its church was demolished, the friars disbanded, -the proud abbot was gibbeted in full view of his birthplace over the -water, on a wooded mound called to this day ‘The Abbot’s Knoll.’ All -the church plate and jewellery was confiscated by the royal robber; -while the abbey and the lands thereof were magnanimously presented by -him—what was left of them—to two of the neighbouring gentry, one John -de Wellfield and one Ralph de Burnshire, which gentlemen had gallantly -espoused the cause of the king, and had assisted in driving forth the -monks from the abbey at the end of the pike. The families of Wellfield -and Burnshire presently were united by the marriage of the sole heiress -of the Burnshires with the sole heir of the Wellfields, and it was -at this juncture that another great property called Brentwood, some -three miles away, lapsed, through lack of direct heirs male, from the -Burnshire family to a collateral branch of the same, named Waddington, -which Waddingtons continued to be devout Roman Catholics, while the -Wellfields turned heretics, to the great distress of the reverend -fathers, the Jesuits, who about this period in the family history were -beginning to make a great noise in the world, and to exert their power -and make it felt. Wellfield Abbey, then, got into heretic hands, and -the heretics continued to be men of mark; while the pious and devout -Waddingtons had the ill luck (or the ill grace) to die out, and their -representatives, in the year of grace 1794, let their ancient abode -on the hill-side at a nominal rent to those Jesuit fathers who were -driven from their French college at L—— by the Revolution. They were -thrifty, these Jesuit fathers, and eventually bought the whole estate, -and their representatives possess it to this day, and have made of it -the first Roman Catholic seminary in the north at any rate, if not in -the whole of England. Indeed, that corner of this favoured land is a -Catholic stronghold. - -Meanwhile, the heretic Wellfields of Wellfield continued to flourish, -seemingly, like a green bay-tree; though, taking the royalist side -in the Stuart troubles, they are said to have suffered heavy losses -therefrom. The most perfect _entente cordiale_ always existed between -them and the neighbouring Catholic gentry, and the reverend fathers at -Brentwood; and they were always classed amongst the first families of -the neighbourhood when they were at home. Of late years they had lived -much abroad. At the time now referred to, 18—, there were only two -representatives of the line: John Felix Wellfield, and a son; the said -John Felix had been an only child, as had his father before him, and -his own wife was recently dead. - -Meantime, while the gorgeous abbey church, which had been centuries -a-building, had been so razed to the ground as that hardly a vestige -of it remained, save a green space in the shape of a cross to show -where it had once stood, and while the two great entrances of the -abbey—Monk’s-gate and Abbot’s-gate—were like great ruined caverns, -grown over with ivy; while the cloisters were a line of hoary ruins, -and nought of the abbey remained save enough to make a quaint old -dwelling-house—all this time the White Church under the Hill stood -intact—added to a little here and there; enriched by the spoils of -the abbey—they rescued the exquisite carved black oak stalls and a -magnificent rood-screen, and set them up in the humbler building. Now -it was a Protestant place of worship; in the midst of the old oak pews -some evangeliser had set up a ‘three-decker,’ in which the service was -performed, and there is no record of this piece of vandalism having met -with the condign punishment it deserved. It—the ‘three-decker’—stared -down upon an ancient pew of black carved oak which glittered like a -mirror, which pew was said—along with many others—to be the oldest -in England. Built by one Roger of Wellfield, it had been left by him -as a legacy for ‘the proud dames of Wellfield’ to sit in every Sunday, -which ‘proud dames’ are at this date represented by three decrepit -old women, who enjoy the best view in the church of—the pulpit. The -old church is sturdy yet, having survived so many changes, including -a visit from George Fox, in the days when he went about denouncing -‘steeple-houses,’ and who stood in the aisle and stigmatised the then -priest of Wellfield as ‘a light, scornful, chaffy fellow.’ It shows no -signs of decay. May it be long before such symptoms appear in it! - - * * * * * - -A party of visitors, thirty years ago and more, were strolling round -this old church one summer afternoon, escorted by a young woman who had -the keys, and who had told them all she knew about the place and its -history. - -‘Then does the present Mr. Wellfield not live at the abbey?’ inquired a -young lady who was of the party. - -‘No, ma’am. They say he lives a deal in Italy, and the lady he married -came from those parts. Young Mr. Wellfield is staying at the abbey now, -and his tutor says it’s because of his health; but they do say that Mr. -Wellfield is going to be married again, and wants him away.’ - -The visitors exchanged glances, and the young woman continued: - -‘See, there’s the young gentleman looking in now, and his playfellow, -old Mr. Leyburn’s lad.’ - -Indeed, at this moment two boys, whose ages might be ten and eleven, or -eleven and twelve years, came strolling into the church by the chancel -door, which stood open, their arms about one another’s shoulders, -and their faces rubbing together now and then after the fashion of a -couple of friendly ponies. One was tall and slender, and was of an -extraordinary beauty of face and figure, with solemn, liquid dark -eyes, and a very un-English look. The other was not quite so tall, -was sturdy, square and strong, but clumsily built—‘a little _pleb_,’ -thought the young lady, who was watching them with interest. The rest -of her party had strolled on with the young woman to look at proud -Abbot ——’s tombstone, which, said tradition, if a Wellfield walked -over it, he should not live out the year. But the girl—she was no -more—remained where she was until the boys came up to her, and they -were all standing at the foot of the chancel steps, just outside the -rood-screen. - -‘Have you come to see the church?’ she asked, smiling. - -‘We saw the door open, _signorina_, and came in,’ said the beautiful -boy; ‘but we can see it as often as we want—twice every Sunday.’ - -His voice was sweet; his accent more than half Italian. - -‘Do you live here then? What is your name?’ she asked, wishing to draw -him out. - -‘No; I do not live here. I am only staying a few months here. I am -called Jerome Wellfield, and the abbey belongs to my father.’ - -‘Indeed! Would you not like to live in such a beautiful home?’ - -‘If it were not so cold in England I would; but I like Italy: it is -warm there.’ - -‘Yes. And you—what are you called?’ she asked, turning to the other -lad. - -‘John Leyburn,’ he made answer, looking at her with clear, -considerate, rather light-brown eyes, which looked very ineffective -beside the velvet softness and darkness of young Wellfield’s. - -‘You live here, I am sure.’ - -‘Yes; I live at Abbot’s Knoll with my father and mother.’ - -‘And are you great friends? Have you known one another long?’ - -‘Oh! we have known one another a long time—two months,’ replied young -Wellfield; ‘and we are great friends, aren’t we, Jack?’ - -‘Yes,’ replied ‘Jack,’ with much deliberation. - -Indeed all he did and said was deliberate. - -‘And can you tell me what each of you likes better than anything else?’ -she asked, loth to break off the conversation, and charmed with Master -Jerome’s grace and beauty. ‘You, Jerome Wellfield, what do you like -best?’ - -‘I like so many things that are nice,’ said the boy, with a pensive -smile; and glancing downwards, the long lashes swept his pale cheek. -‘I like music; and I liked mamma. I liked her drawing-room at Frascati, -where the beautiful ladies used to come when I was a little boy. I -like—oh! I like everything that is not ugly,’ he concluded, looking -rather bored. - -‘And you, my boy?’ she turned to the other. - -‘I like birds’-nesting,’ was the reply, deliberate, but prompt. - -‘What, better than anything? Oh, horrible!’ - -‘He does not mean birds’-nesting, exactly,’ Jerome explained for him. -‘He means all sorts of things—going into the woods, and learning about -birds and watching them, and plants, and butterflies, and all that sort -of thing.’ - -‘Oh, natural history!’ - -‘Yes; natural history,’ replied the sturdy-looking boy. - -‘I don’t care for the birds in the woods here,’ said Jerome, -carelessly; ‘ugly little brown things! I liked the golden pheasants, -and the scarlet humming-birds, and the big white macaw, and the -_papagei_—parrot, you know—in Countess Necromi’s aviary.’ - -‘Laura, my dear, we must go. We have to do Brentwood yet, you know, and -then to drive to the Lathebys.’ - -‘Yes; I suppose we have. Well, boys, good afternoon. Will you shake -hands with me?’ - -‘Yes, _signorina_. _À rivederci_,’ said young Wellfield, looking so -enchantingly amiable that Miss Laura stooped and kissed him. - -‘Since you say _à rivederci_, I suppose you do not count me as an ugly -thing?’ she said, laughing. - -‘Oh no, the very opposite!’ he smiled, and she tapped his cheek, -and said he was a precocious boy. She felt no interest in poor John -Leyburn, but being of a kind disposition held out her hand to him too. -He flushed all over his plain young face, and asked: - -‘Will you—would you tell me what you are called?’ - -With a rapid flash of intuition ‘Laura’ realised that with all Jerome’s -pretty words and liquid glances, he had not troubled himself on this -point. She put her hand on the plain boy’s shoulder, and kissed him -too, saying: - -‘My name is Laura Dewhirst. By the time you are grown up you will have -forgotten it, and I shall be such an old woman that you would not know -me if you met me.’ - -All three laughed, and with another nod to the boys Miss Dewhirst ran -after her papa and mamma. The two boys left the church, and the young -woman locked the door and contemplated the gratuity she had received -with great satisfaction. - -‘Where shall we go?’ asked Jerome. - -‘To Mr. Philips, to do our Latin.’ - -‘Oh, Latin!’ sighed the boy. ‘I never used to do any Latin when mamma -was alive—before I came to England.’ - -‘Would you like to go back to Italy?’ - -‘Not much, because papa always makes me feel such a very little boy. -Mr. Philips doesn’t.’ - -‘Well, come along then! Was not that a beautiful lady?’ - -‘Very pretty. She liked talking to us.’ - -‘I liked talking to her,’ said John Leyburn, sedately, as they turned -in at the abbey gate, and went up the river walk. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -STAGE I. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -EMS. - - -It was half-past nine in the evening. The concert in the great Saal of -the _Kurhaus_ at Ems was just over, and the audience streamed out, with -a clatter of conversation, and a sudden restoration of animation, into -the fresher and yet deliciously warm air of the gardens. It was the end -of July, the height of the season at Ems; and that small, enervating, -fashionable watering-place was thronged with visitors of every age, -nation, and rank, from the royal and imperial, as represented in the -persons of Germany and Russia, down to the English family of Robinson, -who had never felt so genteel before, or been in (whether of or not) -such aristocratic company in their lives, and the German family of -Braun, who were wealthy, and who revelled luxuriously each day at a -different _table d’hôte_ of a different hotel, and who sat in a row -in the _Kurgarten_, morning and afternoon, listening devotedly to the -music, and occasionally murmuring ‘_Schön!_’ if it pleased them. Or, oh -joy! standing in rapt respect and attention, as an old white-headed, -white-moustached man in a grey summer-suit came walking along, very -erect, one hand behind his back, in friendly converse with, now one, -now another, bare-headed gentleman who kept just a pace behind him. - -‘There’s the emperor! _dear_ old thing!’ whisper all the Miss -Robinsons, standing up too, as the grey old gentleman comes past. - -‘_Unser Kaiser!_’ murmur the Brauns with beaming smiles of -satisfaction, and gazing at him with broad-faced loyalty. - -This ‘watching for the emperors,’ and the thrills of emotion which ran -through every loyal heart when they were visible, was the chief pastime -of the day; and if one failed to see the emperors, there were always -those who had lived near them—princesses, countesses, baronesses, -and their consorts; highnesses of every degree of transparency and -serenity, half the _vons_ in the Almanach de Gotha; together with -unpronounceable Russians, fascinating Poles, well-known diplomatists, -representing both the _suaviter in modo_ and the _fortiter in re_—to -wit, the ‘blood and iron’ policies of their respective courts. All -these were there, besides the shoals of nobodies who bought up the -_Kurlisten_ in order to read their own names in close proximity to -those of somebodies, and who, it is to be hoped, felt rewarded by these -and similar privileges for the crowding and pushing and swindling to -which they were in other matters subjected. - -On the night in question the concert-room had been thronged, for the -two emperors and their suites had condescended to look in for a few -moments, and the orchestra had performed the Russian national hymn with -great spirit and much applause. The distinguished guests were felt to -be still lingering somewhere about the gardens; and moreover the river -was illuminated, and was dazzling with lines of fairy lights, from the -bridge opposite the Darmstädter Hof to the other bridge at the extreme -end of the _Kurgarten_—and of civilisation, of course, in Ems—and -beyond the house called the _Vier Thürme_, at which the Russian monarch -was lodging. - -Two barges, brightly illuminated with the imperial crowns and -lovingly-entwined initials of Russia and Germany, were floating about -the river, while ‘the music’ on board alternately played _Die Wacht -am Rhein_ and the Russian national anthem—a spectacle most thrilling -and edifying for all loyal souls; if somewhat less enchanting to the -musicians and boatmen who perspired in the glare and smell and heat -of the lamps, and industriously paddled up and down the little Lahn, -below the walls of the broad walk of the _Kurgarten_. - -Down that broad walk, from the concert-room, came a crowd of the -notabilities and otherwise, who had composed the audience; all -chattering, laughing, flirting, and intriguing in almost every European -tongue. - -About the middle of the throng came a group of some four or five ladies -and gentlemen, and walking a little in advance of the others with one -of the men beside her, a tall girl whose accent was English, though she -spoke German. Some dark thick trees overhung that part of the walk, -making it dark on the side next the river wall; but the lamps cast a -bright light upon the girl’s face, and showed its every feature and the -play of its expression clearly and distinctly to one who sat on a bench -in one of the little recesses in the wall which almost overhung the -river; and who from this position had for some time been indifferently -watching the brilliant throng as they trooped past. - -As the girl came on, now looking straight before her, now turning -her head to speak to the man, who from the thickness of the crowd -was compelled to go just half a pace behind her, the hidden watcher -observed her closely and intently. She was tall, well-formed, and -well-developed. There was much grace and a great deal of pride in her -carriage; her head was habitually carried high, as might easily be -seen; her face was very handsome indeed, even splendid, with a brow -like Chaucer’s nun: - - ‘And sickerly she had a fayre forehead, - It was almoste a spanne brode, I trow, - For hardily she was not undergrowe.’ - -A large, well-cut mouth, in the sweep of whose lips there was both -thought and grandeur; bright, glossy, chestnut hair, rich in hue -and crisply waving; fine dark-grey eyes, with level brows, the eyes -deep-set and critical in expression; her whole aspect was dignified, -and yet there was assuredly a gleam of humour in her eyes, as she -stepped composedly on, in her light, softly falling dress and broad -plumed black hat. - -‘Tell me, Herr von Lemde—you have made a study of the nobility, I -know——’ - -‘It is true, _mein Fräulein_. What ought a man to study, if not his own -order?’ - -‘And that _such_ an order! Indeed, you are right. I want to know who -that lovely woman near us was, in a dress like a cloud of creamy muslin -and lace. I thought she must be a Pole, from her gracefulness and from -the spirited way in which she spoke.’ - -‘You were right,’ he said earnestly. ‘It was the Princess ——.’ - -‘Thank you very much. I feel happier now. Suppose it had turned out to -be some Mrs. Smith, or Frau Müller!’ - -‘I fear, _mein Fräulein_, that you are a little tinged with——’ - -‘But, _liebe_ Sara,’ cried a lady behind, ‘it is getting late, and we -have such a long drive.’ - -‘Oh, Carla, don’t go yet!’ expostulated, not Sara, but a German girl, -dark, handsome, and defiant-looking. ‘It is so fine; and we have not -seen the emperor, and, after all, it is not so late.’ - -‘Oh, it is quite early!’ said an English girl who was of the party. - -She addressed as Sara at this moment turned, and the whole group -paused, a few paces from the place where the silent watcher sat. He had -turned aside as soon as Sara had passed, and was now gazing intently -down into the mysterious eddies of the river, his chin propped on his -hand. - -‘Just as you like, Gräfin,’ said Sara Ford, smiling; ‘it is very nice -here, and Herr von Lemde’s society makes dullness out of the question.’ - -Evidently Miss Ford, dignified though she looked, was not above amusing -herself at the expense of a rather stupid young man. - -Baron Lemde smiled all over his handsome, meaningless face, and dropped -a little into the rear, embracing Miss Ford’s shawl with effusion, -while she stood, still the centre of the group, and the Countess of -Trockenau paused, looking thoughtful. - -‘It is too bad of you, Miss Ford,’ said the other English girl in her -ear. ‘How can you make fun of poor Lemde and make others laugh at him -in that way?’ - -Sara smiled a bright, frank, disdainful smile, and the Countess of -Trockenau said: - -‘Well, shall we be going?’ - -‘Oh—h—h!’ sighed the younger English girl, with an accent of -disappointment. - -‘_Mein Fräulein_,’ began Lemde, bending towards Sara, who neither heard -nor saw him; or if she did, did not notice him. - -He saw that her eyes were fixed upon some one who approached them; her -lips were gravely set, yet in their sweet and gracious curve there was -an expression which, though it was not for him, made the simple young -baron’s heart beat faster. His glance followed hers. The silent watcher -had arisen from his hiding-place, and was advancing towards them. He -met Sara Ford’s eyes, and took off his hat. In another moment they were -shaking hands, and though she was self-possessed, and almost distant in -her manner, poor Hans von Lemde’s heart fell. - -‘Good-evening, Miss Ford.’ - -‘Good-evening, Mr. Wellfield. I did not see you at the concert. Were -you not there?’ - -‘No; I have been sitting here by the river instead. I hope you are -well?’ - -‘Quite well, I thank you. And your——’ - -The countess had seen and accosted him, and he turned towards her. - -‘You stay late to-night, _gnädige Frau_,’ said he, kissing her hand -with sedate gravity. - -‘Mr. Wellfield! ah, that reminds me—your _Herr Vater_, how is he—any -better? I sent one of my men to inquire while we were in the concert, -but have not seen him yet.’ - -She was a very pretty woman of eight or nine and twenty—a small, -brilliant brunette; and Jerome Wellfield was dark too, yet the contrast -between them was a startling one. - -‘I thank you,’ he answered; ‘my father is somewhat stronger to-night. I -trust he will soon be quite well again.’ - -‘I hope so; and your sister, she is not with you to-night?’ - -‘Avice—she did not wish to leave my father; and then, she is a child -as yet.’ - -‘Is she? I should have said—What is it?’ - -‘See, _liebe_ Trockenau, his majesty is coming,’ said a German lady of -the party, and with a quick movement the group was divided. - -The German ladies, being both of rank, and _geborenen_ of distinguished -families, and Hans Lemde, stood stock-still by the roadside, waiting -until the emperor should pass, to make their reverences and receive a -recognition; while the English girls, Jerome Wellfield, and a German -man who was not a _von_, strolled off down a side-walk. Sara Ford and -Jerome Wellfield insensibly, but as if by general consent, dropped a -little behind. The underlying sparkle of malice and mockery had died -out of the young lady’s eyes, as she turned to her companion, saying: - -‘I am glad your father is better, Mr. Wellfield, for I had heard that -he was very ill.’ - -‘You are very kind. He really does seem better to-night, and I am in -hopes that the attack will pass over, as all the others have done, -though it has certainly been a severer one than usual.’ - -‘You look as if you had been watching and sitting up—have you?’ - -‘Oh, a mere trifle. My father gets nervous, and, as you may easily -imagine, a large hotel is not the most comfortable place in which to be -taken ill.’ - -‘No, indeed.’ - -‘Avice insisted on my coming out to-night. And you, Miss Ford, are you -enjoying yourself at Count Trockenau’s?’ - -‘Very much. The change from the hot, dusty town, and from my -paint-smelling atelier is really delightful. Everything up at Trockenau -is so fresh, and the society is very amusing—yes, really exceedingly -amusing.’ - -Sara laughed as she spoke—a pleasant, round, though not loud laugh. - -‘Herr von Lemde’s society makes dulness out of the question,’ said -Wellfield, composedly. - -Miss Ford reddened a little. - -‘Oh, did you hear all that? Well, who could be dull with Herr von -Lemde? So long as I know that I may quit his society whenever I choose, -he is delightfully amusing; and if I knew that I had to endure his -society whether I liked it or not, I should at once become desperate, -and capable of any crime, I think, so that in any case dulness is out -of the question.’ - -Wellfield laughed. - -‘How long are you staying?’ he asked. - -‘Another week, I think, at least. The countess is very kind, and will -not hear of my leaving sooner. You, I suppose, will remain with your -father?’ - -‘I shall remain with my father at present,’ he answered. - -There was a pause as they paced along the side-walk, somewhat removed -from the glare of the lamps, and felt, each with a different degree of -intensity, that they were alone. The other girls and their companions -had fallen behind, and the countess and the others had not yet come -up, glorified and hallowed by their interview with their Imperial -Master. - -Sara Ford, beautiful, talented, and charming, was an artist, almost -alone in the world, fatherless, motherless, and with very little -money, but with great talent and high ambition. She was spending her -holiday at the country house, near Nassau, of the Count and Countess of -Trockenau, her fast friends, and almost her only rich or distinguished -patrons. Jerome Wellfield, who walked by her side, was the heir to an -old name and a fair estate, of whose beauty she had heard him speak in -terms which, with him, might pass for enthusiastic. This enthusiasm -was the result of a visit to the said house years ago, when he had -been a mere child, and so deep had been the impression then made upon -him by the beauty and desirableness of the house of his fathers, that -he was firmly resolved, far from following his father’s example of -absenteeism, to settle there as soon as conveniently might be. His -acquaintance with Sara Ford had not been a very long one; he had met -her at the Countess of Trockenau’s house about a month ago, during the -first part of her visit; yet, even now, neither ever saw the other -without feeling a secret thrill of joy. As they silently walked on, -she suddenly looked up at him, almost involuntarily—for though she -was ‘more than common tall,’ he had somewhat to bend his head to speak -to her—and found his dark, sombre, and, as she felt, most beautiful -eyes, fixed upon her face. She blushed a little, and sighed quickly. -His face, like some exquisite ivory cameo in its perfect outlines, -and in the still, severe beauty of its contours, haunted her with a -persistence which would not be accounted for merely by the fact that -she, as an artist by nature and by trade, must delight in all things -beautiful. For it was not all delight, far from it, which she felt in -the haunting presence of that face. There was delight, but even more -strongly there was the sense of captivity, the intuitive consciousness -that she, like Gretchen, might make her moan: - - ‘Meine Ruh’ ist hin, - Mein Herz ist schwer; - Ich finde sie nimmer - Und nimmermehr!’ - -‘Did you enjoy the concert?’ asked Jerome, suddenly, after that long -look which had passed between them. - -‘Yes, in a way. I don’t much care for the music they have at places -like this, but it was better than usual to-night. But I prefer our -homely Elberthal concerts—so far as music is concerned. Here one goes -to look at the people and the dresses, and to hear the gossip, and very -amusing it is. I think you don’t go much to the concerts?’ - -‘No! I really cannot stand the everlasting waltzes and mazurkas and -operatic selections. And one gets so tired of watching the same -affected, overdressed women and insipid-looking men engrossed in one -another.’ - -‘Yesterday the countess and I were sitting in the gardens, when we saw -a man and woman coming along. The woman was dressed most gorgeously, -and could scarcely walk because of her high heels; she hobbled along -looking pitiful. He was a tall, strong, robust-looking fellow, and -he carried her shawl, and her parasol, and her little bag with her -handkerchief and scent-bottle, and he led her little white dog along by -a blue ribbon; and he seemed happy.’ - -Wellfield laughed a little contemptuously. - -‘I can imagine a man, if he were weak-minded, descending to even that -depth, for the sake of some woman,’ continued Sara, reflectively. ‘What -I cannot understand is, that any woman should like him for doing it; -should be gratified in seeing him acting the part of a lady’s-maid to -her. But I have seen many things lately which have puzzled me. Is your -sister fond of music?’ - -‘Yes, I think so.’ - -‘You only think so?’ - -‘I hardly know her, you know. She is my half-sister. Once, when she was -a mere baby, I saw her; and not again till a month ago—till I came -here. Most likely I shall see more of her now. My father has been -instructing me in my duties towards her, and he is perfectly right. If -he would but come home and settle down at Wellfield all would be well. -It is not good for a girl to live in hotels, with no woman about her -whom she really knows, except her maid.’ - -‘No, indeed. But your sister does not look in the least spoiled by that -life.’ - -‘Because she is so isolated. She never goes amongst the people at these -places; she cannot, because my father himself does not. But it is a -dull life for her.’ - -‘How old is she, exactly?’ - -‘A little more than sixteen.’ - -‘You must know, though, that she is very lovely now, and that sometime -she will be remarkably beautiful.’ - -‘Avice—will she? She is pale, and her hair—yes, her hair is -beautiful, isn’t it?’ - -‘Mr. Wellfield! your own sister, whom you see daily, and you ask if her -hair is beautiful!’ - -‘Well, it is the fact of her being my own sister, I suppose, whom -I see daily, that makes me ask,’ said Jerome, calmly. ‘I am not -so—forgetful in all cases. But I was going to say that, though I don’t -in the least know when I shall be free again, yet, when I am free, I am -going to Cologne, where I have some musical friends. Cologne is not far -from Elberthal, and, if you will allow me, Miss Ford’—he hesitated in -a manner which his hearer thought decidedly becoming to him—‘I should -like exceedingly to come over and visit your atelier, if I may—if it -is not too great a favour that I ask.’ - -‘Oh no! If you care to see my poor attempts at pictures, I shall be -delighted to show you them.’ - -‘I have heard great things of your “poor attempt at pictures,” Miss -Ford.’ - -‘Have you? Some partial friend——’ - -‘It was Professor Wilhelmi, your master, I think.’ - -‘Yes. Well, he is a very partial friend. He has been goodness itself to -me. I should never have done anything without his help. But when you -see what he has praised, you can judge for yourself.’ - -‘I am no judge when the work is the work of a friend,’ said Jerome, -smiling. - -‘To-morrow they expect at Trockenau a most formidable person—Herr -Rudolf Falkenberg.’ - -‘The Frankfort banker?’ - -‘I don’t know whether he is a banker or not, though I believe I have -heard that he is. The important thing to me is, that he is a great -judge of pictures; and that, as he is rich, he can afford to buy them -when they please him: but I have heard as well that he is very severe, -and most difficult to please.’ - -‘Surely that does not trouble you!’ - -‘It would trouble me if Herr Falkenberg were to see some of my -pictures, and pronounce them very bad.’ - -‘As if he would have the ill-breeding to do so!’ - -Sara laughed. - -‘I see, you would never make a critic,’ she said; and just then, coming -to the end of a long walk, they found themselves suddenly in the full -blaze of light which illuminated the linden-planted square where all -the little tables stand, at which people sup or dine, or take coffee, -wine, or ices. A score of heads and twice as many eyes were quickly -turned upon the tall and certainly striking-looking couple who thus -advanced into the light. - -‘Take my arm,’ murmured Wellfield; and Sara, dazzled by the light in -which they so suddenly found themselves, and a little embarrassed by -the amount of attention bestowed upon her and her companion by the -well-bred crowd, complied mechanically, and they walked rather quickly -through the square. - -‘I think, if we turn this way, we shall probably find the others,’ said -Jerome, as they disappeared into the comparative obscurity under the -shade of the Kurhaus. - -‘Very likely,’ said Sara, and at that moment Hans Lemde came -breathlessly after them. - -‘Ah, _mein Fräulein_, we thought you were lost!’ he said, addressing -Sara, and studiously avoiding even looking at her companion. ‘The -countess is waiting to seek her carriage, for the road to Trockenau is -rough.’ - -‘Well, show us the way to where she is, please,’ said Sara, with a -touch of impatience. - -Hans von Lemde walked stiffly in advance, trying rather feebly to -look dignified. He was not naturally majestic in demeanour, and the -circumstances deprived him of what little scrap of dignity he might in -ordinary moments rejoice in. The effect of the procession was that of a -noble and his lady preceded by a somewhat weak-minded retainer, new to -his duties and afraid of taking too much upon himself. - -The Countess of Trockenau was not in the violent hurry which might have -been expected from Lemde’s representations. She had time again to greet -Jerome Wellfield, and to say: - -‘By-the-bye, Mr. Wellfield, I have a party to-morrow. Will you come?’ - -‘A very large party?’ - -‘Oh, _so ziemlich_—quite without ceremony. The ladies come to coffee -and remain; the gentlemen later, to the _Abendbrod_ and music. And a -little dancing for the young people, I daresay, and wandering in the -garden for those who like it. I shall expect you.’ - -‘If my father is better, or rather if he should be no worse, _gnädige -Frau_, I shall have the utmost pleasure,’ he said, bowing, while Sara -stood a little apart and carefully fastened her glove. The countess -turned to speak to some one else, and Wellfield, with a half-smile, -politely suggested to Sara that perhaps he could button her glove. - -‘There is your carriage, _gnädige Frau_, going slowly down the road,’ -exclaimed young Lemde, as if eager to end the scene. - -‘Call it, then,’ said Frau von Trockenau, in much the same tone as that -lately used by Miss Ford. It was a tone very generally adopted towards -‘poor Lemde.’ - -Obediently he hurried forward and hailed the coachman of the lady, who -was still in lively conversation with a friend. - -‘The carriage is here, most gracious, by the roadside, waiting!’ -announced Hans, in a voice growing gradually louder and more -portentous; and he repeated the information impressively. - -‘_Aber, dieser Mensch!_’ murmured the ‘gracious lady,’ as Wellfield -advanced, gave her his arm, and led her across the avenue to the -roadside, where her carriage was waiting. - -Lemde wished very much to offer his arm to Sara, but, looking furtively -at her, decided with a sigh not to venture, and turned instead to Emily -Leigh, the other English girl, who immediately put her hand within his -arm, and tripped after Frau von Trockenau with the utmost cheerfulness. -Sara followed, dignified and solitary. It was Jerome Wellfield who -handed her into the carriage. - -‘_Also—bis Morgen!_’ said the countess, bowing, and waving her hand as -they drove away. Wellfield and Hans Lemde were left alone. - -‘Are you going to the party to-morrow?’ asked Wellfield. - -‘I? certainly. I go to all Frau von Trockenau’s parties.’ - -‘That shows your good taste,’ replied Jerome, gravely, raising his -hat and wishing him good-evening; and then, after another look after -the carriage as it drove rapidly away down the Nassau Road, he turned -and sauntered slowly along the road towards the hotel of the _Vier -Jahreszeiten_, where Mr. Wellfield and his family were staying. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -FRAU VON TROCKENAU’S ‘GESELLSCHAFT.’ - - -The Count and Countess of Trockenau were both young, rich, and what -their countrymen call _lebenslustig_, a word for which we have no -equivalent shorter than a well-rounded sentence of explanation. - -Their estate was large, and as beautiful as heart could desire. It -stood sloping up a rounded, richly-wooded hill in the neighbourhood -of K——au; and from its great terrace, as well as from other less -distinguished points of vantage, there was a broad and beautiful vista -over the rich and many-coloured plain, to where in a silver line the -Rhine might be seen winding his way towards Coblenz. Far distant, -like blue clouds on the horizon, lay the soft outlines of the Rhine -mountains; far over hill and dale shone the delicious sunshine, while -the fair land spread her broad bosom, in the rich maturity of the -latter July, to his fervent beams. - -All the summer long, Frau von Trockenau loved to have her friends -around her, and those friends were various. Coffee-parties and -picnics—or rather the German equivalents of picnics in the shape of -_fêtes_ and _Landparteien_, suppers and dances, riding and driving, -and, when it was late enough, shooting and _die Jagd_. An admirable -cook, wines of a character not to disgrace the _cuisine_, a hearty -welcome, and unlimited liberty to the guest to follow the bent of his -own wishes—these were the attractions offered to their guests by the -count and countess, and they proved so strong that Frau von Trockenau -very rarely had an invitation refused. People refused or put off other -visits in order to make one to Schloss Trockenau, and persons who were -not spontaneously invited there schemed to get invitations. - -To the initiated reader the remark will be almost superfluous that -the practices at Schloss Trockenau must have been characterised by -a certain unconventionality and _laisser faire_ not always found in -German or any other country houses, whether belonging to the nobility -or to the _Bürgerschaft_. This was the case, and the guests of the -countess were by no means confined to persons who were her equals in -rank, many of whom, she was wont to say, might be excellent creatures, -but were often old, and, when they lived in the country, were wont to -be dull. And dulness was the bane of the countess’s existence. In their -hatred of it she and her husband were sworn allies; they were never -known to oppose one another’s schemes for killing time, though it often -happened that in their zeal in that cause they would both have provided -some entertainment for the same time. When this occurred, the rule was -that each should give way in turn, and this plan was found to answer -admirably, and to be productive of the greatest harmony, conjugal and -social. - -On the evening after that meeting in the _Kurgarten_, a large company, -or _Gesellschaft_, was assembled in the rooms, or wandering about the -gardens and terraces of the Schloss. It was a mixed and motley society. -There were friends of the count, brother officers who were staying in -the house, or who had come over from Coblenz for the occasion; young -men from Berlin, fashionable or otherwise; some gay cousins of Countess -Carla, very stylish young ladies indeed, who, with their pretty cousin -as a chaperon, were creating havoc by their accomplishments, and by -their airs and graces, in the hearts of all the shy young _Junker_ in -the vicinity, except in that of Hans von Lemde, who was irresistibly -drawn in another direction. There were some young Englishmen from Bonn, -fellow-students and friends of the count’s younger brother. There were -two learned professors, and a poetess whose verses were _fades_, and -who was rightly and universally voted a bore, but who was amongst the -_von_-est of the _vons_, and who distinctly and unmistakably belonged -to the _genus irritabile_, and apparently to no other. - -There was Jerome Wellfield, who had just arrived, and who was talking -to his hostess; there was Herr Rudolf Falkenberg, the great banker -and picture-critic, who had arrived that morning. There was a knot of -stout, oddly-dressed, _gauche_-looking ladies of a certain age, who -clubbed together in a corner, and represented the local nobility and -squirearchy. - -‘No one knows who else may be coming,’ said one. ‘I think die Trockenau -is much too careless. She does not consider the dignity of our -position.’ - -‘_Ach, lieber Himmel!_ Who is that?’ murmured another. - -‘That’ was Sara Ford, who came sweeping down the room with her head in -the air, followed by Herr Falkenberg, to whom she talked in her frank, -audible, unconstrained English fashion, and who begged her to come -with him to the terrace that he might show her a view which he said -ought to be painted. - -The pair were followed by the disapproving looks of the local -_Junkerthum_ before spoken of, and by the round eyes of a number -of young German girls, just arrived at that stage in life which is -known to their countrymen as the _Backfisch_. Now, a _Backfisch_ is a -kind of _ingénue_ not often met amongst English girls; and Sara Ford -could never, by any chance, have had anything of the genus about her. -Consequently she was an object of wonder, and some disapproval to those -who either were or had been _Backfische_ themselves. - -‘These English girls!’ sighed one of the native nobility, shaking her -head portentously. ‘If I were to see my Paula monopolise a man in that -way—but she is incapable of even speaking to a gentleman before he -speaks to her. If a girl of mine were to be like that, I should die.’ - -‘_Gott_, yes!’ answered another, intently watching, while Herr -Falkenberg held open the long glass-door, and Sara stepped through it -and down the steps on to the terrace. The sun was setting as the young -lady and the banker paced towards the point to which he wished to -draw her attention. Sara was dressed in black, and there was nothing -costly about her attire; for she was not rich, and her only jewellery -consisted in certain old rings and a pearl-necklace, which had long -ago belonged to her mother when, as the beautiful Marion Fanshawe, -she had been married to Sara’s father. Plain though the dress was, it -set her noble beauty off to great advantage; and one felt—at least -Herr Falkenberg felt—the same conscientious delight in looking at her -grand, simple loveliness, as results from the contemplation of some -fine carved gem of ancient days, found perhaps by accident in the midst -of a stock of gaudy modern jewellery. - -Sara had never met Herr Falkenberg before. His name was well known to -her and to other artists as a judge of almost unerring taste, and a -patron of generous liberality. He was the last of a line of financiers -and bankers of princely fortune and passionate devotion to ‘the noble -pastime of art.’ She had felt highly flattered when Frau von Trockenau -brought him to her, saying: - -‘_Liebe_ Sara, Herr Falkenberg wishes to be introduced,’ after which -he had remained beside her chair, speaking of two of her pictures, -and discussing them with an admiration, and at the same time a -discrimination, which instantly showed her that report had not belied -the keenness of his critical powers and the purity of his taste in such -matters. ‘Perhaps,’ thought Sara to herself, repressing a smile of -satisfaction, ‘if she were very amiable, and listened with attention -to his criticisms, he might some day give her an order; and if she -could say to friends and fellow-students, “I am painting this for -Herr Falkenberg,” it would be as good, indeed much better, than fifty -laudatory but unprofitable criticisms.’ - -‘See!’ said he, as they came to the end of the terrace—and he pointed -to the round shoulder of a hill, round the foot of which a bend of -the river flowed in a silver curve, while the setting sun gave the -most mellow and warm tints to the stretch of the landscape in the -background—‘that is almost perfect; there is a meaning in the scene—a -poetry. Do you not see it?’ - -‘Indeed I do!’ she replied; the deep look settling in her eyes, which -always visited them when she looked upon grand or beautiful things, -and which alone would have made her face a rare one. ‘I see it!’ she -continued; ‘and I have studied and sketched it often since I came here, -and the result has been despair! I hate myself, and every attempt I -make. I don’t think landscape is my forte.’ - -‘I don’t agree with you. I think you ought to study landscape. I -believe, from the examination I have given to those two little pictures -of yours, that you might attain high rank as a painter, both of -landscape and _genre_; with hard study, of course.’ - -‘Oh, Herr Falkenberg, you are flattering! It is impossible. I often -think how presumptuous it is in me to imagine that I shall ever do well -in either. Why should I?’ - -‘Why should you not?’ he asked, smiling. ‘You are ambitious.’ - -He had seated himself on the arm of a bench at the end of the terrace, -and Sara was leaning upon the parapet, her arms folded on the ledge of -it; her glorious eyes gazing out upon the feast of colour, of rich calm -beauty which lay below. As he uttered the last words, the deep musing -look left those eyes; another fire flashed like lightning into them. -Her lips parted, the delicate nostril quivered. She raised her head, -and looked full at her companion. - -‘Yes, I am. I am as ambitious as a man—the worse for me, I suppose.’ - -‘I do not say so. How old are you?’ - -The question was put with a grave, patronising directness which was -free from the faintest trace of curiosity or impertinence. She answered -it in the same spirit: - -‘I am twenty-three.’ - -‘Ah! it will be many years, no doubt, before you do anything that -will live. It is a toilsome ascent to the high peaks and pure snows -of real lasting fame, but it may be accomplished by a single-hearted -perseverance.’ - -He paused, looking at her. The girl felt herself strangely moved, half -depressed at the calmness with which he adjudged to her years upon -years of future toil, as if from that verdict there could be no appeal, -half with a proud elation at the fact that so great a judge should hold -it possible that she could ever do anything which would live. His eyes -still dwelt upon her face, and hers upon his. He had a good, powerful, -and attractive face; dark, massively cut, with keen, shrewd, sarcastic -eyes under level dark eyebrows. The small moustache and short pointed -brown beard gave great character to this visage, and were two or three -shades lighter than the short-cropped hair. He was a man whose age it -would be difficult to guess. Sara imagined him to be about forty; he -might have been any age from thirty to five-and-forty. She had spoken -to him, and listened to him entirely as a well-known judge and possible -future patron of great power and influence—so she regarded him still. -Of what he was or did, how he was regarded outside this, to her, most -important capacity, she had not the least idea, and formed none to -herself. - -‘You have a sketch of that bit,’ he said at last; ‘would you mind -letting me see it?’ - -‘Oh! well, if you will promise to regard it merely as a rough attempt, -done more because my instinct compelled me to try to reproduce that -scene—not as anything that was ever intended for anyone to see but -myself,’ said Sara, very unwilling to submit so crude an attempt to -such critical eyes, and yet not wishing to appear affected. - -‘If you showed it me, I should judge it entirely on its own merits, of -course,’ was the composed reply, and Sara felt suddenly, as many other -persons often felt in exchanging ideas with Herr Falkenberg, that with -him simplicity of nature and conduct reigned supreme, and that to make -excuses and apologies to him was so much trouble lost. Sara wished she -had not made that little speech about her sketch, and Falkenberg went -on: - -‘I am staying here a few days, so perhaps to-morrow, before we set off -to Lahnburg——’ - -‘Are we going to Lahnburg?’ - -‘I believe so; the countess is, at any rate. I have a little country -house there, which she was so kind as to say she very much wished to -see, and I asked her if she would not make a party and go there with me -to-morrow. She said she wanted you to go too, but I don’t suppose she -will force you there against your will,’ he added, smiling. - -‘It would be anything but against my will. It is a place I have often -wished to see.’ - -‘Then I am glad you are going. There may be time for you to give me -your sketch to-morrow morning, early, if you will be so kind; and, -as I expect to be in Elberthal during the autumn, may I call at your -atelier?’ - -‘I shall be honoured if you do,’ said Sara, her cheeks flushing with -pleasure at this mark of favour. ‘I only fear that you will leave the -said atelier a sadder and a wiser man.’ - -‘As how?’ - -‘As having discovered my attempts to be very poor, commonplace -delusions after all.’ - -‘That remains to be seen; all I hope is that you will not be offended -if one who, by some misfortune, has got such an inveterate habit -of pointing out what appear to him the merits and demerits of any -composition, should——’ - -‘That would be of the utmost advantage to me,’ said she, gaily, -wondering how long the interview was to last, and wondering also, in -strict privacy, whether critics—of that eminence—never relaxed into a -laugh; whether a sedate smile were all their lips would condescend to. - -How long the interview might have lasted it is impossible to say. At -that moment it was interrupted. Frau von Trockenau, with a number -of the ingenuous girls before alluded to—whose tender years and -inexperience she seemed to find somewhat embarrassing during the ‘off -season,’ before the dancing began—Emily Leigh, Jerome Wellfield, Hans -Lemde, and others, came up. - -‘Oh, Herr Falkenberg!’ cried the countess, seeing him, ‘a word with -you.’ - -She paused, as did also Jerome Wellfield, and the others went on. -Wellfield had not yet spoken to Sara, and while Frau von Trockenau -discoursed with much animation to Falkenberg on some point connected -with the morrow’s excursion, Jerome turned to Miss Ford. - -The flush of exultation which her conversation with Falkenberg had -aroused, died from her cheeks. She silently put her hand into that of -Wellfield, while he, an expression of pleasure dawning in his face, -asked her how she did. - -After a few minutes, the countess put her hand within Falkenberg’s arm, -and they went up the terrace, in earnest conversation. Jerome and Sara -were left standing alone. - -‘Herr Falkenberg is a friend of yours?’ asked Wellfield. - -‘I don’t know. I hope he will be. He would be a very valuable friend to -me.’ - -‘I can suppose so. Does he wish you to paint this scene?’ - -‘Yes. And it is very beautiful. Do you not think so?’ - -‘It is—lovely. I wish you could see the place my father will not live -at—Wellfield Abbey and the country round about. As an artist, you -would delight in it.’ - -‘But it is in Lancashire, isn’t it?’ asked Sara. - -‘Yes. What then?’ inquired he. - -‘I always fancy it such a black, hideous place. I have only once been -in Lancashire, when I passed through Preston with my father on our way -to Scotland, years ago.’ - -‘Then you passed not a hundred miles from Wellfield,’ he rejoined with -some animation. ‘But I own, you could not be favourably impressed with -what you saw there. It is not lovely. But Wellfield is.’ - -‘Perhaps I may see it some day—who knows?’ said Sara, musingly. - -‘I am sure I hope you may,’ he answered quickly. ‘There is nothing I -should so much——’ - -He paused abruptly. Sara felt her face flush, and said quickly: - -‘Would not you like to come down this side-walk—this ilex walk? The -countess has spent a great deal of care and attention upon it, in -remembrance of the ilexes of Rome.’ - -‘Ah, the ilexes at Rome! I remember them,’ he said, as he followed her -into the cool green gloom of the ilex walk, where daylight was dimmed -by the intertwining boughs which formed a roof above. - -Three quarters of an hour later they returned to the same spot, and -found that it was almost dark. The windows of the Schloss blazed with -lights, and the music which streamed out on the air said that the -dancing had begun. - -‘What a long time we must have been out!’ said Sara, in a dreamy voice. -‘They are dancing.’ - -‘So they are. Will you give me this waltz?—it is a waltz, I hear.’ - -‘With pleasure,’ said Sara, as they walked towards the house. ‘There is -to be a cotillon,’ she added; ‘it is the great thing at these German -dances, and Frau von Trockenau has made elaborate arrangements for it.’ - -‘What a pity I don’t know how to do it!’ - -‘You should learn,’ said Sara. - -‘There is nothing I should like better if you are at liberty to——’ -began Jerome, as they entered the room by the long glass-door, just -within which stood Lemde, not dancing. - -‘_Mein Fräulein_,’ said the poor youth, humbly coming forward, ‘will -you honour me by dancing the cotillon with me?’ - -‘How fortunate for me that I secured your promise a moment ago,’ said -Jerome, with imperturbable composure and a slight smile. - -Hans’s face fell; that of Sara crimsoned as she said: - -‘I am very sorry, Baron Lemde, but I have promised it to Mr. Wellfield.’ - -In another moment she was waltzing with Jerome Wellfield, and Junker -Hans, after watching them for a few moments, turned aside. - -‘She is too proud and too clever, I suppose, to have anything to do -with me,’ he was saying to himself, as he struggled with a degrading -and childish inclination to cry. ‘And those other fellows, Falkenberg, -and that Wellfield, and the others, I’ve no chance against them. -It’s odd,’ the youth continued moodily to reflect, ‘how little a lot -of these English girls care for rank. Falkenberg is _bürgerlich_: -Wellfield—it isn’t his rank she cares for; it’s his way, I suppose, of -behaving as if he had a right to everything he sees—they don’t mind -rank when a man has “go,” or when he pleases them; but then they are so -hard to please.’ - -To Sara, the evening passed like a dream. This was the first, the -very first and most delicate flavour and aroma of love, which with her -could only be deep and earnest, full and profound, as her own nature. -She knew that she was beautiful, without having ever thought much about -it. She had seen admiration in men’s eyes before now; she had heard -words of love and beseeching addressed to her once or twice, and all -had lightly passed over her spirit, like a breath of air across a fair -garden. But Wellfield’s eyes, with their eloquent homage, thrilled -her; his mere presence aroused in her the feeling, never known before, -of delight, mingled with apprehension; she shrank away from trying to -guess, even in her own mind, how much his look meant—what the end of -this episode would be. She questioned and doubted, for the first time, -her own powers of pleasing, because for the first time she was desirous -above all things to please. Advanced spirits may condemn such anxiety -as servile and degrading. No opinion is offered upon those points, only -the certainty expressed that such feelings of ‘servility’ are very -common amongst women, and men too, who are in love. Instead of feeling -confidence now, she absolutely trembled lest she should have mistaken -the meaning of his glance, and of the few words he had now and then -dropped, and which had seemed to her to have a deeper meaning than mere -phrases of politeness or of compliment. - -Such was her deprecatory and tremblingly uncertain state of mind—hers, -who had laughed through life, free from tyrant love or care, undaunted -by reverses, and holding her own against difficulties with a -steadfastness born of innate, inbred courage of soul. Till now every -higher thought and aspiration had been resolutely and singly directed -towards her art, and her own advancement in it. Her heart’s desire had -been faithfully, so far as she could, to act up to Goethe’s words, and— - - ‘Im Ganzen, Guten, Wahren - Resolut zu leben.’ - -The defeat had been rapid and complete, and, true to her woman’s -nature, she rejoiced in it rather than otherwise. At least, this -night, in Jerome’s presence, and surrounded by the subtle incense of -admiration and flattery which he offered her, she rejoiced in it. There -were other times, when he was absent, in which the rejoicing was not -pure, and the sense of captivity was stronger than the thrill of love. - -The evening thus passed on, and every time she met those dark and -eloquent eyes she felt, with a throb of the heart, the half-welcome, -half-dreaded conviction grow stronger—‘This that I see in his eyes is -love!’ - -There ensued a pause in the dancing, organised by Frau von Trockenau, -in order to have some music; for she was a woman who utilised all her -resources, and never allowed the meanest tool to rust for want of use; -and knowing that there were several admirable musicians, vocal and -instrumental, in the company, she was firmly resolved that they should -display their talents. - -A certain young Englishwoman, married to one Count Eugen of Rothenfels, -was the first to sing. The fair soprano was filling the room with a -flood of melody, when the countess came up to the place where Sara Ford -was seated, somewhat apart, with Jerome Wellfield leaning over the back -of her chair, his eyes dreamily fixed on the face of the singer. - -‘Mr. Wellfield,’ said his pretty little hostess, ‘I know I am asking a -very great favour, and that you hate it; but _won’t_ you sing to-night, -to please me?’ - -‘Oh, will you?’ said Sara, involuntarily. She had heard wonderful -rumours of Wellfield’s voice, and the wish to hear him was strong. - -He bowed towards the countess. - -‘To please you, _gnädige Frau_,’ he said, with a slight smile, ‘is a -privilege, and I shall at once obey your order when I receive it.’ - -‘That is good! _recht freundlich!_’ exclaimed the lady, radiant with -delight; for Wellfield’s reserve was generally as great as his talent -was said to be, and she had had little hope of his consenting to sing -before that large audience of perfect strangers. She confided her -success to the ear of one of her cousins, Helene von Lehnberg, who -said, with a sneer: - -‘Another of your English amateurs, Carla? For my part, I don’t think -much of a talent that is so haughty and reserved as almost to require -one to go on one’s knees to it.’ - -‘Ah, my dear Helene! I doat upon proud, haughty people, when they are -just the reverse to me, which is the case with Mr. Wellfield,’ rejoined -Frau von Trockenau, not without malice. - -‘I am glad you are going to sing,’ said Sara to Jerome, when they were -alone again. - -‘I am naturally of an obliging disposition, and could not refuse the -Frau Gräfin.’ - -‘She is delighted,’ said Sara, with a smile. - -‘When I have done,’ said Wellfield, in a low tone, ‘I shall come and -ask if you were delighted—may I?’ - -‘May you?’ she stammered. - -‘I mean, will you answer me if I do come?’ - -‘Do you expect me to tell you that I am not delighted?’ - -‘I expect nothing, therefore I am blessed; but I desire very much that -you should tell me the truth.’ - -‘I will do so if you wish it.’ - -‘Thank you.... Yes, Frau Gräfin, I see and I obey,’ he added, as the -countess was perceived making her way to him. - -There was some little stir and sensation when Wellfield advanced to the -piano. ‘An Englishman, an amateur—_nun, wir werden ’mal sehen!_’ said -one or two sceptics, with a supercilious curl of the lip. - -‘What does he sing? English songs—“The Last Rose of Summer”?’ asked -one young lady, sarcastically. - -‘No, no!’ whispered a dapper little lieutenant, who was paying her -devoted attention; ‘he will sing a comic song, “What Jolly Dogs we -are!” An Englishman told me last week that they sang nothing else in -England now. He was at a party where nineteen of the company had -brought their music——’ - -‘_Gott!_ Herr Lieutenant, how horrible!’ tittered the young lady. - -‘And sixteen out of the nineteen had brought “What Jolly Dogs we are!” -Fact, I assure you, _parole d’honneur_! But hush! He is playing his own -accompaniment. What! Rubinstein! “Asra!” Impossible!’ - -If so, the impossible was being performed in a masterly manner. -Would-be sarcastic lieutenants, tittering young ladies, were bewitched -into silence and admiration. Rubinstein’s weird and melodious legend of -the youth whose race ‘die if they love,’ was sung to the end, as few -of the audience had ever before heard it sung. The last notes, _Die -sterben wenn sie lieben_, were followed at first by silence; and then -some murmurs, not loud, but deep, of applause, greeted the singer. - -The song that followed was, _Es blinkt der Thau_, and it made Sara’s -heart beat. That finished, as if to give his audience a complete -change, he struck a couple of deep chords, and began to sing that -oft-quoted, hackneyed, but ever-beautiful _Ich grolle nicht_. - -Sara felt a slight shiver run through her. Why did he choose that one -weird song of Heine’s, set to Schumann’s equally weird music? She -had heard it once at a concert, sung in a style which hardly rose -above mediocrity, and yet even then it had impressed her; and she had -pondered involuntarily over the gruesome, hinted mystery of the last -lines. Jerome sang the strange song with a depth and a meaning all his -own: her artist-nature thrilled to the strains, which are in very truth -a song of death; it was ghostly—it was as if her spirit was enfeebled -and chilled, and had to trail its drooping wings through a land full of -vague and awful shadows. - - ‘Ich sah die Nacht - In deines Herzensraume; - Ich sah die Schlang’ - Die dir am Herzen frisst— - Ich sah, mein’ Lieb’, - Wie sehr du elend bist! - Ich grolle nicht.’ - -There was a pause as he finished this song. Jerome half-rose from the -piano, but a voice cried from the window: - -‘We have not had the test yet, Mr. Wellfield. Give us a love-song. Give -us _Adeläida_.’ - -Sara saw, even from her place in the background, the expression that -flashed into the young man’s eyes, and over his face. - -‘Good!’ was all he said, as he sat down again, and that melodious, -significant single _F_ was struck—that note which is the prelude to -the sea of love and fire and passion which follows. - -Sara sat pale and composed in her place, but feeling as if everyone -in the room must see and observe that she was blushing furiously—so -burningly hot were her cheeks. Each time that the notes ‘Adeläida’ rang -out, she felt that she was apostrophised—the company, and the lighted -room oppressed her—yet she looked, to one who was observing her from -the other side of the room, grave, quiet, almost tired. - -When the last notes had died away, Wellfield rose very decidedly, nor -could he be prevailed upon to sing another note. The company clustered -round him, thanked him, and congratulated him; asked to be introduced -to him, and dispersed. Dancing began again, and still Sara sat as if -spell-bound, in the place where he had left her. - -‘I have come to know if you approved?’ murmured Jerome’s voice beside -her. - -She looked up, and met his eyes with an expression in them, before -which her own in vain tried to remain calm and untroubled. - -‘If I approved?’ she said, indistinctly. ‘How can you ask?’ - -Jerome was leaning against the wall, looking down at her—looking, too, -as undisturbed as if he had been asking her whether she would have an -ice. In the same manner, with the same tone, so low that none but she -could hear it, he added: - -‘And did you understand?’ - -‘I—I think so,’ said Sara, faintly. - -‘Herr Wellfield, Miss Ford! the cotillon is about to begin. Here is -your favour, Mr. Wellfield. Be good enough to let me pin it on, and -then go and find your partner.’ - -It was Fräulein von Lehnberg, one of the countess’s Berlin cousins, who -spoke, with some impatience in her voice; for she had twice addressed -Jerome, and he had taken no notice of her. He stepped forward now, -and held the basket of ribbons while she pinned on his favour, with -an imperturbable severity of gravity which irritated the young lady -exceedingly. Then he offered Sara his arm, and they advanced to meet -the rest of the company. - -In the discussions next day on the subject, it was universally decided -that Mr. Wellfield might be a musical, Miss Ford an artistic prodigy; -but that in the matter of dancing a cotillon they both displayed to -the full that insular stiffness characteristic of their nation. That -little Emily Leigh had ten times the spirit of her taller and handsomer -country-woman. How gracefully she danced, and contrived to make even -that maypole, Hans Lemde, look almost graceful too. - -Beloved and candid discussions of the day after! How much does not -society and the individual owe to you, in the matter of establishment -of the facts, and an exhaustive analysis of the motives actuating the -behaviour of those who come before your tribunal! May nothing ever -occur to make you less vigorous or less rigorous than you are at this -day! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -A LANDPARTEI. - - -On the following morning, Sara came into the room where Falkenberg was -standing alone, waiting for the rest of the company who were going to -Lahnburg. In her hand she carried a small canvas. - -‘Here, Herr Falkenberg, is the sketch you wished to see. I remembered -it, and brought it downstairs with me.’ - -Falkenberg thanked her, took the sketch, and looked at it in silence, -until Sara said: - -‘It is as I expected. You are racking your brains to find out how to -say “Atrocious” so that it shall sound like something else.’ - -‘If I had to say “Atrocious,” I’m afraid I should say it, much though I -might dislike having to do so,’ he answered, smiling. ‘As it is, I wish -to say nothing of the kind.’ - -‘Oh, what a relief!’ - -‘There are the carriages coming round,’ he added composedly, ‘to take -us to the Ems railway station. May I take the sketch to my own room? -There is no time to look at it now.’ - -‘Certainly, if you care to do so.’ - -‘Thank you,’ said he, taking it up, and leaving the room with it. - -Sara sat down at the piano, and played tunes, until at last Frau von -Trockenau came whirling into the room with a pair of long gloves in her -hand. - -‘Are you ready, Sara? Yes—of course. How horrid of you! You never keep -the company waiting. What a rush it is, this life! Oh, how I long to be -alone sometimes!’ - -‘Complimentary to us and to poor Count Trockenau!’ - -The countess laughed heartily. - -‘My poor Fritz!—of course I spoke exceptionally.’ - -‘You know you would hate to be alone,’ added Sara. ‘You cannot live out -of a rush. I wonder what you would do if you had to lead my life at -Elberthal.’ - -‘Ah, but you have a great soul. Mine is such a very little one. Little -in every way. It is so small that it has led me to—what do you think?’ - -‘I am sure I cannot say. To tell Hans Lemde that I am dying to paint -his portrait, I dare say.’ - -‘No! But oh, what a lovely idea! I will tell him so, and I will say -that you said it. Poor Hans! I imagine him sitting to you. Oh, I think -I see his face!’ - -They both laughed in a manner which Baron Lemde would probably think -malignant, and Frau von Trockenau went on. - -‘No, but I was so annoyed at the way in which Helene and Maria Lehnberg -behaved last evening—giving themselves such airs, that I have done -something spiteful to them to-day.’ - -‘Shameful! But what is it?’ - -‘I have doomed them to drive with me and Lemde in the barouche; Fritz -rides, and I am sending you first in the pony-phaeton with Herr -Falkenberg.’ - -‘I see nothing so very spiteful in that. Why should your cousins -object?’ - -‘My dear Sara! I believe you live in a dream. Don’t you know that -Helene Lehnberg would give her right hand if Falk——Oh, here he is. -Good-morning, Herr Falkenberg. I shall not be a moment. How beautifully -you are dressed, Sara! Beside you, I feel like a collection of tags -of coloured ribbon. You are both ready. Well, shall we go? Herr -Falkenberg, I am going to ask you to drive Miss Ford to the station in -the pony-phaeton. Herr von Lemde will go with my cousins and me.’ - -‘I shall be delighted,’ observed Herr Falkenberg; and Sara followed -the countess out of the room, lost in wonder as to what she meant by -saying that she had done something spiteful to her cousins, and what it -was Helene Lehnberg would give her right hand for. - -Very soon she was seated beside Falkenberg, and they were driving down -the hill, along the Nassau Road to Ems, which was reached before long; -past the hotel of the _Vier Jahreszeiten_, to the station. - - * * * * * - -There is a wayside railway station on a German line, which station, -twenty years ago, was a thing of the future, and which I will here call -Lahnburg. It is the scene of the _Leiden des jungen Werther_—it is -the place where Goethe adored, and where the object of his adoration -placidly ‘went on cutting bread and butter.’ It was then Goethe’s, -Lotte’s, Jerusalem’s home; now it is an out-of-the-way country town -which is completely out of the beaten route of the tourist, and which -few persons have heard of, and fewer still care to visit. - -Leave the train—it is a slow one—all the trains are slow which deign -to stop at Lahnburg. At Lahnburg they hurry no one—themselves least -of all. Now we are on the asphalted platform of the little station, in -the presence of a Prussian, with a blue coat and a fierce moustache, -who sternly demands our _Gepäckschein_. If we have luggage, we meekly -give it him, thankful to be so well, if so severely taken care of. -If we have none, we mention the fact, and leave him to wonder what -sinister motives could have brought us to that spot, and to look at us -as if he would place us under arrest, were not his powers so shamefully -limited. We leave the station, and take the road leading towards the -town. - -Along an uninteresting country-road, till we begin to drive up the hill -around and upon which the town is built. Up the steep, rugged streets, -between the high antique houses, slowly and joltingly lumbering over -the stones, in and out, and round about up the hill, till we arrive -at the Marktplatz, and behold, surrounding the great cobble-stoned -square, all the principal buildings of the town! Pause, Jehu! thou -reckless charioteer—pause, that we may fully take into our minds -the scene about us. Here we are, in the middle of the square. There, -opposite to us, stands the solemn old _Dom_, built of a warmly-hued, -reddish stone. From its midst rises the nucleus of it all—that which -is older than Christianity, the seamed, cracked, scarred, black, -old _Heidenthurm_—the ‘heathen-tower,’ remnant of long-past Roman -rule. Blasted, black and ruined, but grim and defiant, majestic and -undegraded still, in the midst of its wreck, it fronts us, and towers -over the town and landscape beneath; for the _Dom_ is built on the -very summit of the hill; and before it was, was the _Heidenthurm_. It -watches over the fertile hill-slopes and over the level, poplar-fringed -meads at the foot of them, between which the gliding Lahn holds its -course. Since that grim old sentinel first took his stand there, what -changes have not taken place! The very face of the landscape has -altered, while dynasties changed and kings and people rose and fell, -and kingdoms and empires flourished and passed away. Varied have been -the signs of the heavens above him—more varied far the life-stories, -the joys, the sorrows, the raptures, and the agonies of the races which -have grown up, have lived and died, married and brought children into -the world—while he stood there defiant and unchangeably grim. - -There on the right hand of the square is a more modern safety-guard, -and one more in consonance with the advanced civilisation which has -arisen since the _Heidenthurm_ was built. This latter guardian is -the _Wachtstube_, _Wache_, _Hauptwache_, as it is indiscriminately -called—the guardhouse, peopled with half a dozen scrubby-looking -soldiers, and a couple of lieutenants, with a white mongrel cur, -alternately their plaything and their victim during the weary hours of -ennui. The _Heidenthurm_ turns its back upon this outcome of a high -civilisation and the Christian religion—what has it in common with the -_Wachtstube_, or the _Wachtstube_ with it? To the left, more houses: -that big clumsy building with the Prussian eagle over the doorway is -the _Rathhaus_; therein the Herr Bürgermeister and his belongings -live and move and have their being. Filling in the gaps more and more -houses, each one a picture, each roof a distracting medley of hills and -dales, ups and downs, dormer windows, turrets, chimney-stacks whose -irregularity would break the heart of a high-minded architect of modern -suburban villas. And here too, last but not least, for those who want -accommodation, with mine host bowing and smiling before the door, is -that lumbering old structure, the inn of the place—the _Gasthof zum -Herzoglichen Hause_, a building bearing some inexplicable, indefinable, -but most indubitable resemblance to Noah’s ark, as pictured to the -popular imagination in the toyshop windows. - -Our party had proceeded thus far—that is, to the market square—on -their way from the station. The countess and one of her cousins only -had taken seats in the carriage which had met them. The men, Sara Ford, -and the other Fräulein von Lehnberg had walked. The German ladies went -into raptures over the place; it was _reizend_, _entzückend_, and many -other superlative expressions of admiration. Sara asked Falkenberg -aside: - -‘Is it impossible to go into the old _Dom_ and explore Lotte Buff’s -house, and these other quaint old places?’ - -‘It is, on the contrary, very possible, _mein Fräulein_. But,’ he added -in a lower tone, ‘would you care to go with all these people?’ - -Sara shrugged her shoulders, smiling a little. - -‘I see you would not. I will arrange that you have a good view of -whatever you wish to see. Meantime, suppose we go on to my house, where -lunch will be ready for us, I expect.’ - -‘I wonder,’ thought Sara within herself, ‘whether his wife and -family are away from home, or whether his wife is just a slave and a -_Hausfrau_, as so many of them appear to be.’ - -The carriage was now driven past the _Hauptwache_, up a street leading -out of a corner of the square, on to a breezy upland road, from which -there was a fine view over the level fields far below to the left, -while on the right there were pleasant-looking fir-clad hills, over -which a bracing breeze blew. - -Herr Falkenberg’s ‘summer-house’ was situated not very far up the said -road; it was an old grey grange, standing on a slope at the right hand, -surrounded on three sides by what had been a moat, and it was over the -remains of a drawbridge that the carriage drove into the grounds. Sara -lingered a moment before the grey moss-grown stone archway, trying to -make out a half-defaced inscription above it. Herr Falkenberg lingered -too, and said: - -‘You cannot read that, Miss Ford. I own that it was one of the great -attractions of the place to me when I bought it.’ - -‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘I cannot see.’ - -‘First there are the initials of the builder, R. K., which stand, I -believe, for Rodolf Kammermann; and then, beneath the date, 1560; and -on either side, still easily to be read, _Mein Genügen_. I thought it -was a good omen for happiness.’ - -‘Yes, indeed. And is that the name of the place?’ - -‘Yes. It is called to this day _Mein Genügen_.’[A] - -‘I like it,’ said Sara, musingly. ‘That old baron, or whatever he was, -must have had poetry in his soul.’ - -‘Yes; poetry which he succeeded in expressing simply and beautifully, -in this old house with the lovely view,’ said Falkenberg, as they -followed the others, overtaking them at the door. - -From the door-steps there certainly was a very fair prospect—an -uninterrupted view to the river in the vale below, and to the hills on -the opposite side of it. To the left could just be seen some of the -roofs of the town, showing that _Mein Genügen_ was not utterly alone in -the world, and the higher red turrets of the _Dom_, and the ragged top -of the _Heidenthurm_. - -‘Not the _Wachtstube_, fortunately,’ remarked Sara. - -‘Luckily not,’ rejoined Falkenberg. - -More bursts of delight from the ladies—rushes into the house, into the -garden, everywhere. A courteous invitation from the host to enter, and -lay aside their outdoor things and rest, until lunch should be ready. -Which invitation was complied with. An entrance into the house, and -more admiration, for the salon was a quaint and charming room, full of -quaint, charming, and costly things. - -‘He must be alone, I suppose,’ Sara decided within herself, as no lady -came forward, and Herr Falkenberg continued himself to do the honours -with an ease of manner and an apparent simplicity which exquisitely -concealed the perfect tact he employed. - -He contrived—for he had that special gift so rarely found—to make -each separate person there to feel him or herself to be ‘the honoured -guest’ _par excellence_; and he succeeded at least in delighting two of -his visitors, Frau von Trockenau and Sara Ford. The two Fräulein von -Lehnberg were rather more difficult. They were annoyed that there was -only Hans von Lemde to be monopolised. - -They stood in the window, talking with him and Graf von Trockenau, who -was trying to recall the particulars of some place in the neighbourhood -‘which everyone ought to see,’ and in this endeavour he was feebly and -ineffectually seconded by Hans von Lemde, whose profound studies in -such literature as the _Almanach de Gotha_ had apparently disqualified -him for more commonplace topics. Sara had seated herself beside a -curious old painted spinet which stood at one side of the room. -Frau von Trockenau was beside her, and Falkenberg was leaning on -the aforesaid spinet talking to them, or rather listening while the -countess talked to him. - -‘It is a paradise of a place, Herr Falkenberg. There is nothing I -should like better than to have such a place—only a week of it would -be enough for me, because it is too small to have a large party in. -It would be dull beyond expression after seven days, and you see my -husband is not a financier—the very reverse, poor fellow!—so he -could not afford to indulge me with such a toy for one week in the -year.’ - -‘I spend a good deal more than one week in the year here, _gnädige -Frau_——’ - -‘Ah, yes; but you have a great soul, like Miss Ford. I was telling her -so this morning. You can exist without company and distractions.’ - -‘Perhaps Herr Falkenberg does not care for visitors,’ suggested Sara, -utterly unconscious of committing any solecism. ‘Perhaps the society of -his wife and family is sufficient for him.’ - -‘Sara!’ ejaculated the countess; and then, as if much entertained, -the pretty little lady tried to stifle a laugh which would not be -altogether repressed. Into Falkenberg’s eyes leaped a strange, -disappointed expression; and at that moment they met those of Sara, -who was looking up at him, surprised at his manner and at that of her -friend. The man’s colour rose, and he laughed too, a little unsteadily, -as he replied: - -‘I am not so fortunate as Miss Ford imagines. I have neither wife nor -child.’ - -‘No wife!’ echoed Sara, in astonishment; and then, laughing too, but -with a heightened colour, she said: - -‘I am sure I beg your pardon. I don’t know what made me take it for -granted that you were married. No one ever told me so. It was stupid of -me.’ - -‘I do not see why you should think so,’ he answered, trying to laugh in -his turn; but there was a tinge of constraint in the laugh, and by some -means his eyes met those of the Countess of Trockenau. She appeared to -be laughing still, a little; her handkerchief before her mouth, but -it was not all a laugh in the glance that met his. Countess Carla had -indeed a most active brain, if one somewhat lacking in consequence, and -failing in the matter of logic. The thought which then darted through -her mind was, ‘Falkenberg is much struck with Sara Ford. He does not -like to find that she has all along thought he was married and done -for; and that, therefore, she can never have bestowed one tender -thought upon him. And it is a shame, too. I believe they are made for -one another, and I do like him so much. Why should it not be? I like -the idea.’ - -She ceased to laugh entirely. She rose, placed her arm within his, and -asked him to tell her about a picture at the opposite side of the room. - -They walked away. Sara was left, with her elbow resting on the top of -the painted spinet, thinking: - -‘Not married? how odd! But why should I have supposed he was? I suppose -that was what Carla meant, when she said she had been spiteful to the -Lehnbergs—she said Helene Lehnberg would give her right hand—oh, that -was too bad! He is immensely rich, if not noble. Yes, I see it all now -... and certainly he is far too good for that vain, boastful coquette.’ - -When lunch was announced they went into the dining-room, and the -repast was in no way calculated to throw discredit on the management -of the occasional summer residence of a rich Frankfort banker, or -upon the presence of mind and mental powers of his housekeeper. Sara -found herself seated at one side of her host, while Countess Carla -was opposite; while Fräulein von Lehnberg, drawing her black brows -together, wondered on what known or unknown principle of etiquette that -Englishwoman was given a higher place than herself. But Herr Falkenberg -was most distinctly not only host but master in his own house, and -when he had placed a chair for Helene and asked her to take a certain -place, she had perforce consented. Sara did not bestow much attention -upon the order of precedence; but her interest had been roused in her -host, and she saw from a certain beaming look on Countess Carla’s face -that she was thoroughly well-pleased with everything, and with herself -in particular. In consequence of this, she seconded all Falkenberg’s -efforts at conversation, and the meal was passing off brightly enough. -Sara observed her host more closely, and the more she observed him -the better she liked him. By the time that lunch was half over, she -had forgotten that he was a great critic, who had got a sketch of hers -upon which he was going to pass judgment: this point disappeared in -her growing appreciation of his qualities as a man and a companion. -His perfect modesty in the midst of his wealth and great surroundings -struck her more than anything else. Sara loved to see power in man or -woman; but assumption she hated with a hatred that was almost ludicrous. - -Just at this time the door opened, and a fresh-looking young gentleman -entered, started on seeing so many guests, and was about to back out -again; but Falkenberg sprang up, saying: - -‘_Willkommen!_ you thought I was alone, I expect. Come in and join us.’ - -With which he introduced him as Baron Arthur Eckberg, to the two Berlin -ladies in particular. He was awarded a seat between them. Helene’s -black brows relaxed in their frown. Presently her voice was heard in -dulcet tones. She was appeased; and the countess became more radiant -than ever. - -When the party again repaired to the salon, a rather confused -conversation ensued. It was found that three hours remained to be -disposed of, before it would be time to return to the railway station. -Herr Falkenberg, with a courteous patience which was beautiful to -behold, tried to find out what his lady-guests, to use an ancient -phrase, ‘would be at.’ This was rather a difficult task, as the -Lehnberg sisters displayed emphatically ‘a diversity of gifts, but -the same spirit,’—the gifts, namely, of caprice, contrariety, and -perverseness, and the same spirit of cool self-seeking and resolution -that all should give way to them. Some one appealed to Sara. - -‘Thank you,’ said she, holding up a little sketching-board, ‘the -present professional opportunity is too good to be missed. I am going -to sketch the _Dom_, if my going out alone will not be thought rude. -I can find my way to the Market Square, and I will come back here in -plenty of time, so I beg that no one will be in any trouble about me.’ - -‘Don’t go far away from here, as I may join you later, _when_ the -others have made up their minds,’ said the countess, in the blandest of -voices. - -‘Very well,’ said Sara, smiling, and, with a slight salute to the rest -of the company, she took her way out of the house. Falkenberg had not -said a word either for or against her resolution to go out alone. - -She left the garden, pausing once again to contemplate with a peculiar -pleasure the old grey gateway, and to read over the inscription, which -seemed now to have a new meaning for her. - -‘_Mein Genügen_,’ she thought. ‘Yes, I should fancy that that man would -make a “contentment” wherever he goes. There is the harmony of a strong -soul at peace with itself and the world, in all he says and does. But -I wonder he is not married. I could imagine some woman being very much -in love with him; and if he loved her, he would most assuredly make -her happy. Well, Carla says that with the exception of her husband and -herself, the nicest people are not married.’ - -She smiled as she remembered that saying, and, looking up, found -herself again in the centre of the Marktplatz, which was empty of all -human life. - -The afternoon was hot, and the sun shone bakingly upon the round -stones which paved the square. A drowsy calm hung over everything. -Sara, pausing, looked around her, trying to choose some vantage-ground -from which to sketch the _Dom_. She perceived that to the left of it, -immediately under its wall, there were steps leading into a kind of -small retired square, which looked shady and cool. Not a good position -from which to make her sketch, but it was inviting. The ardour for work -had left her. Ever since last night she had been longing intensely -to be alone. She bent her steps towards the spot, ascended the low, -broad flight of stone stairs, and found herself in a square, shady, -gravelled space, in the midst of which rose a heavy, tasteless-looking -stone monument, something between an ambitious tombstone and a -grovelling obelisk. She walked up to it and looked at it. It bore a -long list of names, and an inscription to the effect that the town of -Lahnburg raised this humble _Denkmal_ to the memory of those of her -sons who had died fighting for _Kaiser und Vaterland_, in 1870-71. -There were the regiments to which the deceased had belonged, their -ages, and the names of the engagements in which they had fallen—Sedan, -Metz, Saarbrück, etc. And below all, _Auf Wiedersehen!_ Sara read it -all, strangely moved by its homely simplicity, the confident expression -of belief in a meeting again, and touched by the profound peace of -this quiet _Ruheplatz_—so fitting for those brave hearts. At one side -of the square there was a low wall, and some seats before it, on one -of which she seated herself, and found that it commanded a glorious -view of the low-lying country through which there the Lahn flows. The -great, cool shadow of the cathedral was cast over her, while beneath -her eyes the fertile land lay spread under a quivering veil of golden -sun-pierced mist. - -It was a feast for eye and heart. The artist soul of the woman drank -in all the broad, calm, peaceful beauty of it, and her eyes dwelt -lovingly upon every exquisite curve of distant hill, on every silver -link in the windings of the placid river. She put her hand upon her -sketch-book—opened it; even took her pencil in her hand; then laid it -down again, with a restless sigh breaking from her lips. She felt the -need of being alone, and yet, now that she was alone, she dreaded to -acknowledge her own state of mind to herself. Her thoughts were vague -and disconnected. There was a prevailing sensation that the old life -no longer satisfied her. She knew that between her and her rejoicing -fulness of contentment in her art, a barrier had arisen. A third -thought now always intruded between herself and her purpose. She could -handle no pencil, take up no book, behold no beautiful thing, form no -plans for the future, without the influence of Jerome Wellfield making -itself overpoweringly felt. At times—at this moment, even—she almost -resented this new feeling; longed for freedom, and revolted at finding -her soul enslaved. She felt a tremor sometimes—the unspoken question -tormented her, ‘What if this passion be all wrong, instead of all -right? What if it paralyse, instead of expanding, my nature? If it so -absorb me that I can forget others—forget, for one moment, my highest -aims—then it is surely wrong. A love that is pure and true ought to -make one more unselfish, ought to make one love better and more largely -and liberally everything and every person about one. Is it so with me?’ - -Some such thought as this was agitating her mind this afternoon. She -was striving to be reasonable, to keep her head steady in the midst of -her heart’s wild storm—piteously striving, while the tyrant sentiment -shook her with ruthless hand; while between her and the wholesome -outside nature, came the beautiful face which now haunted her thoughts -so doggedly, and beyond the twitter of the hopping birds about and -above her, sounded that voice to which every fibre had thrilled, every -sense had responded, last night. A lark suddenly rose, fluttering -aloft, pouring out a full-hearted song—such a flood of trilling -ecstasy as must have nearly burst his little throat. She heard it, and -it troubled her; it interrupted the memory of that other song, in such -weird contrast to this one, which Jerome had sung: - - - ‘In dreams I saw thy face, - And saw the night - Filling thy heart’s drear space, - And saw the snake - That gnaws that heart apace. - I saw, my love, - Thy great and sore distress; - I murmur not.’ - - -‘What am I thinking of?’ she almost uttered, starting quickly. ‘I am -nervous. I must be. Why didn’t I go to those Lehnberg girls and be -amiable to them, instead of standing aloof and helping Carla to be -ill-natured, for I know she dislikes them. I should have felt better -now, had I done so. I am degraded by indulging in this folly, and I——’ - -‘Surely, Miss Ford, you did not think this the best place from which to -sketch the _Dom_?’ said Falkenberg’s voice, just beside her. - -Sara turned slowly, too thoroughly absorbed in her own thoughts to be -startled. Her eyes dwelt at first almost unrecognisingly upon his face. -There was trouble in them—a kind of pained, hunted look. Gradually -they cleared, as she came down again into the world of reality, and -saw him stooping towards her. He was alone. Her troubled heart grew -calmer, as she saw his good face, and grave, critical brown eyes, full -of wisdom and full of kindness, fixed upon her. - -‘Whatever this man told me, I should believe implicitly,’ she thought -within herself, and she smiled welcome to him. Indeed, she did welcome -him in her heart. He came as a deliverer. Her thraldom had begun to -gall her, when he appeared. - -‘Where have you left the countess?’ she asked. - -‘At my house. She discovered that she could not walk so far as the -others were going, and that she wished to inspect my house and farm -and gardens; for she was certain that she could find a great deal to -improve in all of them.’ - -He smiled, and so did Sara, the latter of course being unconscious of -the additional remarks made by the candid countess when alone with her -favourite guest—remarks which it had required all his tact to receive -with an appearance of amused indifference. - -‘Ah, she is not fond of walking. You may well ask if I thought this a -good place from which to sketch the _Dom_. I came down here, and then -found that I was not inclined to draw. I hope you do not feel that you -have been beguiled here on false pretences.’ - -‘By no means. I am glad you don’t wish to draw; perhaps you will be all -the more disposed to converse.’ - -‘If you will “introduce a subject,” as they did in the old game, I -shall be delighted.’ - -‘I have a subject quite ready. I hope you will not think me very -impertinent for introducing it; and if you consider my questions -unwarrantable, tell me so, and I will apologise and be silent.’ - -‘Now I know you are going to ask me questions about myself, which I -give you free leave to do. I know of absolutely nothing in my life -which I care to conceal.’ - -‘Then, do you live entirely at Elberthal?’ - -‘I have lived there now for two years, entirely, except when friends -have invited me to visit them.’ - -‘And alone?’ - -‘Alone, except for my old servant, Ellen, my second mother, who lives -with me.’ - -‘And you have neither father nor mother?’ he asked. - -‘No! My mother died when I was a baby, almost. My father worshipped -her. He never married a second time. Nearly three years ago he also -died. I have very few relations, and those not congenial. I may -therefore say, I am alone in the world.’ - -‘And—and—excuse the question,’ he said, flushing violently, so that -she looked at him in surprise. ‘Are you—but really, I have no right to -ask.’ - -‘What do you mean, Herr Falkenberg?’ - -‘I wondered whether you were entirely dependent on your art, for——’ - -‘Oh, I thought you were going to ask, like my aunt in England, what I -did when I was asked out, and had no chaperon to take me,’ said Sara, -laughing. ‘Am I dependent on my art for the means of subsistence? No! -I have just one hundred pounds a year of my own, Herr Falkenberg, safe -and secure.’ - -‘I am glad of that,’ said he, with a sympathetic smile of relief. ‘It -makes all the difference. With that income certain, you may live to -your art as art.’ - -‘Yes, I find it a very good thing. My hundred a year is worth a -thousand to me, I assure you. But what a paltry little sum it must -appear to you,’ she added, with a look of humour in her grey eyes. -‘What was it I once read about “spinsters and widows of one or two -hundred a year, and other minute capitalists of the same kind?” I -remember being very much amused with it. Do you not almost feel to -require a magnifying-glass—mental, I mean—to enable you to see my -hundred a year at all—you with your immense transactions, and your -great income?’ - -‘My dear Miss Ford,’ he expostulated, blushing as if to apologise for -having such a large income when she had such a very small one, ‘pardon -me; I ought never to have alluded——’ - -Sara laughed with hearty enjoyment. - -‘Do not look so distressed,’ she said. ‘When I think how frightened I -was at the countess’s account of you, and how I quaked when I saw her -bringing you up to me yesterday, and then realise your goodness—why -should you not ask how much money I have, and why should I not tell you -that I have a hundred a year? I think there is such an immense amount -of false delicacy wasted upon such matters.’ - -‘Yet I know that you would not think of asking me what my income is,’ -said Falkenberg, composedly. - -‘There is a difference between a great financier and a “minute -capitalist” like myself. Have you some plan for turning my hundred a -year into two?’ she added, laughing. - -‘No; I was innocent of wishing to speculate with your money. I was -only anxious to know that you were not obliged to speculate with your -brains.’ - -‘No; I have been most fortunate, I consider, in that respect. When I -first went to Elberthal I was certainly seriously puzzled to arrange my -affairs, from a poverty of means, not an _embarras de richesses_. You -see—I daresay you can bend your comprehension to the fact—it _was_ a -little difficult to make a hundred a year pay for board and lodging for -two, and for my lessons as well.’ - -‘It must have been impossible,’ exclaimed Falkenberg, looking so -shocked that Sara laughed again gleefully. - -‘I am sure I could “harrow you up,” as the Americans say, if I were to -relate some of Ellen’s and my contrivances at that time. We both were -inspired with a Spartan resolution not to get into debt if we had to -starve for it.’ - -‘I cannot conceive how you lived,’ he said, in a voice which had actual -pain in it. ‘How can you laugh at it? It is shocking. What were your -friends doing to allow——’ - -‘Oh! my friends were few, and they were all so angry at the course I -had taken, that they would have rejoiced in the idea that I was being -humbled—that perhaps I should be obliged to return home. But I was -going to tell you how we went on—if you want to hear, that is.’ - -‘Oh, if you will be so good as to tell me!’ - -‘I had lessons from Wilhelmi; I daresay you know him?’ - -‘Yes.’ - -‘He is a splendid fellow, do you know? At first I had great difficulty -in getting him to teach me at all. Then he suddenly became quite kind. -I believe it was as soon as he saw that I meant work, and not nonsense. -He was good enough to say that I had talent, and since then he will -accept absolutely nothing from me for my lessons. He says I can give -him a service of plate, with inscriptions, when I am a popular painter. -Is not that noble generosity?’ - -‘Very kind,’ assented Falkenberg, almost coldly. - -‘And his wife and daughter have been almost as kind as himself. I feel -that they are friends indeed.’ - -‘But your people at home?’ he began. - -‘All my “people at home” consist in an uncle, a brother of my mother’s, -and his family. My father was professor of modern history at —— -College, in London. His opinions, both religious and social, were -advanced. When he was living, his house was a favourite place with -clever, cultivated men and women, of all shades of opinion; most of -them, like himself, not particularly well off. Then he died, suddenly, -and left me, as I said, with one hundred pounds a year. I was just -one-and-twenty, and my small possessions were fortunately absolutely at -my own disposal. I tried living with “my people at home.” My uncle is a -clergyman; rector of a very small village in the south of England. They -exist there; they don’t live. It soon grew intolerable to me. I had -been accustomed to the society of men and women of mind; and the gossip -about the curate, and my cousins’ frantic efforts to imitate the dress -of the county ladies who occasionally came to church, and who most -likely spent as many hundreds on their clothes as Charlotte and Louisa -had sovereigns, drove me almost wild. Then the curate tried to convert -me——’ - -‘Heavens!’ - -‘And I spoke disrespectfully of the Church. My aunt and cousins were -speechless, and sent me to Coventry for a long time. I remembered how -well my pictures had sold at some fancy fairs and bazaars in London, -to which I had sometimes contributed, and I resolved that I would use -the powers God had given me. I laid all my plans in silence, only -taking my old Ellen into my confidence. She vowed she would follow me -to the world’s end.’ - -‘Of course!’ - -‘Of course? Not at all. She had an excellent situation offered her, as -housekeeper, in an English country house, where she could have done as -she pleased, and where she also would have received a hundred a year. -When incomes dwindle down to hundreds, Herr Falkenberg, one finds -one’s-self on a pecuniary level with strange companions sometimes.’ - -‘How you harp upon that stupid hundred pounds!’ exclaimed Falkenberg. -‘I believe you wish to defy me with it. Well?’ - -‘She gave it up, and accompanied me. There was a storm at the rectory -when I unfolded my plans. My uncle forbade me to go, and said it would -have broken my mother’s heart.’ Her lip curled scornfully. ‘My mother, -who always taught me that no kind of work was shameful, and that every -kind of idleness was! Naturally I took no notice of that. My cousins -said I was a Bohemian, and liked adventures, and that it all came of my -having been brought up amongst unbelievers. My aunt was speechless for -a time, and then said, “Go abroad, child, alone! What will you do for a -chaperon, when you are invited anywhere?”’ - -‘And you?’ he asked, laughing. - -‘I said, “I suppose I shall go without one.” And then I came to -Elberthal. I have been there now for two years. One of my cousins -occasionally writes to me, and I to her. The rest ignore me. And -I—have learnt to live alone. With plenty of work it is not so very -difficult, and the depraved nature of the German customs has even -allowed me to go out without a chaperon now and then, without visiting -the sin too severely upon me.’ - -‘Then how did you meet with the Trockenaus?’ - -‘Ah!’ said Sara, a smile of pleasure flashing over her face, ‘that was -another pleasant thing. Count Trockenau was once a student in the very -college in which my father was professor of history, and had attended -some of his lectures; and, it seems, had been at his house, and seen -me when I was a mere child. I don’t remember it, but he does. They saw -a picture with my name, at an exhibition in Berlin; and he actually -took the trouble to ascertain whether I had anything to do with the -Professor Ford he had known. That is a year ago; since then, they have -been unvaryingly kind to me. But people are kind, it seems to me. As -for Countess Carla—she is goodness itself.’ - -‘Yes; there is a wonderful charm about her,’ he said, and then they -were both silent for a time. - -Her clear grey eyes were fixed upon the fields below them—eyes so -perfectly true, pure, and candid, he thought he had never seen. -Now also, he saw the slight line about the mouth—a line which was -sometimes a little hard, as if struggle and disillusionism had called -it there. Her open gaze, her fearless smile, her unembarrassed manner -of holding her way through the world—what was it all? Innocence, most -assuredly; but ignorance—no. She knew the world, and knew that it -was evil. He thought that in addition to innocence there was perfect -comprehension of her position, great ambition, a great deal of pride, -and, mixed with that, a touch of indifference that was almost cynical. -She did not sneer; there was no sneer on the beautiful frank mouth, but -there was disdain. He had never seen anything quite like her before. -As he sat, looking earnestly at her, he began to reflect that very -soon she would pass from his life. This conversation in the afternoon -sunshine, under the shadow of the _Dom_, was pleasant—as sweet as it -was unexpected, and different from all other conversations he had ever -had. But soon it would be over. After a few days at Trockenau, she -would return to her atelier; he to his business and his—pleasures. -His pleasures, as he looked back upon them now, seen in the light -of _this_ sun, looked grey and dim and poor. Of course he need not -lose sight of her, and the most natural way of keeping her in view, -considering their relative positions, would be to give her a commission -to paint him a picture. He felt himself revolted at the idea—felt the -blood rise to his cheeks at the thought. Surely there must be some -other way of keeping her in sight. - -At this moment she turned, and found his eyes so intently fixed on her -face, that her colour too rose a little, as she asked: - -‘Have I said something that shocks you too, Herr Falkenberg? I should -be sorry for that.’ - -‘Miss Ford!’ he exclaimed earnestly, ‘what you have told me makes me -honour and respect you from my very soul. Do not for a moment think -that your confidence has been misplaced, as it must have been if I were -“shocked” at anything you have said. We only met yesterday, and yet I -am bold enough to say that if you would consent to place me on the -list of your friends and servants, I should indeed feel honoured.’ - -Sara looked at him with eloquent eyes and parted lips. - -‘You are very kind,’ she said earnestly, ‘and I accept your kindness. -I—my friends are not many, but they are prized. I should think it a -privilege to count you amongst them, for I believe you have the same -feelings about friendship that I have myself, and my ideas on the -subject are by no means low ones.’ - -‘Nor mine. And for that reason I am like yourself. My friends are few,’ -he said, taking the hand she extended, and raising it to his lips, his -eyes still fixed on her face. Suddenly her own eyes filled with tears. -She turned aside her face, and covered it with her other hand. - -‘What have I done to deserve such kindness?’ she said tremulously, and -profoundly moved. And indeed, what is there that should move a human -soul more than such a discovery as this—the discovery of a friend? -Schiller felt it when he sang in that great ode, which never has been -and never can be translated without being ruined: - - ‘Wem der grosse Wurf gelungen, - _Eines Freundes Freund zu sein_, - Wer ein holdes Weib errungen, - Mische seinen Jubel ein! - Ja, wer auch nur _eine_ Seele - _Sein_ nennt, auf dem Erdenrund. - Und wer’s nie gekonnt, der stehle - Weinend sich aus diesem Bund.’ - -‘It is not kindness so much as selfishness,’ said he, gently. ‘Do we -not all try to grasp that which seems very desirable to us?’ - -‘It is a kind of selfishness I like,’ said Sara, recovering, and -flashing a bright glance upon him through the mist which still veiled -her eyes. - -‘I should like to take you to one or two places here—Lotte Buff’s -house, and Goethe’s Well, and some others, if you would care to go,’ he -said, as if to put aside her still unspoken thanks. - -‘I should, immensely. Shall we have time before the others come back? -Where are they gone, by-the-way?’ - -‘They are gone to a celebrated restauration on the top of that hill, -the Kalsmund, which you see opposite, with the ruined tower upon it. At -this restauration they are famed for their _Bowle_—pineapple _Bowle_; -and I heard young Lemde, and the count, and Arthur Eckberg arranging -to take the ladies there and have a large bowl of the said _Bowle_, in -the garden of the restauration,’ said Falkenberg, with an imperturbable -gravity which the light in his eyes belied. - -Sara laughed. - -‘Should we not rather go and find the countess, and ask her to come -with us? I am sure she will be dull.’ - -Accordingly they went to the house, and found the countess nothing -loath to accept their invitation that she would accompany them. They -had a very delightful tour of discovery; and Sara noticed that wherever -they went, their companion appeared to be known, and that he was -greeted with smiles and a pleasant word. - -When it was time they returned to the house, and found the rest of the -party there, all in the highest good-humour, and all pitying them for -having missed the treat they had had—the walk, the view, the ruins, -and the _Bowle_. - -It was time to go to the railway station, and after a railway journey -of one hour and a drive of another, they found that their _Landpartei_ -was over, and they were again at Schloss Trockenau. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -OF THE WELLFIELDS. - - -At Ems, the morning of the same day, some time after the Trockenau -procession had gone past on its way to the station, two young ladies -seated themselves on a bench in the Kurgarten, beside the broad walk. -They had brought their novels and their fancy-work, and were of one -mind and one spirit in their purpose to idle away the morning, watch -the visitors, and, after the manner of Miss Austen’s sarcastic heroes -and ingenuous heroines, ‘quiz the company.’ They were English; they -were the daughters of an M.P. for one of the great manufacturing -towns. They were staying at the _Vier Jahreszeiten_, and they had -closely observed all the rest of the company staying there. Until a few -days ago, the most perfect sisterly harmony had reigned between them; -but a lamentable discord had lately arisen, and that upon the subject -of a man. - -‘Dora, see! There’s your wonderful dark angel coming mooning along with -his sister. Pray don’t miss the chance of looking at them, since you -admire them so much.’ - -‘You are boiling over with spite, Lucy. I will look at them. I like -looking at them, and so do you, but you won’t own it.’ - -‘_I!_’ ejaculated Lucy, with supreme contempt. ‘He is very handsome, I -grant you; but I believe him to be a sham.’ - -‘What do you mean by a sham?’ - -‘He looks like a hero of romance, and I believe he is a very -commonplace personage after all.’ - -‘No one with such a voice could be commonplace, Lucy. Sims Reeves is -nothing to him.’ - -‘I should say you were cracked,’ replied Lucy, witheringly. - -‘Should you? What a powerful imagination you must have! He is coming -down this way. I am sure “a dark angel” is an excellent name for him.’ - -‘I shall conclude next that you write poetry about him—a man who has -never spoken to you, and who doesn’t recognise you when he sees you. -And as for that tall girl, with her streams of yellow hair, she ought -in decency to put it up, in——’ - -‘In a chignon—do say a chignon at once! It would suit her so -admirably—about as well as it would suit Venus or Hebe.’ - -‘We shall never agree about them, that is evident.’ - -‘Well, I know that. Do let me admire them in peace. ’Tis all I ask.’ - -The causes of this deplorable breach of good understanding between two -generally loving sisters, were now too near for them to exchange any -further remarks about them at present. Lucy indignantly stuck her -parasol between herself and them, and studied her Tauchnitz volume -in moody dignity. Dora, perfectly conscious that the Wellfields were -unaware of her existence, had no scruple in raising her head as they -went past, and looking at them openly and scrutinisingly. They did not -see her, being absorbed in conversation, and looking intently at one -another. Avice was hanging upon her brother’s arm, which she had taken -as they left the hotel, and was gazing with a sort of rapt attention -into his face, as if something in his looks or his voice attracted her -irresistibly. He had been saying something, and had ceased to speak, -and this something seemed to give her matter for thought. Soon after -they had passed the two girls, Avice said: - -‘Jerome, since I knew you—how long is it?’ - -‘It is just a month since I came to you here.’ - -‘It seems an eternity of pleasure. My life has changed so much since -then that I hardly know myself.’ - -‘For the better, do you mean?’ he asked, looking down upon the -delicately beautiful, upturned face, and feeling that Sara Ford’s words -had been true: ‘She will some day be remarkably beautiful.’ - -‘For the better, of course. I used to be very tired of my life -sometimes. Often I have sat in our balcony, when we had one at any -hotel we were staying at, and envied the ragged children playing in the -street.’ - -‘But why, child? My father seems to dote upon you.’ - -‘Oh yes! he dotes upon me, I suppose. But when the doting takes the -form of scarcely allowing me to leave the house, and never to go out -alone—in all the places we have been at, I never went to see the -sights like other girls—I am so ignorant—you cannot imagine _how_ -ignorant. I know absolutely nothing.’ - -‘You know French and German, and Italian and English.’ - -‘What is that, when I am afraid to speak in them for fear of showing -what an ignorant little fool I am!’ - -‘And you know politics. I sat in silent awe and amazement the other day -when you were telling my father about the ministerial tactics in France -and England.’ - -‘Oh! because I have read the papers to papa for years. I don’t know any -grammar, nor any arithmetic, nor——’ - -‘What can you want with them? Grammar is bosh.’ - -_‘Jerome!’_ - -‘Of course it is bosh. Never be afraid to call it bosh. And as for -arithmetic, you can add up what you receive and what you spend, I -suppose.’ - -‘But I don’t mean that kind of arithmetic. I knew an English girl a -little while ago where we were at Florence. She was spending the winter -holidays there, and papa allowed me to go to see her sometimes. She -showed me the work she had to do during the holidays, and it made me -feel, oh, so fearfully ignorant. One of her sums was, “Find the present -value of £760 at four and five-eighths per cent. for eighty days.” That -is what _I_ call arithmetic,’ said Avice, despondently. - -‘Do you? Well, suppose we look out for a governess for both of us, for -I know just as much about it as you do.’ - -Avice laughed and said: ‘It would have to be a very clever governess, -Jerome.’ - -‘But not old and ugly, or I could not possibly learn from her; and yet, -if she were young and handsome, I might fall in love with her. Upon my -word, I think I should like to have a governess, Avice. Shall we see -about it?’ - -‘How ridiculous you are! Since I have had you, I don’t care so much -about a governess. How horribly frightened of you I was, before I -saw you. Papa used to pinch my ear sometimes when he wanted to tease -me, and say, “I wonder what Hieronymus will say when he first sees -you—little interloper!” When I asked what you were like, he said I -should have to mind my P’s and Q’s with you. Naturally I trembled at -the very idea of beholding you.’ - -‘It was too bad to make me out such a bugbear.’ - -‘Oh, he did not make you out a bugbear, exactly; but he gave me a -fearful idea of you. And one day he told me that you had been sent -for—that was when he was ill, and thought he would not get better. -And he added that when he was gone, you would have all his authority, -and that he advised me to make myself agreeable to you. It was woman’s -mission, he said, to make herself agreeable.’ - -‘My father has curious ideas upon woman’s mission and place in life, my -dear. If he were to come in contact with the world again, he would find -that they were out of date. Well?’ - -‘I was in the greatest anxiety. I did not know whether to put on my -oldest, shabbiest frock, and to go and sit up in my bedroom, and not -come down till I was sent for, and not speak till I was spoken to.’ - -‘What end did you purpose to serve by such a course?’ - -‘I thought you would think, “At least she is quite insignificant, and -will not be in my way.” Then I thought it might be better to make -myself look as well as I possibly could——’ - -‘Which you knew to be very well indeed, Miss Vanity, in your bronze -velvet gown with the amber slashings, which makes you look like some -picture of Titian or Veronese, but which would not lead anyone to -suppose that you were an English school-girl.’ - -‘Oh, don’t call me an English school-girl. I think they are horrid. -They know so much more than I do. But do you like me in that dress?’ - -‘Very much.’ - -‘I thought, well, if he sees me in this, he will think, “Ah, after all -she is presentable. She might be worse.”’ - -‘Preposterous child! Finally, if I remember aright——’ - -‘Finally, papa was so ill that I forgot all about my dress. I was in a -black frock, sitting beside his bed, I know, when you came.’ - -‘Yes, I remember. My eyes fell upon you the instant I came in. I -remember being struck, then and there, with the contrast between your -white face and black dress, and great startled eyes, and this flood of -gold, Avice.’ He smiled slightly as he touched a tress of her hair. - -‘And I remember that as you came in, I really turned cold with anxiety -and alarm. You were pale too, and your eyes seemed to burn upon me. -I remember how you walked up to my father, and bent over him, and I -thought suddenly, “Oh, I hope he will like me!” Then papa remembered -me, and took my hand, and said, “Here’s Avice—you must learn to know -her, for when I’m gone she will have no one but you; and she is a -hot-house plant, I can tell you.” And you, Jerome, you took my hand—I -could not speak. You smiled at me, and I felt as if a tight string had -been cut loose from my heart; and you said, “One only needs to look at -her to see that.” I must have looked alarmed, for you said, “Do you -think you can spare me a little of your regard, my child?” and you put -your arm round me, and kissed me. I would have _died_ for you, Jerome, -from that moment,’ she concluded, looking into his face with eyes full -of suppressed, passionate devotion. - -‘Why, you never told me before anything of this,’ he said, in some -surprise. - -‘Because I waited to see if you would change; if you would presently -begin to think me an interloper. But I know you don’t. Oh, I do so love -you!’ - -He took her chin in his hand, and looked down into the glowing, excited -young face; then stooped and kissed her, saying: ‘I only wish we had -not been strangers so long.’ - -They turned back, having come to the end of the garden, and Avice went -on: - -‘I have a great many things to ask about, Jerome. First, I want to know -if we are rich?’ - -‘Rich! No. At least, not millionaires. I don’t exactly know what my -father’s income is. Somewhere about two or three thousand a year, I -suppose. He has always allowed me six hundred, since I came of age; and -it has been quite enough.’ - -‘But you lead such a simple life, compared with that of some young men.’ - -He looked at her, surprised. ‘What do you know about the lives “some” -young men lead?’ - -‘I don’t know anything, except that most of papa’s gentlemen friends -spend more than six hundred a year, I am sure. I could not help seeing -things, when we have stayed in so many places. You don’t keep a lot of -horses, nor play cards for large stakes, nor give grand entertainments, -nor spend heaps of money on dress.’ - -‘In all those matters I am severely virtuous, I confess—at any rate, -in the last. At the same time, my sweet child, I have always, by dint -of unwearying exertions, contrived to live up to my income; and perhaps -had it been larger even, I might have succeeded in spending it.’ - -‘I daresay; but you know what I mean. You would never be like young -Baron Zeppenheim, for instance, whom we knew at Wiesbaden. I really -believe he had hundreds of suits of clothes.’ - -Jerome laughed. - -‘I think, sister mine, that such things have about the same -significance for us both. You look charming in your bronze velvet, with -the old Venetian clasps; but had you nothing to wear but some old black -serge, you would still be what you are.’ - -‘I suppose so. I cannot imagine what difference it makes. But next I -want to ask, have you ever been to our home—our real home that belongs -to us—and has the same name as ourselves?’ - -‘Have I ever been at Wellfield? Of course I have—ages ago, though, -when I was a boy of ten or eleven—nearly sixteen years ago, Avice; and -yet I remember it as well as if it had been yesterday.’ - -‘Is it nice?’ - -‘It is a fine old place—yes—in a fine country. I should like well to -see it again.’ - -‘I want to go there dreadfully, Jerome. Couldn’t you persuade papa to -let us go and stay there for a while when he gets better? He never -will talk to me about it. He says it is a musty old place, and that -I may think I should like it, but that I should be like himself if I -got there—dead in a week, _aus lauter Langeweile_. But I know better. -I should be able to do as I liked, and to go out without a maid, and -without gloves; and could have a room of my own to put my things in, -without the horrid consciousness that in a week or two I should have to -rout them all out again. That’s what I feel here; I feel an outcast.’ - -‘You have never seen the home of your ancestors, and you are sixteen! I -never in the least realised it. Certainly you shall go. I will work him -up to it.’ - -‘Oh, Jerome, you are an angel!’ she exclaimed fervently. - -They were passing the English sisters again, who had quarrelled about -them; and on hearing this exclamation, and seeing the enraptured face -held up to Jerome, ‘Dora’ gave an exultant glance towards ‘Lucy,’ who -merely shrugged her shoulders. - -‘Were you so anxious to see the old place?’ pursued Jerome. ‘Well, I -don’t wonder. It is a place to be proud of.’ - -‘Why don’t you go and live there? You could.’ - -‘Ah, that is another thing. Wellfield is a lovely spot, and the Abbey -is a place to be proud of, no doubt; but to live there, after the kind -of life one has been accustomed to here—_c’est autre chose_! It’s a -Roman Catholic neighbourhood. Brentwood is close to, you know—the -great Jesuit seminary, and a lot of those fossilised Roman Catholic -gentry, as proud as Lucifer, and as exclusive as—as only such people -can be.’ - -‘But surely we are their equals.’ - -‘Oh dear, yes! We have always been on the best of terms with them all, -chiefly perhaps because we have been so little at Wellfield that there -has been no time or chance for differences to arise. I don’t know how -I should like it to live in, unless——’ - -‘Unless what?’ - -‘If something I should like very much took place, I should certainly -ask my father to let me take up my abode at the Abbey. Who knows, -Avice, under what circumstances you may go first to Wellfield Abbey?’ - -They found themselves opposite the _Vier Jahreszeiten_. Jerome looked -at his watch. - -‘I tell you what, young lady, we have consumed no end of time in this -discussion. My father will think himself ill-used. We promised to walk -with him at twelve. Come and let us find him.’ - -They went into the hall, and an attendant hurried up to them, only to -say that Mr. Wellfield the elder had been taken very ill while reading -his newspapers before rising, that a doctor had been sent for, and that -he lay now between life and death. - -Jerome and his sister hastened upstairs, and found their father -in alternate convulsions of pain and intervals of utter, swooning -unconsciousness. The doctor came, and after a very short examination -pronounced the attack to be a most serious one. A Sister of Mercy from -a neighbouring institution was sent for. Hours of suspense and anxiety -passed before the delirious anguish of the patient at all abated. The -dusk of evening had fallen, when the doctor, coming into the salon, -found Jerome and Avice seated together in the window; the girl’s head -pillowed on her brother’s knee, her hand in his. - -‘Your father is now composed, and perfectly sensible,’ said the doctor. -‘He is very anxious to speak to you alone,’ he added, to Jerome. ‘The -Sister will wait in the ante-room. Call her if there is the least need -for help. She knows what to do. I will look in again about midnight.’ - -With a brief good-evening he was gone; and Jerome, rising, went to his -father’s room. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -FATHER AND SON ARRANGE ACCOUNTS. - - -A LAMP was brightly burning in the sick-room, with a shade over it, -and so placed as not to dazzle the invalid’s eyes. The Sister had -left the room when Jerome entered; and there was a stillness as of -death over everything. Jerome went up to the bedside, and stooped -over the motionless figure lying back, nerveless and exhausted, after -the agonies of pain which had shaken the already feeble frame. The -face upon which the lamplight shone was, or had been, a fine one, as -regarded features. These bore little resemblance to those of his son, -though they, like Jerome’s, were finely cut, pale, and clear. Now, -they were wasted and waxen in their languid weariness. A high, somewhat -bald forehead, a long, slender, grey moustache gave a thoroughly -un-English appearance to the whole countenance. As Jerome’s hands -pressed the bedclothes, and he stooped without speaking over the -pillow, the large closed eyelids were raised, and a pair of strange -bright blue eyes were discovered, such eyes as are often the token of a -cool, self-seeking disposition—eyes which contained a light and a life -which not even this day of mortal pain had been able utterly to quench. - -Face of father and face of son were near together; the one evidently -near death, the other scarcely less pale, quite as still and composed, -yet eloquent of health and strength, and early manhood’s pride and -power. - -‘Ah, Jerome, it is you?’ came in a feeble voice from the patient. - -‘I am thankful to hear that you are out of pain, sir. My sister and I -have passed some anxious hours.’ - -‘Yes; I feel easier now.’ - -He spoke so slowly, so languidly, and so faintly, that the voice was -scarce audible. - -‘You sent for me; at least, Dr. Reichhardt said you wished to see me.’ - -‘Yes; I have something to say to you. Sit down.’ - -Jerome seated himself on a chair which stood beside the bed, and -waited. Since opening his eyes, and seeing his son stooping over -him, Mr. Wellfield had not closed them again. They looked restlessly -round—at the ceiling, the wall, the window—anywhere, except into his -son’s face. It was some little time before he spoke again; what he had -to say seemed to require a considerable effort of some kind. At last, -in a voice which had suddenly gained strength, he said: - -‘You don’t know what caused me to be so suddenly taken ill to-day.’ - -‘I had not thought of the cause. I was disturbed at the fact.’ - -‘I had a severe shock, after you went out this morning.’ - -‘Indeed!’ said Jerome, with some animation; ‘I hope no carelessness——’ - -‘None at all, except the carelessness of circumstances, which is apt to -be astonishing sometimes, especially to those who suffer from it,’ he -retorted, a sarcastic flavour in his voice. ‘I ought to have spoken to -you long ago—long ago.’ - -Again he paused, and again Jerome waited. He had not the faintest, most -conjectural idea of the subject upon which his father desired to speak -to him. He was beginning now to wonder vaguely what it could be. They -had no confidences, this father and son. Their tastes, habits, and -dispositions had always been utterly dissimilar. The elder Wellfield -had gone his own way, had led his life of aimless travel from place -to place, generally from one fashionable foreign invalid colony to -another, accompanied by his daughter and her maid, and by his own -manservant. His son had enjoyed the fullest liberty to do the same; -to live exactly as seemed good in his own eyes, only receiving long -ago the curt recommendation to remember who he was, and that there -were some things that a gentleman could never do. ‘No need to tell a -gentleman what these things are,’ he had further been informed. ‘If -he be a gentleman, he will very soon learn them for himself; if not, -scorpions could not whip the knowledge into him.’ - -Furnished with such a formula, or creed, as the basis of his ethical -system, Jerome Wellfield had been left to his own devices. Three times -since his father’s second marriage, Jerome had met and stayed with that -father. The first time Avice had been a baby, on the other occasions -she had been visiting friends unknown to her brother. Jerome and his -father had always agreed together perfectly well. Each was conscious -that the other had tastes and habits and views of life which to himself -would have been most distasteful. Each had had civilisation and _savoir -vivre_ enough to ignore that altogether during their brief glimpses of -one another. They had never quarrelled—they had never been friends. -Mr. Wellfield had enjoyed his life of idle valetudinarianism—his lazy -days, his evenings at cards, or in reading-rooms, or lighted gardens. -Jerome had enjoyed his life—his pleasant search after the harmonious -and the beautiful in life, in art, in nature. He had gradually shut -himself up in his own reserve; in his over-refined cultivation and -fastidiousness; he had ‘built his soul a lordly pleasure-house, -wherein at ease for aye to dwell,’ till now what was ugly and coarse -made him shudder, and gave him pain that was almost physical. All -this refinement, he often told himself, was not essential to him; -he could do without it; poverty would not be anything to dread, for -one could have simplicity therewith; the real bane of existence was -common, rampant, triumphant philistinism. Wherever he went, he had been -well received, and generally flattered: his beauty, his voice, the -charm of his manner alone, would have made him the despair of prudent -mothers, even as a detrimental; but when to those advantages was added -the primary one, that he was an only son, heir to a fine estate, of -unimpeachably good and ancient name and lineage, an impartial judge -must confess that it was a great thing that Jerome Wellfield had come -out of the ordeal, at least outwardly, unscathed, calm, unperturbed, -unvulgarised. - -Open admiration and adulation had revolted his fastidious soul. Till -he met Sara Ford, he had never gone further than a mild flirtation -with any girl, for he was hard to please. But, having met her, all was -changed. Her beauty, her pride, her indifference, calm and smiling, -to what other women so eagerly sought after—the fact that she was no -easy prize, despite her loneliness and her poverty, had fired him. -He had loved with a rapidity and a passion which showed the strange -blending of north and south, of Italy and England, that was in him, -and that made him what he was. And he, as little as anyone, knew what -he was. In him there were two natures; he only knew one, for up to now -his mother’s side alone had grown and flourished; he little knew the -modifications of southern character which he inherited from that man -beside whose bed he sat, waiting for the disclosure which he struggled -to utter. - -Born beneath southern skies, brought up in his very early childhood -in Italian cities, these influences engraved themselves deeply, -indelibly upon his nature. The mother’s blood streaked every thought, -every impulse, with a mixture of passion and indolence, fire and -superstition. That mother had been the beautiful daughter of an old, -impoverished Sicilian house—a house which had never before married out -of its own nation and its own sphere. To her son she bequeathed her -own hereditary tendencies—she had had much of the indolence, all the -superstition of that glorious, yet degraded race of Magna Græcia. - -In after-days, when Jerome looked up into the murky skies of -Lancashire—those skies which gloomed over the grey walls of his -father’s house—those deep, unspeakably blue heavens whose glory -bathed the marbles of Venice, the quays of Naples, the ruins of Rome, -the pictures of Florence, whose glamour lent itself to the whispering, -rustling grey of the olives on Mediterranean coast terraces, and made -the yellow sand more yellow, the blue sea more deeply violet, the -white sail more dazzling—this remembered heaven used to rush to his -recollection with a light that was almost lurid, and scattered tones -of a speech that was music seemed to ring melodiously in his ears. -Italy had faded, yet her finger-mark remained ineffaceable upon his -innermost heart, as his mother’s beauty remained upon earth, stamped -in the beauty of his own face and the melody of his voice, which, so -long as voice or feature remained, should visibly and audibly attest -the presence upon earth of a land where skies are warmer, where love is -fiercer, where passions run more quickly into white-hot rages than in -this humid isle of ours. - -Another influence had been almost as strong as that of Italy—as strong -as any influence which is not already in a man’s natural tendencies -can be—and that influence was Germany. After a brief stay in England, -during which his father’s second marriage had taken place, he had -been sent to the gymnasium of ——, where he had gone through all the -courses, and, besides the regular school-training, had been trained -also in the school of music. - -In that land his voice and his musical powers formed a passport. By -degrees, the Italian ditties, with their oily sweetness, slipped away, -as they have the trick of doing, from his tongue, and the rougher, -deeper songs of the Fatherland grew at home there. Casting himself with -eagerness into the art, he grew more and more devoted to it, and but -for one thing he often felt as if he would never care to leave this -_Deutschland_, this home of mighty harmonies, this adopted country. -That one thing was the remembrance of his home itself—of the weird, -ancient Abbey, with its dark, quaint gardens, its cloisters beside the -river; and the still more ancient church which he dimly remembered. - -Since his love for Sara Ford had arisen, he had thought and dreamed -still oftener of this ancient place. Now he knew—he had thought of it -when he spoke to Avice that morning—that with her by his side there -was no place he would so gladly go to, and stay there. What a life they -might lead—she with her art, and he with his—and with their love! -He felt a thrill—felt the blood course quickly on, as he pictured -her—it was the first time he had seen the picture clearly—with him at -Wellfield—his wife. - -‘Perhaps, when you know, you may blame me; and yet—where would you -have been all these years if I had acted differently? Did you know that -Wellfield had ever been entailed?’ - -‘I think I have heard something about it,’ said Jerome, surprised at -the abruptness of the question, and roused from his dream. - -‘It was entailed until my father’s time. He and your great-grandfather -agreed to cut it off.’ - -‘Did they? Why?’ - -‘Because the estate was thoroughly embarrassed, and deep in debt, and -they wanted to restore it.’ - -‘Then they succeeded?’ asked Jerome, to whom this was news, but who -concluded that they must have succeeded. Had there been embarrassments, -surely he would have heard of them before now. - -‘No; they did not. Neither of them had the faintest notion of -business’—it is to be presumed that Mr. Wellfield was conscious of -himself possessing business talents of a superior order. ‘They got -money, but that wasn’t improving the estate. They did not retrench, and -they spent nothing on improvements. When I came into possession, I was -worse off than any Wellfield had ever been before.’ - -‘I had no idea of that,’ said Jerome. - -‘Of course you had not. How could you have? It is a fact, nevertheless. -I went through some bitter experiences. I had all their pride, and -none of their resources. I saw no way out of it. Your mother once -saw the place, and screamed at the very idea of living there. She -said she would die if she had to live out of Italy. It was therefore -impossible for me to live on my estate, and retrench, as almost any -other man might have done under the circumstances. Knowing this, I -kept you as much away from the place as possible, lest you should get -fond of it. Things got worse and worse. After your sister’s mother -died, my own health failed, and it became impossible for me to live -in England. I saw ruin staring me in the face. I saw you, whom I -wished never to be troubled with sordid cares and anxieties, growing -up utterly unconscious of the kind of lot that was hanging over you. -I seemed to see Avice, your sister, stinted of common comforts, and -perhaps reduced, as she grew up, to earn her living as a governess, -_she_—ordered about by strange people, and breaking her heart with -fretting.’ - -‘Good God, sir! What must you have gone through! And why did you not -confide in me? Anything in my power——’ - -‘But there was nothing in your power—that is exactly it. I did the -only thing that could be done. I looked my circumstances full in the -face, and the sight was not inspiriting. Presently came a man with what -I wanted—money—any amount of money. I—I sold Wellfield.’ - -‘Sold it!’ echoed the young man, in a voice of horror and incredulity -combined, as he started from his chair, and looked into his father’s -face. ‘You are dreaming. You are delirious. Let me call Sister -Ursula—you——’ - -‘Sit down again!’ said his father, turning upon him eyes so calm and -lucid in their perfect reasonableness and self-possession, that Jerome -felt his very heart give way within him. - -This sin had been committed. He had dreamed no ugly dream. He dropped -into his chair again, propped his head upon his hands, and tried to -take in what his father went on to say. - -‘I sold it for forty thousand pounds to a man called Bolton, who had -a wild desire to have it. He had some odd crotchet about it. It was a -dream of his to have the old place——’ - -‘But for you to dream of selling it,’ interrupted the young man, with -suppressed passion. - -‘Needs must when the devil drives. Had you been in my position—but -there, I won’t argue. I did it. I sold it. I invested the money, -and——’ - -‘If the money is there, all is well,’ interrupted Jerome, eagerly. ‘It -can be bought back again. That is what you mean, I suppose. You want -to explain why Avice and I shall be poor and straitened after you have -gone. Never mind, sir; there will be a pittance, I daresay. I am young. -I can work, and I will do so. When Wellfield is ours again, we shall be -content with very little else. Do not reproach yourself.’ - -‘What are you talking about?’ retorted the other in a voice almost of -anger, and the drops stood on his brow, for it was hard work to brave -it out. ‘Do you suppose I should have made all this circumstance about -it if the money had been there? I tell you the money is gone. It was -invested—half in mortgages, and half in the Mutual Liability Bank of -——. The bank is gone—the newspaper—this morning. It was there I saw -it—made me ill. The bank is limited, but the other half—liable—ah!’ - -His eyes closed; he sank back, his face very pale. For a moment Jerome -did not move, but sat still, staring at the white face with a blank, -stupid gaze. Then he said, quite audibly, for he had a vague impression -that his father was unconscious: - -‘Sold it! I would as soon have thought of selling my wife or my sister.’ - -‘Would you?’ replied his father, opening his eyes unexpectedly upon -Jerome. ‘When misfortune has resulted from any course, it is the -easiest thing in the world to say you would never have done it. Had I -not done it, you would have been a beggar years ago. For purchasing you -years of enjoyment and prosperity, you reproach me. I have my reward.’ - -There was a flash in this of the more than dissimilarity of tastes -which had, _au fond_, existed always between father and son—the -absolute antagonism—until now delicately glazed over into a semblance -of indifference, but ready to burst forth the moment that really deep -feelings were touched. - -An angry, bitter retort was upon Jerome’s tongue—the retort that -his father, in purchasing those ‘years of prosperity and enjoyment,’ -of which he made such a merit, had incidentally purchased with them -years of something else—which years the young man seemed to see now -very clearly unrolling themselves before him—drear and bitter. But -his father was about to leave the world—there could be little doubt -of that—and there certainly was something in his manner of doing it -very strongly suggestive of his having done the best for himself -while he lived—denied himself no luxury, made no sacrifice, not even -that very commonly necessary sacrifice of early avowing an unpleasant -truth because it is right to do so—and of his then quietly slipping -away, and leaving the son whom he had never accustomed to work, and -the daughter whom he had taught to look upon luxury and refinement -as matters of course, to battle as best they might with adverse -circumstances. This view of the case certainly did rush very strongly -over Jerome’s mind. His hot southern blood drove some very bitter, -sarcastic comments to his lips; but suddenly another feeling prevailed -over them—a feeling of cool, calm calculation; a sense that there must -be some way out of all this coil, and a private resolve that this man -who had the Abbey now, should not keep it very long. Mastering his hot -and furious anger, he said coldly: - -‘It would be useless to dispute the matter. The damage, it appears, is -done. Wellfield has passed away from us, and the poor money you got -for it has passed away too. But I suppose your affairs are in the hands -of some man of business?’ - -‘Yes; Netley of Manchester knows all my concerns. No doubt there will -be a letter from him immediately. He will have to give you information, -and settle it all up.’ - -‘Netley of Manchester!’ said Jerome, deliberately making a note of it. -‘Where does he live?’ - -‘His offices are at 57, Canongate.’ - -Another note. Then Jerome said: - -‘Have you any idea whether everything will go—whether not even a -pittance will be left?—enough for Avice to live upon, while I try to -find something to do?’ - -He spoke coldly and hardly, and in a matter-of-fact tone; but as he -uttered the words, a vision rose before him of Sara Ford; of her eyes, -as he had whispered to her, ‘And do you understand?’ He shivered a -little. Mr. Wellfield, too, was moved by his words; by this stern -bringing to reality and commonplace of the whole affair. He gave a -slight groan as he turned his head restlessly, saying: - -‘I don’t know. O God! I know nothing about it. But’—his voice grew -almost fierce—‘remember, sir, as long as you have a penny, your sister -remains with you.’ - -‘I hope I know my duty towards my sister, sir, as well as you appear to -have known yours to your daughter,’ returned Jerome, in a voice of some -astringency; ‘and——’ - -They had been parting words. The deathly expression upon his father’s -face alarmed him. He rang the bell, and Sister Ursula answered it. -Restoratives were applied, but in vain. The flame did not flicker up -again. In a very short time Jerome knew that the face upon which he -looked was dead—the eternal repose had settled upon the features. -Clouds and tempests were over for him; rocks and shoals of life beset -the path of him who was left. He who was taken had slipped comfortably -away. The pain of want, of narrow circumstances, the smarting for -the sins of his fathers, had never been his, nor the joy begotten -of self-abnegation—the peace that comes to one weary with a burden -gallantly borne. - - * * * * * - -Jerome went into the salon again. The lamp had been lighted. Avice sat -on a couch, her hands folded before her, her eyes anxiously turned -towards the door. She sprang up as he came in. - -‘Jerome, is he better? Has he gone to sleep?’ - -‘He has gone to sleep, my love; but he will never awaken again. He died -just now.’ - -‘Oh! is he dead?’ - -She clung to him, looking up into his face, in which she saw nothing -but a pale, fixed calmness. - -‘Dead, Avice. And you must brace yourself up, and prepare for a trial, -and that a sore one. You asked me if we were rich, dear, and I told -you we had ample means. It was not true, though I did not know it. We -have now either nothing, or next to nothing. You asked me if we should -go back to Wellfield, and I promised that you should soon go there. I -cannot keep my promise. Wellfield is no longer ours. We have no home. -To-morrow I will explain. To-night I can only tell you the facts. You -said that your life had been happier since you knew me. What do you say -to your brother and his kindness now?’ - -Her eyes were eloquent as she looked up at him, and said, gravely and -calmly: - -‘I love my brother for trusting in me. And he shall never hear a murmur -from my lips if he will continue to trust me and guide me.’ - -As they stood together, they kissed one another with a kind of -solemnity. Life was changed, but they still remained to sustain one -another. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -AVICE READS A CHAPTER OF A NEW BOOK. - - -There was no reason for, and no wish to linger at Ems when the -necessary delay was over, and the necessary business accomplished. In -a week from the time of Mr. Wellfield’s death, Jerome and his sister -proposed to leave the place, on their way home. During this week, Avice -lived through more surprise, more wonder, and more emotion, compressed -into seven short days, than had been contained in seven long years of -her former life. - -Her brother and his character formed to her a strange new book, which -she was never weary of studying. The outside of that book was of the -most alluring character; and she, of an intensely receptive nature, and -intensely sensitive, too, to beauty, delighted in that fair outside, -in those polished manners, in the smooth, calm, composed demeanour. -She delighted to go out with Jerome, to behold others turning to look -at him; in every proof that she was not alone in her sense of being -fascinated by him. They naturally went out little during those days -of waiting; when they did go, they went alone together, avoiding the -crowded gardens and the more public walks. They had, therefore, ample -opportunity of learning more of one another; and perhaps each modified -the estimate already formed of the other’s character. But the affection -increased. In their long walks to the _Concordia_, or along the white -country roads, Jerome told her about all their circumstances—told -her he did not know whether they would have any secure income, even -the smallest, upon which to live; asked her if she could reconcile -herself to existence with him, perhaps in a back parlour of some dingy -town-lodgings. To all of which questions her ‘yes, oh, yes!’ leaped out -with an eager readiness. - -‘Now I begin to see what papa meant when he kept calling me a little -interloper, Jerome,’ she said one day. ‘If it were not for me, how much -easier everything would be for you. I have heard that a man, alone, -need never fear anything, even starvation; but that when he has a woman -with him it clogs him, and paralyses him, and unfits him——’ - -‘Hush, child!’ he said, putting his finger on her lip, and smiling at -the same time; ‘that is nothing less than blasphemy, and I know where -you learnt it.’ - -Avice hung her head. Presently she looked up again, remarking: - -‘Living with papa first, and then with you, Jerome, is like going to -school first with one schoolmaster, and then with another; and one uses -the cane, and the other doesn’t.’ - -‘Is it?’ - -‘Sometimes, with papa, the sensation was just like what I could -imagine a child feeling on being told, “Hold out your hand.” Horrible!’ - -‘You don’t mean——’ he began sharply. - -‘That papa was cruel? Oh no! He never meant to be, at any rate. -I suppose he could not help being cold and sarcastic and severe -in manner. What he hated most was what he called drivelling -sentimentality. I always knew in an instant when I had said something -sentimental. And I think, as long as I live, I shall never forget the -tone of his voice as he used to say, “That is your view of the case, is -it, mademoiselle? Suppose we look at it in the light in which persons -of judgment will see it.” And then, how foolish I was made to feel! -Papa certainly could put people down in a way I never saw anyone else -use.’ - -She sighed, and Jerome smiled rather bitterly, commiserating the young -creature who had been trained in such a school. - -‘She must be naturally gentle, I suppose, or she would have been—good -heavens! who knows what she might have been at one-and-twenty?’ - -He could not but see, however, that she had much of his own intense -fastidiousness, and that she was proud, and that frequently a flash -of the sarcasm from which she had suffered would appear in her own -remarks. And he was in despair at the prospect of the future which lay -before her. Avice herself did not give much thought to that future. She -was happier in the present than she ever had been before. - -The day came at last, the last day of their stay at Ems. In the morning -they were to leave. Jerome strolled into their sitting-room in the -evening, and found Avice there. - -‘_Gott sei dank!_’ he remarked. ‘All the dismissals are over.’ - -He had been discharging his sister’s maid and his father’s valet. For -the future Avice was to learn to mend and perhaps make her own clothes, -dress her own hair, and otherwise become a useful and practical member -of society. - -‘Then they are gone, Jerome?’ - -‘Yes, they are gone.’ - -‘Toinette came in floods of tears to say adieu. “Ah, mademoiselle!” she -exclaimed, “when I reflect upon your hair, and your desolation, without -me, I am _près à mourir_.”’ - -‘She will soon console herself. She was flirting atrociously with the -porter when I went downstairs.’ - -‘And, Jerome, it has suddenly occurred to me to ask you, at what hour -do we start in the morning, and by what route do we travel to England?’ - -There was a pause, as she looked at him, and saw that her brother’s -eyes were fixed upon a book upon the table, and that there was an -expression in his face which she did not quite understand. At last he -raised his eyes, and said, with, as she thought, some little constraint: - -‘We must take the “cheapest and best” route from the Continent, I -suppose: Cologne, Rotterdam, and Harwich. I am sorry for you, my child, -but——’ - -‘Oh, sorry, nonsense! I am not made of white sugar, Jerome. Then, at -what time must we leave? Shall I have to get up very early?’ - -‘No earlier than usual, for I propose breaking the journey, and staying -all night at Elberthal.’ - -‘At Elberthal? Why there? It is not a pretty town, and Cologne is far -more interesting, though I am tired of it.’ - -‘I know Elberthal is not pretty. But there is some one there whom I -wish to see before I go to England.’ - -‘Oh, is it anyone I know?’ - -‘I think you have seen her once or twice. It is Miss Sara Ford.’ - -‘Miss Ford!’ repeated Avice, not at the first moment comprehending. -‘That beautiful Miss Ford who was with the Countess of Trockenau so -often? Is she a friend——’ - -Then, as she still continued looking at Jerome, she understood in a -moment, and stopped abruptly. This was a new phase of life, a fresh -complication in her circumstances, towards which her thoughts had -never before turned for a moment. For a few moments she sat quite -still, saying nothing, pondering upon it; then, rising quickly, she -went to Jerome, and put her arm round his neck. - -‘Oh, Jerome,’ she murmured, in a half-tearful voice, ‘how much you must -have had to suffer! I never knew till now what “ruin” and having no -money might mean.’ - -He returned her kiss, saying gently, ‘Never mind, _Liebchen_! Things -may turn out well in the end. And meantime, before we face Manchester -and ruin, there is Elberthal to be passed.’ - -The following day they departed by the afternoon boat from -Ober-Lahnstein for Cologne, thence to take the train to Elberthal. It -was a gorgeous afternoon, at the very end of July. The sun was hot, the -river was smooth, the scenery was glowing, the boat was full of gay -parties of travellers of all nations, when Wellfield and his sister -went upon it. A little after six they arrived at Elberthal, and went to -an hotel. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -LIFE’S FULLEST STREAM. - - -The daylight lasts late in July. Though growing dusk in the house, -it was yet broad daylight on the balcony of the room in which Jerome -left his sister, when he set out to find Sara Ford’s house. It was -still broad daylight out of doors, and the streets were thronged with -pleasure-seekers, and with the feet of those on business intent. He -had Sara’s address—Jägerstrasse, No. 42. He inquired the way there, -and was directed to go through a pleasant green Hofgarten, whose cool -avenues and great trees were just now glorified by the yellow rays of -the setting sun. Somewhere, in the direction of that setting sun, he -knew the Rhine wandered by the town. He had heard Sara describe how -broad and strong was its course just there, and what a fascination it -had for her, despite the unpicturesque, low, flat banks on either side. -As he went along, his heart was light, despite the heavy load of cares -and anxiety which hung over him. - -Sounds of music or singing greeted him wherever he went, as they do -in those homely continental towns devoted to art and to sentiment. -There was a pleasant, homely bustle going on. The town was small. One -could not easily have lost oneself in it. To find the Jägerstrasse was -no difficult matter, and once there it was easier still to discover -No. 42, which was a great white house of many stories, with an arched -passage running through it from front to back, and heavy iron gates, at -present thrown back. He went into the passage, and to the side door, -which had the names of the different inhabitants put up. ‘Miss S. -Ford, _2te Etage_,’ he read, and pulled the bell twice. His summons -was presently answered by a middle-aged woman with a strong, sensible, -good English face, about whose whole aspect there was a harmony, and -in whose dress there was an appropriateness and suitability which were -nothing short of admirable. - -‘Is Miss Ford at home?’ he asked, like one in a dream; for, up to the -moment of pulling the bell, he had been engaged in a puzzling mental -debate as to whether he ought or ought not to come—whether duty did -not clearly indicate the preferableness of bringing his sister with -him, or sending a note to Miss Ford, and not calling at all. - -He was not in the habit of having difficult and delicate questions of -this kind to decide, and he had dallied with this one until the second -had arrived in which he must either pull the bell, and go in and see -her, or turn back, and go away without seeing her. At which moment the -latter alternative had appeared so horrible that he had lost not an -instant in availing himself of the former one. - -Miss Ford was at home. She had returned yesterday, said the woman, and -asked him to come upstairs, taking the card he offered her, as she -spoke. He accordingly followed her till she threw open a door, and -entered a room where it seemed twilight; for it faced due south, and -there was only a pale reflection to be seen of the westerly glow. - -In the window, in a large lounging chair, he saw a woman’s figure, in a -light dress, which figure had a book in its hands, and leaned towards -the light as if to catch ‘the last pale beam of even.’ He saw how she -turned as her servant gave her his card, took it, read it, and rose. -Then—he did not quite know how it was—they were alone, standing hand -in hand, looking at one another, speechless. In the suddenness and -the greatness of the joy of meeting, they could not be conventional. -They failed entirely to use the requisite words of polite surprise and -delight which, if promptly uttered, conceal so many a throb of joy—so -many a spasm of pain. The ‘Really, what a surprise! Where do you come -from?’ The answering, ‘Passing through on my way to England, and could -not resist the pleasure of calling’—none of it all was forthcoming. -The surprise on her side was too real, the joy on both too intense, to -leave room for any of those prettinesses. - -Jerome, looking at her in the softened, yet still clear light, thought -he had never seen anything half so beautiful, as she stood with her -hand in his, and her eyes fixed with something like fascination in -their gaze upon his face. At last, he put his other hand upon hers; and -her gaze could no longer meet his deep look, as he said, in a low voice: - -‘Then you are not displeased with me for coming? You are glad to see -me?’ - -‘Very glad,’ she replied, in a lower tone still. But it was as if, -with the actual sound of his voice and her own, her presence of mind -deserted her. She felt herself begin to tremble. Withdrawing her hand -from his, she sank down again upon her chair, and pointed to one -beside her, saying, hesitatingly: - -‘You have left Ems suddenly. I—I heard of your father’s death, before -I left Trockenau. I did not like to intrude or—or I would have -written; but——’ - -‘But you have thought of me?’ he said, looking intently at her -half-averted face. - -‘Yes, I thought of you,’ replied Sara. - -‘I hoped you would, though I do not deserve that you should. I must -explain why I called. I am on my way home—to England, that is, with my -sister. I have to go to look after my affairs, such as they are. You -said, when you were talking at Trockenau, that you would allow me to -call when I passed through Elberthal. Miss Ford—I——’ - -‘You—yes?’ she asked, for he had paused. - -‘I have fought a desperate battle with myself, to know whether I ought -to do what I most desired to do—whether I ought to call upon you or -not.’ - -‘Whether you ought. Why not? I do not understand——’ - -‘Hear me out!’ he exclaimed; and when he had spoken those words, he -knew that he must tell her all. There was now no alternative, in honour -and honesty, and he felt a kind of rejoicing, as if he had won a -battle, nor paused any longer to reflect upon the means by which it had -been gained. - -‘And first,’ he added, rising, and standing before her in the window, -looking into her upturned, wondering face, ‘first let me tell you, -a great change has come over my whole life. It will never be what I -had once hoped for. With my father’s death I have had to awaken to -disagreeable facts. I find myself a ruined man.’ - -‘Ruined?’ echoed Sara, vaguely, hanging on his words, which came -rapidly now, and with a sort of terse, restrained impetuosity. ‘Ruined, -Mr. Wellfield?’ - -‘Exactly so. I will not trouble you by going into details of the -matter. The simple fact is that I have been living under a delusion. -I have never imagined myself in any other circumstances than those in -which I have always been nurtured. One’s thoughts turn to the future -sometimes, and in youth often and glowingly, I think. So did mine. I -was no exception to the rule. Believe me, I never calculated on my -father’s death. That I can say honestly——’ - -‘No, I am sure of it.’ - -‘But I should have been more than human had the thought never crossed -my mind that after his death I should be richer than I had been—should -have more at my disposal, and should be able more freely to follow -the bent of my own tastes and desires. He never gave me the least -hint that there was anything false in such an idea. I have told you -of Wellfield—of my old home, to which I had hoped, more than I knew -myself, to succeed. Lately I had thought of it far more than formerly, -and had imagined myself very happy there. It is no longer mine. My -father, it seems, sold the place years ago, and the estate with it, -in consequence of his own money embarrassments. His speculations -have turned out badly, it seems. No need to relate how. The money he -received for his father’s house, and the estate they had lived upon, -is gone—utterly gone. It was the shock of hearing suddenly of this -which brought on the attack of which he died. He had time to tell me -the worst—that I was houseless, homeless, it may be penniless—this he -told me, advised me to settle things as well as I could, and then he -died.’ - -There was a concentrated bitterness in his voice; a contempt which -broke through the calm, soft tones in which he spoke, and which -revealed to his listener an entirely new side of his character. He said -no word of blame regarding his father, but none the less was the blame -there—trenchant and biting, if unspoken. - -‘Oh, Mr. Wellfield!’ was all she could say, ‘your trials have indeed -been hard. I knew nothing of this.’ - -‘No. And perhaps you are wondering why I should trouble you with -the tale, and thinking that it could be no possible concern of -yours——Forgive me,’ he added, in the same low but vehement voice, as -he came nearer to her, and bent over her chair, ‘I have no right—I -have told you all this story to show you how destitute I am of all -right to speak to you; but when I first met you—when you roused me -from my selfish self-satisfaction, and I learned to love and worship -you, as I had never imagined that I could worship, then I believed that -I had to offer you, not only my whole heart and my entire devotion, but -other things not utterly unworthy of your just claims; I believed that -I could surround you, as I should have delighted in doing, with every -outward sign of the love I bore you. All that is gone, and in its going -has carried with it my hope; for it would be insult for me to ask your -love when I have just learnt that I am a pauper. But I am not ashamed -that you should know I did love you. Good God! did love you—that I -_do_ love you! That passion masters me yet, and always will master me. -Nay, do not speak, do not rebuke me, and yet—yes, tell me,’ he cried, -taking her hand, ‘tell me if you ever could have returned that love of -mine, if I——’ - -He paused a moment, for he had seen her face. For one moment he felt as -if the riches of the world were his—as if nothing could matter now; a -triumph, a pride which no adversity could tame. Let what might happen. -Let him be in rags, and begging his bread; be compelled to stand aside -and see other men surround her and court her, he knew now that other -eyes she would meet with a proud indifference, let their power be what -it might; but that his, let his station sink as low as it might, his -could subdue her. - -‘Sara!’ All the fire of his mother’s land was in his eyes, and all its -voluptuous music in his voice. ‘You love me. You do not speak, but you -tell me so. Look at me! Let me see it in your eyes once again, Sara, my -love!’ - -There was exultation in his voice, and the exultation thrilled her. -His passion over-mastered her, and almost terrified her, and yet it was -rapture such as she had never dreamed of. Earth and heaven, with their -deepest secrets, seemed suddenly opened to her—a flood of light over -all. - -‘Look at me!’ he exclaimed again, and it was more of a command than an -entreaty. - -‘Jerome!’ she said faintly, as he took her hands with gentle violence -from before her face, and knelt on one knee beside her chair to do so. -His ‘Look at me!’ rang in her ears; his eyes, which she felt were fixed -upon her, attracted her irresistibly. Why was she so reluctant, so -fearful of looking up? Perhaps because she knew that when their glances -met her last power of concealment or resistance would be gone. - -‘Sara!’ he whispered, and his voice, so near and so impassioned, at -last compelled the look he demanded. Was it rapture, or was it pain—an -agony of pain—that she felt? Was it the anguish of having to confess -that she was mastered, conquered? She did not know. As he clasped her -in his arms, and pressed his lips upon her lips, and kissed her cheek, -her hair, her closed eyes, she felt that it might be heaven indeed, but -that her heart was breaking with the greatness of her joy. Perhaps to -reach heaven—to finally pass through its inner portals—a heartbreak -might be necessary. - -‘Do you remember when I was singing at Trockenau, and the countess -thought I did it to oblige her?’ he asked presently. - -‘Do I remember, Jerome? Shall I ever forget it? I have listened to no -singing since. I could not, and would not.’ - -‘I sang _Adeläida_, if you remember?’ he said, but his eyes dwelt upon -her face with an intentness which she felt to be almost tyrannous. - -‘Yes, and you sang “_Ich grolle nicht_.” Why did you sing that?’ she -said, with a kind of faint shudder. ‘It is such a terrible song.’ - -‘Why—I do not know. But tell me, was I right to come to-night?’ he -asked, persuasively. ‘I fought a long battle with myself, as I told -you. I was undecided up to the very moment of entering the house.’ - -‘Right, yes! I say you were right, at least. What if you had gone to -England without coming? What if I had never known—oh, Jerome, it is -horrible to think of!’ - -‘For me! I feel that I came to you a beggar, and that I sit here a -king, and with more than a king’s riches. I cannot repent.’ - -‘Did you think there was something wrong in it?’ she asked, anxiously. - -‘Wrong, no! Is it wrong to love the sun, and to go by preference where -he shines? What I felt to be wrong was my coming to monopolise you—if -I could persuade you to be monopolised by me—just when I have the -least right to do so—when I can only say, “I love you, and always -shall love you,” but cannot say, “Come and be my wife at once.”’ - -‘Knowing that you love me, I can wait,’ she answered. ‘Surely, the -highest and best kind of love is that which sustains us through waiting -and trouble—not that hideous parody of love which must not be spoken -unless the lover can say at one and the same time, “I love you—I have -got a house for you, and enough money to keep you—will you marry me?”’ - -‘Rampant philistinism!’ said Jerome. ‘I had no idea before, that I had -so much of it in me. You read me a lesson.’ - -‘I will never believe but that your love is of a different fibre to -that, Jerome. Never reproach yourself with having stolen a march upon -me; but think rather that you have done a good deed in giving me the -right not only to share all your hopes and fears, but to say that I -share them, and to own to you that your joy is my joy, and your sorrow -my sorrow.’ - -He had not seen the case in that aspect before, but he did not say so. -The incense she burnt before him, of love and a subtle flattery, was -sweet. It intoxicated him. From his education and surroundings, he was -incapable of telling himself that he was ‘taking pity’ on any woman. -No vulgar parade of the love she felt for him was possible; but at the -same time his most intense consciousness at this moment was, not that a -proud, and noble, and good, and beautiful woman had given her happiness -into his keeping, but that he had been right, she had loved him—he -could bend her to his will. - -Sara broke the pause which ensued by suddenly asking: - -‘Where is your sister? Tell me about her. What is she going to do while -you are settling all your difficulties at home?’ - -‘I left her at the Breidenbacher Hof. Yes, she is with me—my poor -little Avice! What will become of her in England—in Manchester -perhaps, in the smoke and fog, while I am cooling my heels in a -lawyer’s office?—for there will be no hurry about attending to my -behests, my love. What she will be amusing herself with while I am -agreeably engaged in learning how much we have left to starve upon, I -do not know.’ - -‘Make me a promise!’ said Sara. ‘Show your devotion and your confidence -by an unconditional promise at this very moment.’ - -‘I promise, blindly, to do as you command.’ - -‘Then I command you to leave your sister here with me, while you go -home. When you are perfectly satisfied that you have found a place for -her, such as you would wish her to be in, then you can come over here -and fetch her. Till then, let her remain with me, and try whether she -can learn to be my sister.’ - -‘Sara, you must be inspired, I believe,’ exclaimed Jerome. ‘I could -have asked no better boon—none as good, for her and for me. I will not -deprecate such generosity. I take you at your word. Teach her only to -be a little like yourself, and I shall find her perfect.’ - -‘You will bring her to me to-morrow morning, will you not, before you -go away? What a joy it will be to have her! I know I shall love her, -and I think I can make her love me; and it will bind your thoughts the -faster to Elberthal,’ she added, looking at him with a tender smile. - -Jerome took one of her hands, and sat with it in his, as Sara closed -her eyes, and leaned back in her chair, wearied with the excess of -emotion she had gone through. - -‘God knows, it is a wrench though, to find all this wealth of love -to-night, and to have to leave it in the morning,’ muttered Jerome, -darkly. - -‘God knows, it is!’ echoed Sara. - -‘I have an undercurrent of feeling,’ he went on, ‘which makes me almost -wish I had never crossed your path, nor linked your lot with mine. The -whole future is so dark and troubled. You were so happy and at peace, -and your art was all in all to you.’ - -‘And you think now, I suppose, that you will dethrone my art. I think -not, Jerome,’ she answered, smiling rather proudly. - -‘Ah, you challenge me!’ said he, smiling also, rather mournfully. -‘Never forsake your art for me, Sara, for I am not worth it.’ - -‘You are worthy my best and deepest love, and I shall give it to you,’ -she said, almost passionately. ‘Jerome, do not trouble this night with -these dark forebodings, and this self-depreciation. It is something new -in you. I never imagined you troubled with doubts or difficulties.’ - -He made no answer, and they sat on thus in silence for a long time, -until at last he rose. - -‘I must go to Avice,’ he said. ‘Good-night, my love.’ - -Long after he had gone, Sara sat in her low chair, unseeing the -considerate glances cast towards her by Mrs. Nelson. She sat, trying to -analyse her own sensations—trying to discover whether the happiness or -the trouble at her heart was greatest. Once or twice lately, she had -thought that could she but know certainly that he loved her, or did -not love her, she would at least have rest in the knowledge. Now, the -knowledge was hers—his love was hers. But with love, not calm, but the -very reverse, had come. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -‘CONTENT THEE WITH ONE BITTER WORD, ADIEU!’ - - -The morning came, and with it, according to his promise, Jerome came to -breakfast, bringing Avice with him. ‘Try to persuade her to be pleased -to stay with me,’ Sara had said to him, to which he had naturally -replied by an emphatic wonder as to what else than pleasure his sister -possibly could feel at the prospect. - -Sara was restless that morning. She wandered from her studio to her -sitting-room, and back to her studio again. She had told Ellen that the -gentleman who had called last night would come to breakfast with his -sister, and Mrs. Nelson had busied herself in preparing as _recherché_ -a repast as possible, placing fresh flowers on the table, and making -everything look bright and festive. - -‘The gentleman was English, wasn’t he, Miss Sara?’ she asked. - -‘Yes, he was—is, I mean.’ - -‘Then we’ll show him that we know how to serve an English -breakfast, nice, and bright, and choice; rather different from -their pots of butter, and baskets of cobs, and a table-cloth, and a -coffee-machine—that’s about all they give you for breakfast in these -parts,’ said Mrs. Nelson, resentfully, for she had never got over -the disgust she had experienced in partaking for the first time, and -seeing her young lady partake, of a German breakfast, in the native -boarding-house style. - -Accordingly, the breakfast-table, in the shady corner of the room, was -a refreshing spectacle; but Mrs. Nelson’s eyes, despite her seeming -engrossment in her work, kept wandering towards her mistress, whose -restlessness she had not failed to observe. - -‘Only the gentleman and his sister, Miss Ford?’ she asked tentatively. - -‘Yes. And—Ellen!’ - -‘Ma’am?’ - -‘I want you to like Miss Wellfield very much, for she is coming to stay -with me, for several months, at least.’ - -‘Is she, ma’am? About how old is the young lady?’ - -‘About sixteen. Ellen, you know how I trust your judgment—what -confidence I have in you?’ - -‘You have often proved it, Miss Sara, and I hope I shall always deserve -it.’ - -‘I know you will. Well, you will wait upon us at breakfast, and I wish -you to notice both Mr. Wellfield and his sister well. I want your -opinion about them.’ - -‘I will do so, Miss Sara,’ said Mrs. Nelson, to whom such proofs of -confidence on her mistress’s part were by no means new. She had been -the girl’s closest attendant, most faithful servant, and most trusty -friend from her earliest infancy. Mrs. Ford had committed her child to -Ellen’s care on her death-bed. She loved her lady with the devotion of -a mother, and with the dog-like fidelity, as well, of an old, trusty, -conservative retainer. Sara was accustomed to consult her upon all -imaginable matters, save only those concerning the toilette, in which, -she told Ellen, her tastes inclined to the sombre, ‘to the good, -old-fashioned dining-room furniture style, Ellen. Your dress always -reminds me of maroon rep curtains.’ Ellen knew as well as a woman can -know, that there must be something between her mistress and this Mr. -Wellfield of the nature of a love-affair. How far it had gone, she did -not know. She shrewdly suspected that, sooner or later, she would hear -more on the subject. It pleased Sara to enlighten her, at the present -moment, on another point. - -‘Mr. Wellfield has had a great misfortune lately,’ she said. ‘His -father is dead, and he has lost his whole property and estate. He does -not know what he may have to live upon, or if anything will be left. -He is going to England to settle his affairs, and I have invited Miss -Wellfield to stay with me in the meantime.’ - -‘Yes, ma’am,’ Ellen had just replied, when the two rings, following -quickly one upon the other, announced the expected visitors. Ellen went -downstairs to admit them. Sara paced up and down her parlour, thrilling -with the sensation that Jerome was far more formidable now, when he had -her secret in his keeping, than before, when at best he could only have -guessed it. - -They stood within the room. Sara felt her heart beating and her eyes -swimming, but she discovered where Avice stood, and holding out her -arms said, in a faltering voice: - -‘Has he told you? Will you come to me?’ - -‘Oh, how good you are!’ sobbed the girl, springing forward, throwing -her arms about her neck, and hiding her face on her shoulder. ‘How -very good you are!’ - -That was a pleasant meal, despite the cloud which hung over them, -despite the unwelcome nature of Jerome’s errand to Manchester. It was a -pleasant, and almost merry meal; and yet a nervous one, as the minutes -flew relentlessly by, and the time for departure approached more -inevitably. - -‘I must see your atelier before I go. I came here on purpose, you -know,’ said Jerome; ‘and we must go now,’ he added, looking at his -watch, ‘for my time is short.’ - -They were alone in the studio. It was light, but sunless, for it faced -north. It was bare, and yet furnished, like all studios. Two or three -easels stood about—a number of unfinished canvases—some of the -plaster masks and casts known as ‘gyps;’ and on a pedestal, a great jar -of the blue and grey pottery they make about Coblenz, full of roses. - -Jerome saw them. ‘I must have one of these,’ said he, turning the jar -round. ‘Here is one—this Gloire de Dijon—more than a bud, but not -yet fully blown. That is when a rose is more beautiful than at any -other time. It is just like you,’ he added, drawing it from the jar, -and shaking the water from it. ‘And now, Sara, what of the future?’ he -added, drawing her to him. ‘Why do you always look at me as if you were -half-afraid of me?’ he added, gazing down into her fascinated eyes. -‘Avice never does. Yours is not “perfect love” if it has not cast out -fear.’ - -‘Avice—you will never have the same rights over Avice that you have -already over me,’ she replied, tremulously. - -Jerome smiled. The sensation he felt was not one of displeasure. -How rapidly his nature had developed during the last six weeks, he -little knew. His former cool indifference to most women had passed -into passionate love for one—he did know that. What he did not know -was that his love was of the masterful kind, not only delighting to -inspire devotion, but loving to subdue. He had said, ‘Why do you look -half-afraid of me?’ in an almost reproachful tone, but in his own -mind he did not reproach her with that shade of fear, or anxiety, or -whatever it might be. He did not understand the weight and the force -of her nature. He measured what was not shown of it by what was—her -utmost capacities by the devotion and humility of her love for him. -He knew from a thousand signs and tokens that she was proud to an -exceeding degree, and sometimes imperious. The knowledge that he had -tamed her, and the deprecating look which told him that here he was -supreme, was sweet—boundlessly sweet. He would have given worlds -for a week to spare here—a week in which to inhale these fumes of -sweet-smelling incense. - -‘What claims have I over you, that I have not over my sister?’ he -asked, smiling still, looking down into her troubled grey eyes with the -look which had haunted her ever since the first time she had met it. -‘Legally, I have far fewer claims, for until Avice is of age, she is -as much in my power as if I were her father; whereas you——’ - -‘I did not mean legally. I meant morally, of course; the rights that -love gives, Jerome—the right to my thoughts and wishes, and life and -hopes.’ - -‘You have the same rights over me,’ he said. - -‘And yet you do not look afraid of me, you mean. It is different, -Jerome. Not that I am really afraid of you,’ she added, looking up more -confidently. ‘And you said something about the future,’ she went on, as -her fingers played with the little locket and ring which hung at his -watchguard. - -‘Ah, about the future—yes. Will you trust me, and wait?’ - -‘Through everything, Jerome, most implicitly,’ she replied, and this -time there was no wavering in the glance which met his, full, open, and -candid. - -‘And would you prefer it to be kept quiet, or made known?’ he added; -‘because I wish to do exactly as you please in the matter.’ - -‘Let us not mention it,’ she replied slowly, and with downcast eyes. -‘My friends are very few, Jerome. Let us have the comfort—you and -Avice and me—of keeping it quite to ourselves. I hate to think of -people speculating about it.’ - -‘As you will. But suppose—how shall I put it? If it is imagined that -you are free—Sara, you must know it is most improbable that no other -man will ever wish to win you. Some one is sure to fall in love with -you, and then——’ - -‘It is most unlikely—most improbable,’ she began, with a deep flush. - -‘That any other man in existence should have the bad taste to admire -what I have found so perfect and so desirable,’ he said, sarcastically. - -‘My life is so quiet. I go out so little. Now, with Avice as my -companion, and you to think of, I shall go still less.’ - -‘That is sophistry, Sara. Look at me, and tell me you honestly believe -that, if you are supposed to be free, no man will ever care for you -again?’ - -‘You are cruel to press it so. If such a thing should happen, it -will not be my fault, and I should know how to set him right on the -subject,’ she said, proudly. - -‘Well—so be it! And now, my love, it must be good-bye, for my time -is growing very short. Stay!’ he added, and he unfastened from his -watchguard a little ring which hung to it. ‘This was my mother’s -betrothal ring. Take it from me, in token that you are mine, and I am -yours.’ - -He slipped it upon her finger. It was a hoop of sapphires—the stones -which are emblematic of steadfastness and faith, and it had been given -by his father to his mother. With that he took her in his arms, and -kissed her good-bye in a long, sorrowful kiss; then loosed her and took -her to a chair. - -‘Stay there,’ said he. ‘It will only make it worse if you come out. I -will send Avice to you.’ - -He was gone. She knew nothing more until she felt another pair of arms -about her neck, and heard Avice’s voice choked with tears: - -‘He has gone! What shall I do? Oh Jerome, _mein_ Jerome!’ - -Then her own tears were loosened. The girls wept in one another’s arms, -and were comforted. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -ELLEN’S OPINION. - - -It was not until night, after Avice, wearied with sorrow and -excitement, had gone to bed, that Sara, calling Mrs. Nelson to her, -said: - -‘Well, Ellen, what do you think of my new arrangement? Are you pleased -to have Miss Wellfield here?’ - -‘Yes, indeed, ma’am. I never saw a sweeter young lady, nor one that was -more of a real lady. She’s one that it will be a pleasure to serve.’ - -‘That is well, and I quite agree with you. And—Mr. Wellfield?’ - -There was a pause before Ellen said: ‘It is much more difficult to -judge of a gentleman, on the spot as it were; and for a woman, too. -And then he is so much older.’ - -‘I know. But you must have formed some opinion of him, Ellen. We never -see anyone strange without some impression being made on our minds.’ - -‘He is a noble-looking gentleman,’ said Ellen, slowly. ‘What piercing -dark eyes he has; and such a presence, and such a voice—such an air, -Miss Sara, if I might say so. One does not often see such gentlemen, -and——’ - -‘Well, Ellen?’ said her mistress, resting her chin upon her hand, and -looking fixedly at her, while her heart throbbed. Was he not all that, -and more? - -‘I was thinking—Miss Sara, you must not think me impertinent. You are -like my child, you know.’ - -‘I know it. Go on.’ - -‘I was thinking that he has a way and a look with him that must make it -hard for any woman to withstand him, supposing he were making love to -her.’ - -‘And is that all?’ Sara asked, almost indignantly; her heart falling, -though she was herself at the moment so strongly under the influence of -that ‘way’ and that ‘look’—though he had been making love to her, and -she had found resistance swept away like a straw down a strong current. -‘Is that all? Ellen, you know you are evading my questions. You know -that I want to know whether he looked high-minded and good.’ - -‘And that is just what I cannot say, my dear. I cannot tell. He -looks splendid—I know that. He looks a gentleman, and a very grand -gentleman. And I saw nothing to make me think he would not be good. -But, since you will know all, Miss Sara, I thought there was a look -about his lips, as if he could be cruel on occasion.’ - -‘Cruel, Ellen? What do you mean?’ - -‘Nay, don’t look at me in that way, ma’am! You would make me speak, and -I’m bound to tell the truth, I don’t mean that he looked as if he would -hurt an animal, or wilfully torment anything, but he looked to me as -if, supposing he was hard pressed, for instance, he could be cruel, and -unscrupulous—as if he would gain his end, choose what he had to do to -get to it.’ - -‘Oh,’ said Sara, with a somewhat nervous laugh, ‘you mean that he has -a very strong will. I hope indeed that he has, Ellen, for he will need -it, I assure you.’ - -‘Then I am very glad he _is_ determined,’ answered Ellen, briskly, as -if anxious to have the subject disposed of. And Sara did not resume it, -but she was that night in no humour for either work or play. She sat in -her easy-chair beside the table on which stood her lamp, and thought -and pondered until her brain seemed to ache. - -Where was he now? How far advanced on his dreary way to England and -Manchester? She knew nothing of the north of England. She only knew -that Wellfield, where his lost home was, was in the north-east corner -of the great manufacturing county, and that (so he had told her) it was -a lovely and fertile spot, surrounded on one side by bleak Yorkshire -moors, and on others by great grimy manufacturing towns. Of course she -had heard of the north of England towns, had met people who came from -them, had passed through some of them years ago, on her way to Scotland -with her father; but all that region was a great unknown land to her, -with, as it seemed, the one exception of Wellfield, which she had found -upon an ordnance map, and had pictured in her heart, until it took up a -great space in her imagination; and for her ‘the north’ as applied to -England, meant Wellfield. A ridiculous mental position no doubt, but -one not entirely without precedent. - -Well, she thought, he would soon be there. He had told her he intended -to go to see the old place once again. Mr. Bolton, the new owner, would -not be so churlish as to refuse him that grace. And he had promised to -write and tell her about it. - -‘Cruel?’ she thought, reflecting upon Ellen’s words. ‘I suppose that -means resolute. People sometimes have to be almost cruel. It is often -apparent cruelty which is really the greatest kindness. Jerome could -be most determined, I am certain. I have noticed a change myself, -since—since his trouble. I daresay he could even be what Ellen would -imagine cruel; but if so, it would be because he thought it right.’ - -Meditating upon this thought and variations of it, she sat until far in -the night. - -It was several days before the two girls heard anything of Jerome, and -meantime they were able to become better acquainted with one another. -Sara was predisposed to love Avice, first because of her charming -appearance, and next because she was Jerome’s sister. As time went -on, the qualities, mental and moral, of her new sister made her love -her for herself. Avice at first stood in a little awe of Miss Ford, -of her grand manner, and of her indifferent way of speaking of things -which many persons, and most women especially, thought of the first -importance. But very soon Sara’s great heart and large benevolent -woman’s nature fascinated the younger girl. The whole character of -this new friend was so utterly different from the character which -had hitherto overshadowed and stunted hers, that very soon the joy -of the new influence pervaded her whole nature. Here every power was -encouraged to expand to its utmost—here the cold question, ‘What will -persons of judgment say to it?’ was never asked; only the question, -‘Is it right or wrong?’ or, by preference, ‘Is it good and noble, -or bad and base?’ Things were looked at as they were, not as the -world preferred to see them. Here was liberty in the most alluring -guise—that of a beautiful woman who loved all things pure and of good -report. Avice very soon began to worship her new guardian. - -When at last the first letter from Jerome arrived, there was little in -it of actual news. He wrote from the house of Mr. Netley, his father’s -solicitor, and said he had only just arrived there. - -‘I found one of his clerks waiting for me with an invitation to go to -his house, and stay there until this business is settled and the worst -known. I therefore drove straight up to his place, which is three or -four miles out of town; and I am writing this before dinner, while I -wait for his return from business. But I could not wait when once there -was a chance of writing to you. - -‘This Cottonopolis is a dismal hole—but such a rush along the streets. -Such earnest, intent, money-making faces; shrewd, hard and ugly for the -most part. As their owners bustle along the streets, I feel as if I -were a member of an extinct species, suddenly resuscitated and plunged -into the whirl of the working half of the nineteenth century—and I -look the thing every inch, I don’t doubt. I will write to-morrow as -soon as ever I have had a conversation with Mr. Netley, and know my way -a little better.’ - -He asked her to address everything for the present to Mr. Netley’s -offices, at 57, Canongate. And he added that he had rejoiced every hour -since his arrival in England, to know that Avice was where she was. -‘Not here—I do not know what would have become of her here. I think -of you both, constantly, and the thought is as it were a light unto my -feet and a lamp unto my path. With it, Sara, there may be poverty and -sorrow to contend with, but there will always be something to live for -and something to hope for. And I say again, “God bless you!”’ - -With the receipt of this letter it was as if one stage of a journey had -come to an end. The door of a former life of luxury and careless ease -had been closed and barred, and before them all lay a rugged path to be -travelled, and moreover the light that shone upon it was so vague and -uncertain that it was difficult to follow in its windings. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -STAGE II. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -WHAT MR. NETLEY SAID. - - -A LONG, dree journey by that very unsavoury route to and from the -Continent—Rotterdam and Harwich—and Jerome Wellfield, on the morning -after his parting from his sister and sweetheart, found himself in -London. He had nothing to do there—no business in the great city—no -means, no right to take any pleasure in the same. He made his way from -the Liverpool Street Station to that at Euston Square, where he found -he had some two hours to wait before the express to Irkford should -start. - -Who does not know the dreariness of such hours of waiting, weary, -travel-worn and alone, in some great wilderness of a city station? They -were the two most dismal hours he had ever passed. - -At last, at eleven in the forenoon, the train to Manchester started. -Jerome cast himself into a second-class compartment, and with weary -eyes saw, when he was not half-dozing, ‘the happy autumn fields’ -through which the express rushed smoothly and swiftly, and with -slackened speed at last rolled into that cheering and inspiriting -terminus, the London Road Station, Manchester. - -From Ems—even from Elberthal—to Manchester! The contrast just flashed -across his mind as he alighted. - -A clerk presently accosted him inquiringly, ‘Mr. Wellfield?’ and then -gave him a note which he carried. The note was a kindly, pleasant -one from Mr. Netley, begging him to go to his house, and make it his -headquarters until his business in Manchester was settled. Business -prevented him from coming to the station himself and taking his guest -home, but he would be in to dinner at seven. The address was given, and -he hoped his clerk would bring word that Mr. Wellfield was on his way -to ‘Birch Lodge.’ - -With the sensation that this was true friendliness, Jerome bade the -youth tell Mr. Netley that he accepted his invitation with many thanks, -and, getting into a cab, gave the address, and was driven to Mr. -Netley’s house—his ‘box,’ as he called it in his note. - -For a bachelor’s box it was remarkably roomy and comfortable. The -housekeeper had evidently expected the guest, and led him upstairs to -the room prepared for him. Declining her offer of refreshments, he was -left alone, with exactly two hours on his hands before dinner-time. -Part of the time he employed in writing that letter to Sara which has -already been spoken of—the rest in meditations, not particularly -agreeable, on his ‘present condition and future prospects.’ During -the few hours he had been in England he had felt a distinctly stronger -chagrin and disappointment at the idea of the utter loss of home than -he had yet experienced. He could not understand nor account for this -feeling, but it was there, and it was strong. He felt a sudden rush -of indignation at the manner in which he had been all these years -cheated and hoodwinked—and that by his father. This Mr. Bolton, who -now reigned at the Abbey—who and what was he? The desire to visit -the place once more grew stronger. Wild schemes for becoming rich, -and having the place back again, ran riot in his mind—chimerical -schemes, for, as each one rose and fell, he had to tell himself again -and again that each was vanity. In England—in this part of England -especially—the way in which men made fortunes was that of trade and -successful speculation. He knew absolutely nothing of trade, and had -not the remotest idea in what ‘speculation’ consisted. He saw no way at -all of becoming rich. He saw the most probable and the best fate he -could expect rise up and stand very clearly before his mental eyes—a -secretaryship, clerkship, or something of that kind—neither of them -avocations in which, as a rule, money is very rapidly accumulated. - -In the midst of these agreeable meditations the dinner-bell rang, and -he went downstairs and found his host standing in the hall, looking out -for him—a grey-haired, round-faced, pink-cheeked, elderly man, with a -bland smile and an amiable expression. - -His appearance for some reason caused Jerome a kind of shock, he -had unconsciously expected something so different. The climax of -disillusion and commonplace appeared to have been reached when Mr. -Netley, shaking hands with him and smiling benevolently, said he was -sure Mr. Wellfield wanted his dinner. With his usual _sang froid_, -Jerome, after a momentary pause, smiled slightly, and said ‘Yes,’ he -was very hungry. They went into the dining-room, and here Mr. Netley -volunteered the remark that he thought business had better wait until -after dinner, to which Jerome again yielded a cordial assent, and they -took their places—Jerome with an ever-deeper suspicion that somehow -Mr. Netley was not—the only word he could think of was, ‘sharp’—that, -for a solicitor of his standing, he was decidedly not very sharp. - -‘Have you ever been in Manchester before?’ asked Mr. Netley. - -‘As a child, I may. Never since I grew up; nor, indeed, in any place -like it.’ - -‘Ah! it’s an odd kind of place. Very thorough-going—strong political -views, you know.’ - -‘Yes, I suppose so. Not that I know anything about politics; I never -took the slightest interest in them.’ - -‘No? Not been thrown in the way of that kind of thing, I suppose?’ - -‘Not at all. All my friends have been musical, or literary, or artistic -people—or, nothing in particular, like myself.’ - -‘I see. Well, there is a section in Manchester that goes in for -art, and music, and that kind of thing. We’ve very fine music -here—concerts, you know—a great many concerts, in the season.’ - -‘Yes, I suppose everyone has heard that Manchester is a music-loving -town.’ - -‘Exactly so,’ said Mr. Netley, looking cheered at this admission. ‘And -then there are literary people too, you know, and scientific—oh, many -scientific people, whom I don’t know much about. And there are some -artists, too. There’s a School of Art—there are a great many pupils at -the School of Art, and an exhibition every year of their paintings.’ - -‘Only _their_ paintings?’ inquired Jerome, politely. - -‘Oh, and other people’s paintings, of course. Yes; and a Black and -White Exhibition. Do you care for black and white pictures? Have you -been much thrown amongst black and white artists—I mean artists who do -black and white pictures?’ - -‘Not more than amongst artists who do red, and green, and blue, and -other coloured pictures in general,’ replied Jerome, beginning to feel -a little amused, and to realise that probably Mr. Netley was one of -those persons who have one manner and set of expressions for business -hours, and quite another for those of leisure. - -So it proved. When they went into the library, and Mr. Netley began to -talk on business, it must have been a very clever man indeed who could -have caught him tripping, or who could have discovered any want of -perspicacity or acumen in his utterances. - -They sat together in the study, with cigars and coffee-cups before -them, and Mr. Netley had pulled out some papers, and begun to turn them -over, when Jerome, whose impatience had been none the less keen in that -he had so strenuously concealed it, said: - -‘Before you go into details, I wish you could give me one piece of -information. Will there be anything left? Will there be enough just to -give my sister a home? That is what I am most anxious to know.’ - -‘There will be Monk’s Gate, and I think from a hundred to a hundred and -twenty pounds’ income. Curate’s pay, Mr. Wellfield, and a curate might -make it do.’ - -‘You are thinking I am not one. That’s true. But this is a great -relief. And Monk’s Gate—what is Monk’s Gate?’ - -‘Your father only sold the Abbey, not Monk’s Gate.’ - -‘Monk’s Gate, I conclude, is a house. I don’t seem to have any -remembrance of it.’ - -‘It is the little dower-house belonging to the Abbey. It is close to -the large outer gate—Monk’s Gate they always called it.’ - -‘I think I remember.’ - -‘The old fellows used to use that gate. They went out through it into -the fields to fish in the river. They knew what they were about, those -old grey-frocks. Show me an abbey that was not built on a site at once -fertile, rich, and beautiful. I defy you, sir.’ - -‘There was Whitby—it’s the only one I can remember; but it always -struck me as being rather bleak,’ observed Jerome. - -‘Well, Whitby, I grant you. But that was a nunnery. Women like to make -themselves uncomfortable for the sake of religion, or what they think -religion. But that’s neither here nor there, and if you are ready, I’ll -go a little into detail.’ - -Jerome absently assented, and Mr. Netley was privately thinking, with -some contempt: - -‘He’s the old Wellfields all over again. Let him only be secure of -what will keep him from absolute beggary, and he’ll sit down with it, -rather than stir a finger. The only time at which you could arouse that -race to a transient activity, was when they were absolutely hard-up. -When there wasn’t a coin in the house, they would suddenly drop their -pride, and descend to any expedient to stave off personal inconvenience -and discomfort. And the most unscrupulous of the whole lot was this -lad’s father. This fellow, it strikes me, has all the pride and all -the laziness of the breed, but not their dishonesty, I should say. -Mother’s blood, perhaps.’ - -Jerome must have been gratified indeed, could he have known his host’s -opinion of him. - -There was not very much to be explained. It seemed that Mr. Wellfield -had sold the Abbey about seven years ago, when Jerome was nineteen and -Avice nine years of age. Mr. Netley explained about the ways in which -the purchase-money had been invested, and how the bank failure had come -about, which had brought the crash. He was a little surprised, and his -theory as to Jerome’s want of character was shaken, when the young man -said: - -‘It seems to me that in any case, on my father’s death, I should have -been reduced to poverty, for, had the money been remaining, I should -have made it my first object to regain the Abbey—if I had had to spend -every farthing to do so.’ - -‘You would have found it no easy task, Mr. Wellfield. Mr. Bolton is -greatly attached to the place, and I don’t think any price would tempt -him.’ - -Jerome winced—it was galling in the extreme to have to hear of this -man in possession with so firm a grasp upon what he had always regarded -as his. He hated the thought, and once again, stronger than ever, -the desire rushed over him to oust the usurper from his place. And -once again succeeded the recoil, the miserable sense of poverty and -helplessness, of impotency, which made his temples throb and his blood -boil. He sat, with knitted brows, in moody silence, till at last he -asked abruptly: - -‘And this Monk’s Gate—is it habitable?’ - -‘Oh, I should say so. I believe there is even some antiquated furniture -in it.’ - -‘I shall go over and see it, at any rate, before I decide upon anything -else.’ - -‘Very well. The key is in my keeping at my office. You shall have it. -You shall judge for yourself. Meantime, don’t be in any hurry to leave -me. Turn things well over in your mind before you decide to live at -Monk’s Gate, or anywhere else. I will do all I can to help you forward.’ - -‘You are very kind,’ said Jerome, still absently, his mind still -vaguely reaching out after some path from his difficulties. - -Before going to sleep, he added a postscript to his letter to Sara. - -‘Netley tells me he thinks there will be a pittance left, which makes -my mind easier with respect to my sister. Ah, my love, I never realised -till this night, the _power_ of money. The want of it makes me feel -unscrupulous.’ - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -MONK’S GATE. - - -It was a glorious afternoon in the beginning of August, on which -Wellfield left Manchester for his two hours’ journey to Wellfield, -to arrive at which spot he had to pass through some of the roughest, -dirtiest, richest and most prosperous of the numerous manufacturing -towns of Lancashire. - -Burnham was the last of these towns—a place of great size, great -riches, and of an absolutely stupendous ugliness—a great collection -of ugly, grimy buildings, paved streets, and ghastly-looking tall -chimneys, the whole planted at the bottom of a hollow which had once -been as fair as valley could be, in the rough, stony moorland style -of sparkling stream and rugged rock. Even now, when the veil of smoke -permitted one to see them, high and beautiful hills might be perceived, -blue, calm and eternal. The prospect of them gave one a longing to -ascend them, and from their summits to breathe an air which should be -free and pure. - -After Burnham came one or two little wayside stations, and then -Wellfield. The railway here ran over a high viaduct, much raised above -the village. Jerome felt his heart throb as he looked out, and saw -below him on the right, slumbering amid orchard trees and some fine -old elms, some ancient brown walls, two vast and massive gateways—a -broken line which showed where the cloisters had formerly run beside -the river. That was the Abbey, which, with its grounds, took up pretty -nearly as much space as all the rest of the village put together. He -saw the calm river gliding by; then raised his eyes to where in sturdy -pride old Penhull stretched his great carcase, shutting all in to the -east. It was a fair land—it was a goodly heritage, and his heart was -bitter within him. - -The train stopped, and he got out and stood on the platform. He was a -stranger there. No one took the least notice of him. He found himself -at the farther end of the little platform, and before walking forward -to leave the station, he paused and looked round him. From the place -where he now stood, the Abbey was not visible. He was looking in -another direction, towards the north-west. Behind him rose the great -wall of Penhull, over which his ancestors in the good old days had -helped King Jamie to hunt witches with vigour and malignity. Before him -he saw a more level country, spreading towards an ancient town called -Clyderhow, with its quaint old castle. Farther to the west came some -other long-backed fells, on the other side of which was St. George’s -Channel: and nearer, on the brow of one of the said fells, some three -miles away, he saw faintly the grey tower of an ancient church, and -just above that, where the ground began to rise towards the western -fells, a long, large, imposing building of whitish stone, exquisitely -situated, and from its commanding position, a landmark for miles -around. This was the great Jesuit college of Brentwood, which had once -belonged to a branch of the Wellfield family, in the days when they -were great men and devout Catholics. - -Jerome’s eyes fell upon it, and with the sight of it came the -remembrance of his having, years ago, met a certain priest belonging to -that establishment. - -‘That was more than seven years ago,’ he reflected, ‘before the Abbey -had been sold to this _roturier_. I must have been a mere lad then, -but how well I remember him! What was his name? Somerville, surely. -Yes. Pablo Somerville. I remember. He was half Spanish—there was some -mystery about his father, I recollect. What a musician he was—and a -gentleman, if ever there was one. Will it be my luck, I wonder, to -renew the acquaintance? One might meet with a worse fate than some of -those fellows at Brentwood have, after all, for——’ - -‘Ticket, sir, please,’ said a curt voice at his elbow. Jerome roused -himself, took his eyes off Brentwood, and went along the platform, down -a little slanting path, which brought him into a road. Here he met a -man, and asked him if he knew where Monk’s Gate was. - -‘Dun yo mean th’ heawse, or th’ yate itsel’?’ inquired the man. - -‘I mean the house.’ - -‘Well, yo’ mun go through th’ yate for to get to th’ heawse. Yon’s t’ -shortest road,’ he pointed down a grassy lane with trees on either -side. ‘Keep down thur, and then turn to th’ left, and yo’ conna miss -th’ Monk’s Gate, ’cause it straddles o’ across th’ road, and yo’ mun -go under it, and turn in at th’ first gate to your left. Yon’s t’ -Monk’s Gate House. But it’s empty, and locked oop,’ he added, looking -inquiringly at the person who had an errand to Monk’s Gate. - -‘I know. I have the key.’ - -‘M’ appen you belong to ’t?’ - -‘It belongs to me,’ responded Jerome. ‘Good-day, and thank you.’ With -which he walked on, leaving his interlocutor to stare after him, -scratch his head, and remark to himself: - -‘Well, I’m dom’d! It mun be John Wellfield’s lad. Eh, but I mun go and -tell ’em about this ’ere down at th’ Black Bull.’ - -Jerome, meantime followed the directions he had received, and soon -found the cavernous-looking remains of Monk’s Gate, ‘straddling,’ as -his guide had said, ‘o’ across t’ road,’ a huge, grim, ivy-covered -portal, showing, by its distance from the rest of what were now the -Abbey grounds, what a great and glorious possession this said Abbey had -once been. - -A little way on the other side of the archway to the left, was a gate, -leading into a garden; there was a gravel drive going up to a low -quaint-looking grey stone house. This, then, must be Monk’s Gate. - -It was a wilderness of a garden, with a large, irregularly shaped lawn, -of a velvety softness and greenness, which neglect had not yet ruined. -In the very centre of this lawn rose a high, thin old pear-tree. -Scattered about were other kinds of fruit-trees. Broad borders of all -sweet and old-fashioned flowers were filled with a rank luxuriance of -plants, some blooming, some not yet in bloom; others almost choked to -death by their more flourishing neighbours. On the left of the broad -walk was a high wall, and behind the wall fine beech-trees which cast -the shade of their ample boughs far into the garden of Monk’s Gate. -The house itself stood back; it looked a small house for such a large, -luxuriant garden. It was very low, Jerome saw, with odd-looking windows -half-hidden by roses and clematis, while all over the left side of the -house, a flourishing ivy revelled healthily. He approached nearer. -Just before the house was a great bush of the Gloire de Dijon rose—the -fragrance of its second crop that year filled the air for yards around. - -Drawing forth the key which Mr. Netley had given him, he applied -it to the door, and its rattle in the lock was the first sound to -break the almost oppressive hush and stillness, and deadly calm of -everything around and about. The lock turned somewhat rustily and -unwillingly. It required him to exert the strength of both his hands -to induce it entirely to yield. Then he pushed the door open, stepped -in, and stood beneath all that he could now call his own roof-tree. A -narrow passage—a door to the left, which he passed; the passage was -only a few feet long; one stepped out of it, without door or other -intervening ceremony, into a large, low, raftered room, with a high -old wooden chimney-piece, deep oaken cupboards sunk in the walls, a -long, very low window, with a deep, roomy seat in it—a heavy oaken -table in the centre of the room, and, at one side, an ancient, shabby, -comfortable-looking settee. In a remote corner there was a pile of old -furniture, which in its dirt and shabbiness looked remarkably like -lumber. - -Jerome gazed round the room. Despite the age and decrepitude of -all in it, it had a certain attraction for him, from its quaint, -unconventional shape and arrangements. The stairs, with old oaken -rails and balustrade, led straight out of it. A door which he opened, -showed him a roomy kitchen, with a back-kitchen beyond. Turning back, -he opened the door to the left of the passage, which he had not yet -explored, and found a second sitting-room, smaller than the first, but -just as quaint, low and irregular. This room, too, had the agreeable -peculiarity of a corner fireplace, and it contained more furniture -than the other; very old drawing-room furniture—thin-legged chairs -and tables, and a strange-looking thing which was at once cupboard, -cabinet, and press, to match the rest of the furniture, which was -mahogany. The aforesaid thin-legged chairs were upholstered in a -sickly, faded drab damask—relic of a bygone day. The whole place -looked like some grave, and yet a grave about which lingered gentle -memories, like a soft perfume; recollections of old-fashioned -ladies who must have spent countless hours at their tambour-frames, -embroidering those elaborate and now pale and faded semblances of -pink-cheeked shepherds and blue-eyed shepherdesses which adorned some -spindly-looking stools and spider-legged ‘occasional’ chairs. Whose -slender fingers had accomplished that triumph of worsted-work which -covered a large settee beneath one of the two little deep square -windows—a piece of worsted-work with a whole picture upon it, of an -elaborate landscape; figures, fountains, sheep, and marble vases? - -Jerome passed his hand across his eyes, feeling as if he had lost his -identity. Was it—could it be he, Jerome Wellfield, who was standing -in this chill, pale, silent place, inhaling the faint, musty, dusty -smell, which carries one back full a hundred years; and was this dim -old place his home—all the home he now had? He tried to picture Avice -there, and succeeded. It would be no inappropriate place for her, he -felt, when fires should have dried up all the damp, and when all this -faded furniture should have been pulled forth, cleaned, and polished, -and arranged. And Sara? Try as he would, he failed to see her there. -And yet, he knew that should he ask her to come, she would do so. - -He climbed the stairs, and found several bedrooms, corresponding -with the rooms below—all with the same raftered roofs, and odd -little square windows, made almost dark, too, by the overhanging -trailing-plants which covered the side of the house. - -He lingered long, unaccountably attracted and fascinated. In such -a quiet nook a man might drone out his life, and soon be utterly -forgotten—might live on from year to year, and watch the seasons come -and go, the flowers bloom and fade, and spring again; might observe -the sunlight and the storm-shadows sweep across the broad sides of -Penhull, and might at last die and be carried to the graveyard which -spread around the old church—might there be laid to his rest, and none -be the wiser. - -He shivered slightly, as he vividly pictured all this; then, slowly -descending the stairs, went out—how hot and balmy the outside air -felt, after the dampness of the house!—locked the door behind him, and -bent his steps towards the Abbey. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -THE NEW MAN AND THE OLD ACRES. - - -Wellfield had only a very short distance to walk before he came to -another great cavernous archway, the ‘Abbot’s Gate,’ and the second -principal entrance to the Abbey. Great beech-trees clustered around it. -It was quite dark and cool and gloomy, but a little door in the great -wooden gates stood open, and gave him a curious little oblong glimpse -into a sunny courtyard, where everything stood still and hot and quiet, -and in which, as he stepped into it, there was not a sign of life. One -side of the Abbey building, what was left of it, faced him; the windows -looked into this paved court, and appeared to be windows of offices, -kitchens, etc. Green tubs, filled with a blaze of scarlet geraniums, -made brilliant spots of colour here and there. To the left was a high -wall, and a fine old stone archway. He knew the way well. Through that -archway he must pass to go round to the front entrance of the house, -which was chiefly composed of what had once been the private apartments -of the abbots of Wellfield. He glanced up at the top of the archway -and saw, on the oblong slab which was let into it, the legend, ‘J. W., -15—.’ It stood for John Wellfield, as he knew; the said John having -been the first Wellfield who had taken up his abode in the Abbey, after -its demolishment under the glorious dispensation of Henry VIII. - -‘My initials!’ murmured Jerome. ‘I wonder this man has not rent out the -stone, and inscribed his own instead.’ - -This was rather a bitter thought, and, with his mind full of it, he -passed under the archway, and found himself in a grand old garden -—such a garden as those ancient monks knew how to make; and a garden -which, since their time, had been lovingly kept up. It was formal—all -laid out in oblongs and squares, but it had an indescribable beauty and -grace. Great trees took away from the stiffness; brilliant flowers and -intensely green grass made it gay. Under the trees to the right were -some clumps of tall, fiery-looking gladioli. Straight before the house -the ground sloped to the river, beside which was a long grassy walk -and avenue, and a little farther to the right, still beside the river, -the hoary cloisters. Jerome’s heart was exceeding bitter within him, -as he saw and realised all the beauty of the place, which came back to -him, after sixteen years, with a familiarity which was startling. The -sixteen years were but ‘as yesterday.’ As he stood there, he felt it -his—his own; the effort to conceive of it as belonging to some one -else was a painful one—one which did not altogether succeed. - -‘He _sold_ it!’ he was thinking to himself. ‘Sold it in cold blood. -Why, if he had told us the truth, and kept it, he should have been -happy; we would have made him happy here, let our poverty have been -what it might.’ - -He walked up the round space of smoothly-rolled gravel before the deep -entrance-door, and rang the bell. - -Mr. Bolton, he was told, was at home. Jerome sent in his card, and was -shown into a room which he well remembered. It had formerly been the -library, and appeared to be still used for the same purpose, though -greatly changed from its old condition. It was not very vulgar, indeed -one might almost have pronounced it not at all vulgar; but all the -things were comparatively new, and evidently ‘of the very best.’ But -the furniture was well chosen and appropriate; had Mr. Bolton or had -his upholsterer chosen it? Jerome wondered, in a parenthesis as he -looked around, and felt that the appearance of the room displayed a -desire at least, if not a perfectly accomplished one, on the part of -those who owned it, to be tasteful—a desire which he felt had resulted -in being proper and philistine. He glanced at some books on the table, -and at one or two in the book-shelves, and was struck at finding them -to be nearly all confined to two classes—voyages and travels, and -Italian books, the latter almost all bearing some reference to Dante, -or to Dante’s great poem. - -‘Odd!’ thought Jerome, and as he thought it, the door was opened, and -Mr. Bolton entered. - -A man of medium height, and of moderate proportions, with a round, -obstinate-looking head, dark complexion, brown eyes, a mouth with a -protruding under-lip, and an all-pervading expression of shrewdness, -and strong, powerful common-sense. A prejudiced, one-sided man, one -would suppose, but a man who required a considerable mental space in -which to display his onesidedness and prejudice—a man with great -faults, and great virtues, possibly; with a bull-dog expression, -betokening tenacity of mind—what this man once grasped, he would not -easily let loose again. - -Jerome felt the last fact strongly, if he did not understand, as indeed -he could not possibly do, the other characteristics. There was nothing -handsome about Mr. Bolton; very little to be praised in his manner, -no grace in his gestures; but there was a certain rough dignity about -him, which was even imposing. He was a commanding spirit, if not an -enlightened one. - -‘Mr. Wellfield, I think?’ he said, fixing his deep-set, dark eyes upon -Wellfield’s face, but not betraying, by either look or expression, that -he was particularly struck in any way by his visitor. - -‘Yes,’ said Jerome, bowing; ‘I presume you are Mr. Bolton?’ - -‘The same. Will you not be seated?’ - -Jerome had been standing in one of the windows. At Mr. Bolton’s -suggestion he took a chair, and a feeling curiously akin to -mortification began to steal over him. Mr. Bolton was so very evidently -the master-spirit here. Wellfield felt himself so entirely reduced to -the level of a stranger—a mere casual caller, in his old home, that -at first he could hardly speak. - -How was he to introduce himself? How account for his presence there, -for he had come in his usual half-dreaming manner: with no set aim or -purpose—no clear and tangible excuse; driven only by a longing to see -the place, and by a half-acknowledged feeling of defiant unwillingness -to be deterred by this stranger from stepping into the house which -he persistently looked upon as ‘his by right.’ It has been said that -when the elder Wellfield sent his son into the world, he had not -overburdened him with moral maxims for his guidance. Jerome had been -left to decide upon his own ethical code—a plan which has its snares -and pitfalls as well as its advantages. Mr. Bolton’s calm presence of -mind, and his evident ease and pleasure in his surroundings, caused a -strange pang to Wellfield, and roused a feeling of resentment at once -unreasonable and ridiculous. And yet, he felt, he must be courtesy -itself, or all his own feelings and ideas as to what was his due would -not prevent the usurper from somewhat unceremoniously casting him -forth. - -‘You may think this a strange intrusion on my part,’ he began, on the -spur of the moment. ‘Indeed, I begin to think myself that it is.’ - -‘As to that, I can say nothing, Mr. Wellfield, until I hear your -errand. In the meantime, I do not think it strange at all that you -should call at the Abbey if you were in this neighbourhood.’ - -‘You have no doubt heard of my father’s death?’ - -‘I have, and indirectly, of his losses—which, I suppose, will be your -losses. I was sorry to learn about them.’ - -Jerome bowed slightly. ‘It is in consequence of those losses that I -am here. I learnt from Mr. Netley, my solicitor, that the Monk’s Gate -house still belongs to me, and I came over here to see if it could be -made habitable. I could not resist coming on to see the old place of -all—trusting to your kindness to allow me to stroll round once or -twice.’ - -‘One can hardly call such a visit a strange intrusion,’ observed Mr. -Bolton, and Jerome had remarked that though his voice was curt, and his -accent provincial, yet that his language was proper, and even pedantic -sometimes, and his grammar unimpeachable. - -‘You are at liberty to “stroll round,” as you call it, as much as you -please. I don’t pretend not to know that such an excursion must be -painful to you—if you ever cared for the place—and from your making -this visit, I conclude you did.’ - -‘I did, and do,’ answered Wellfield. - -‘Then, though it may not be agreeable to you to know it in the -possession of other people, you will not be sorry to find that it is as -well-cared for as if it were your own.’ - -Jerome was not sorry, but he felt galled, deeply galled, to have to -realise so completely how impotent he was in the matter—how this man -had the power, not only to keep everything trim, but to alter and -change, and upset everything, if it so pleased him. - -‘I am glad to know that,’ he said, and Mr. Bolton went on. - -‘May I ask if you intend to settle at Wellfield? Do you mean to live at -Monk’s Gate?’ - -‘So far as I can see at present, I do,’ said Jerome, who, as a matter -of fact, had only begun to think such a thing advisable, since he had -seen Monk’s Gate. ‘But I do not know. Mr. Netley gives me to understand -that my sister and I will have something to live upon. I shall, -however, seek employment, which it is not always an easy matter to -find. Until I do find it, I shall probably live at Monk’s Gate.’ - -Mr. Bolton bowed his head. ‘Do you think of staying here long, now?’ he -asked. - -‘I came without any definite intention, for I did not know what sort -of a place Monk’s Gate was. Now I think I shall go to the inn here, -if there is one, and stay perhaps a day or two, until I get things in -order. And—they tell me Burnham is a very large town, and that trade -there is now very good. Perhaps——’ - -‘Ah, you are thinking you might happen to find some employment there. -It is possible. But pray do not think of putting up at the inn while -there is room at the Abbey. We shall be glad if you will stay with us, -as long as you find it convenient.’ - -‘Who may we be?’ wondered Jerome, as he hesitated. There was not much -cordiality in the invitation, but a sedate sincerity, as if Mr. Bolton -performed a duty which might have been pleasanter, and might also have -been more unpleasant. One thing was quite certain. Whether he would -be glad or not to have Wellfield at his own home, he would be very -sorry to see him at the inn. He saw the hesitation, and repeated his -invitation, this time more cordially. - -‘You are very kind,’ said Wellfield. ‘It looks so very much as if I had -come on purpose——’ - -‘I do not know why you came, I am sure, but I trust you will stay with -us. Since you are so near Burnham, it would be foolish to go back to -Manchester without at least making an effort to seek some employment -there. And there is no one in the world who knows so much about Burnham -as I do.’ - -Jerome thanked him, and accepted the invitation. Mr. Bolton rose. - -‘That is settled,’ he remarked. ‘Come into the garden, and we’ll find -Nita there.’ - -‘Who is Nita?’ again speculated Wellfield, and he followed his host -without a word. - -Mr. Bolton took his way through the garden towards the avenue by the -river, which was called ‘the river walk.’ As they entered this walk, -Jerome perceived in the distance an arrangement of chairs and a table, -some light shawls, books, parasols, and two female figures, seated in -low cane chairs, under the trees. Both these ladies were reading, and -apparently engrossed in their books. The footsteps of the men along the -soft grass made no sound, and neither lady looked up until Mr. Bolton, -in a voice from which all hardness and abruptness appeared to have -melted suddenly, said: - -‘Nita!’ - -Then both the parasols were lowered, and Jerome saw that a very young -lady, and a decidedly elderly one, sat side by side beneath the trees. -The young lady looked first at both of them, then at Wellfield in -particular, and as she slowly rose, with a faint, half-smile, her face -seemed all large brown eyes. As he came nearer, he saw that she had, -too, a beautiful forehead, broad, and rather low; red lips which looked -as if they would readily smile, and pale cheeks. He saw that she only -just attained medium height; that she was slight, yet not thin in -figure, and graceful, in a certain quaint, picturesque, unconventional -style—a great contrast to the stiff, upright, elderly figure beside -her, with a grey keen face, compressed lips, and piercing, cold grey -eyes. The second lady made no attempt at rising. She sat perfectly -still, and bolt upright, folded her mittened hands one over the other -upon her book, and looked at Jerome Wellfield in a manner which he felt -to be pointed. - -‘Nita,’ repeated Mr. Bolton, ‘I’ve brought you a visitor; Mr. Jerome -Wellfield, who will stay with us a short time. My daughter, Mr. -Wellfield, and my cousin, Miss Margaret Shuttleworth.’ - -Nita Bolton smiled, shook hands with the guest, and said, ‘How do you -do?’ - -Miss Shuttleworth stiffly inclined her head, but did not make any -overtures towards shaking hands. - -‘Will you not sit down, Mr. Wellfield?’ said Nita, pointing to a chair, -which he took, and she went on: - -‘Have you just arrived in Wellfield?’ - -‘I arrived about an hour and a half ago. I have been looking at my -house—Monk’s Gate.’ - -‘Oh, have you? It is a pretty little house.’ - -‘Very. So humble and unobtrusive-looking,’ said Jerome. - -‘And damp,’ observed Miss Shuttleworth; and though she did not speak -loudly, she spoke in a manner which made it impossible to ignore -her remarks. Indeed, whenever Miss Shuttleworth spoke, an impartial -observer must have said that she put a portentous amount of expression -into her utterances. - -‘You think it is damp?’ said Jerome, politely turning to her, while -Nita’s colour rose, and her fingers trifled nervously with her -watch-chain. - -‘I know it to be damp,’ responded Miss Shuttleworth, in a manner which -Jerome, unaccustomed to her as he was, felt imperatively called for a -reply, or another question of some kind. - -‘So damp as to make it unadvisable to live there?’ he inquired. - -‘I should say it was a most unhealthy house to live in. If you _wish_ -to become rheumatic at once, and to grow old before your years, by all -means live at Monk’s Gate.’ - -‘As it is all the home I now possess,’ responded Jerome, ‘it is -probable that I shall live there, despite the disadvantages you -mention.’ - -‘All the home you possess?’ repeated Nita, and Jerome turned to her -with a sense of pleasure in the contrast between her and her relative. - -Miss Shuttleworth absolutely revolted him with her plainness, her hard -features, her metallic voice, and her unengaging manner. In comparison, -Nita, though not a beauty, looked charming. He met her soft brown eyes -with pleasure, and saw the slight shyness, the little air of timidity -and shrinking, with feelings of complacency. At this juncture Mr. -Bolton rose, remarking: - -‘Well, I’ll leave Mr. Wellfield to you to entertain. I have some -writing to do. I suppose I shall see you at supper, Margaret?’ - -‘Not to-night, thank you. I have my Bible class, and shall have to go -in about an hour.’ - -‘Oh, well, come to-morrow, or as often as you can, at any rate,’ he -answered; and with a general inclination of the head to the company, he -departed. - -Jerome looked after him, as he went down the river walk, and realised -that the whole figure, though plebeian, was powerful, not without a -certain air, too, of dignity and command. He turned to Nita again. - -‘Mr. Bolton has very kindly asked me to stay a few days at the Abbey, -until I have decided what to do with Monk’s Gate, or rather until I -see whether I can find some employment, which will allow me to live at -Monk’s Gate, as I hope to do.’ - -‘Yes,’ said Nita, with a look of embarrassment; ‘but—but—I suppose I -ought not to say it——’ - -‘If it is a personal question, Nita, to a total stranger, you ought -certainly _not_ to say it,’ here chimed in Miss Shuttleworth’s voice. - -Nita blushed furiously, and Jerome said, more in the hope of annoying -Miss Shuttleworth than from any other reason: - -‘I am sure it is no question that is not perfectly justifiable, Miss -Bolton, and therefore I promise in advance to answer it.’ - -‘It was not exactly a question. You speak of Monk’s Gate as your only -home, and of seeking employment; but I thought you were rich, Mr. -Wellfield.’ - -‘So did I, until a short time ago. I am just now in the process of -learning completely to realise my mistake. I am a poor man, and am not -quite certain that the wreck of my fortunes will leave me enough to -enable me to bring my sister to Monk’s Gate, and make her a home there.’ - -‘Have you a sister?’ asked Nita, who kept giving him very rapid, -momentary glances, her eyes leaving his face almost before they had -had time to find it, which glances he met with a calm, prolonged gaze, -which did not escape the steely eyes of Miss Shuttleworth. - -‘I have a sister—yes.’ - -‘Is she with you?’ - -‘No; she is at Elberthal, in Germany, with a friend.’ - -‘How old is she?’ - -‘Sixteen.’ - -‘Is she pretty?’ - -‘She is considered beautiful, I believe.’ - -‘Like you at all?’ inquired Miss Shuttleworth, with a treacherous -suavity in her tones. - -Jerome burst out laughing, and Nita blushed fiercely. - -‘Oh, aunt, how uncomfortable you make me!’ she exclaimed vehemently. - -Miss Shuttleworth made no reply, then Nita went on: - -‘I hope it is not rude of me, but are you and your sister alone in the -world?’ - -‘We are, quite.’ - -‘And very fond of one another?’ - -‘Y—yes.’ - -‘That is, your sister is very fond of you,’ remarked Miss Shuttleworth. - -‘I hope she is, and that she may never have cause to be otherwise,’ he -replied politely. - -‘It is very interesting!’ said Nita, with a little sigh, while Jerome -thought, repressing a smile, what an amusing story it would make for -Sara and Avice. - -‘What is your sister’s name?’ next asked Nita. - -‘Avice.’ - -‘Avice? What a peculiar name.’ - -‘It means “refuge,”’ observed Miss Shuttleworth. - -‘Oh, does it?’ said Jerome, ‘I didn’t know that.’ - -‘Do you think you will like living in England?’ pursued Nita. - -‘No, I don’t, under the circumstances.’ - -She shook her head, and maintained silence. Miss Shuttleworth rose from -her chair. - -‘I must go,’ she remarked. ‘And do you go in too, Nita, soon. The damp -rises from the river in the evening, and you have a thin dress on.’ - -‘I shall not be long.’ - -‘I am going to take this book with me. It is a very clever story. Where -did you get it?’ - -‘John brought it me from London. I haven’t read it. I saw a review of -it in the ——, which made me think it was stupid.’ - -Miss Shuttleworth’s lips relaxed into a smile which was sardonic. This -was a topic on which she evidently felt strongly. - -‘Why do you and John and your father persist in reading reviews?’ she -asked, with asperity. ‘The book stupid?—as likely as not it was the -reviewer who was stupid. _I_ know them. It is a very clever book, but -of course if you read that review of it, it would spoil it for you. I -do wish I could cure you of reading reviews. It spoils one’s pleasure -so, and does not the least good.’ - -‘I’ll try to give it up,’ said Nita, meekly. ‘Shall we go with you to -the great gate? Mr. Wellfield, would you like to come?’ - -Jerome accompanied the two ladies to the great gate. Then Nita thought -she would walk on with Miss Shuttleworth to her house, and Jerome -thought he would stroll round the grounds. Nita told him that they -supped at half-past eight, and she disappeared with Miss Shuttleworth -through the gate. Jerome wandered back along the river walk, and -through the old gardens, and strolled and loitered amongst the trees. -Presently the sun declined, and gorgeous hues of purple and gold and -crimson set the western sky ablaze, and coloured the water of the -river with changing tints. The trees waved softly overhead—the water -murmured placidly as it rolled by. All was still and quiet, and he -tried to realise that he was here—a stranger. It was all so familiar -as to be almost weirdly so. These strange faces, strange owners, -jarred upon him. He could not understand how they came to be so at -home there—so at ease in _his_ home. As for him—when he should have -supplied Monk’s Gate with a little furniture, just enough to make it -habitable, and established Avice here, his ready-cash would be almost -exhausted, and then what was to become of him? The pittance—not -certain, but probable—of which Mr. Netley had spoken, remained. He -could not live upon that—he might die upon it, starve upon it, go mad -upon it; he could not live upon it—as a man with his ideas, his hopes, -his inborn, inbred habits and feelings, understands life, even in its -narrowest sense. - -After a long time spent in such meditations—meditations which dimmed -the beauty of the sunset, and marred the evening’s glory, he looked -up, and found that the pomp of the _Sonnenuntergang_ was over; the -purple and gold had disappeared; the sky was grey again. It must be -supper-time. He bent his steps towards the house. - -Entering the hall he saw Nita going across it, with a large crystal -bowl of flowers in her hand. She had on a black flowing dress of -something soft and gauzy, with knots of brightly-hued ribbons here and -there. Whether by design or by accident, she had greatly improved her -appearance, and looked as nearly pretty as it was possible for her -to be; but the air of delicacy and a slight languor, speaking of a -constitution not of the strongest kind, prevented her from being really -beautiful. But she was agreeable, even attractive to look at, and had -quaint original little ways which gave a charm to her. If she did not -move with the air of a great lady, nor shine with the noble beauty of -Sara Ford, she was yet not without her charm, as Jerome felt, when she -paused, balancing the vase in her hands, looking up at him and smiling. - -‘You have had a long stroll, Mr. Wellfield, and I am sure you will be -tired. William,’ she added, to a page-boy who then appeared upon the -scene, ‘show Mr. Wellfield to the blue-room, and send Mary to see that -he has all he wants.’ - -When Jerome came down again, the same boy appeared, and invited him -into the drawing-room. How well he remembered it as he had last seen -it, and how great was the contrast between the dim old room of sixteen -years ago and the luxurious one of to-day, furnished in the richest and -most approved style, with gorgeously decorated ceiling, and every kind -of ‘upholsterer’s darling’ in the shape of easy-chairs, couches and -lounges, scattered about! - -Nita was there with her work, and Mr. Bolton with the newspapers, and a -third person, a young man whose face, as Jerome looked at him, brought -back the past with a vividness, with a rush, as it were, which more -than ever carried him backwards, and made the immediate past seem like -a dream in the light of sixteen years ago. - -‘John Leyburn, if I am in my right mind!’ he exclaimed, for him almost -eagerly. - -‘I think you may safely assume that your judgment does not misguide -you.’ - -‘Though you _do_ say that the evidence of your own senses is the last -thing you would believe, John,’ observed Nita, with asperity. - -John laughed, as he shook hands with Wellfield. - -‘Not the last thing I would believe, but the first thing I would -distrust, if I had grounds for doubting about anything,’ he answered. - -‘And how have you been going on?’ asked Jerome, after the usual fashion -of one man to another. To which Leyburn replied modestly: - -‘Oh, fairly well.’ - -‘Fairly well, indeed!’ retorted Nita. ‘You have got on very well -indeed, John. My cousin has got a big house and a big mill, and a huge -business, all to himself, Mr. Wellfield. And he calls that getting on -“fairly well.”’ - -‘And you?’ asked Leyburn. - -‘I—very ill, as no doubt you have heard. But that doesn’t matter. I -am glad to see you again. Do you live at Abbot’s Knoll yet? Do you -remember coming down here to do Latin with my tutor, Phillips? What an -age it seems since then!’ - -‘I remember,’ said John, deliberately. - -He was a young man who could not be called handsome; beside Wellfield -he looked exceedingly plain, with his square-cut, rather heavy face, -and decidedly clumsy figure. Yet about this young manufacturer, -with his want of grace and polish, there was the charm of a candid, -benevolent, truth-loving nature, which charm showed in the clear, -pleasant light-brown eyes, which redeemed him from insignificance, -and made him an agreeable companion. He was quiet, decidedly. Jerome -remembered that in the old days when they had both been children -together, he had been, not shy, but a silent, reserved, observant boy, -with decided likes and dislikes. By-and-by, Leyburn went and sat down -beside Nita on the sofa. They appeared to be on squabbling terms, which -naturally implies intimacy. Mr. Bolton looked benevolently at them over -his newspaper, and Jerome, with a sudden sense which was not altogether -a pleasurable one, began to wonder if this were ‘a case.’ No, he did -not like the idea—why, he hardly knew, since it could not possibly -matter anything to him; but it seemed to shut him more entirely than -ever out from all that should have been his. With rapid, unreasonable -foresight, he pictured Nita and her cousin man and wife, in safe and -secure possession of the Abbey and its lands, with perhaps children to -inherit them, and money in abundance to keep it all up. The idea galled -and hurt him excessively, and he sat silently, and somewhat moodily -pondering upon it until supper was announced. - -It appeared that early hours were the rule at the Abbey. After supper, -Mr. Bolton retired to one end of the huge drawing-room to a table on -which stood a reading-lamp, and he was soon lost in a book of travels -in the South Seas. Nita and the two young men were left to entertain -one another as they chose. Jerome was somewhat taciturn, observing the -incessant conversation, friendly squabbles and unmistakable real liking -between Nita Bolton and John Leyburn. About ten o’clock Leyburn said -good-night. By half-past ten all the household were in their rooms. -Jerome opened his window and looked out. The same moon, only fuller, -as that which had lighted his meditations in Manchester, shone here, -and silvered the old Abbey gardens, and the ancient walks, and the -motionless trees. His heart was sore as heart could be. These people -were not what he had expected, and perhaps that added to the sting of -his vexation. They were not purse-proud, vulgar upstarts. They were -plain and homely, but gentle and gracious. It was not some vulgar man -who held and who would inherit his patrimony; it was a man whose whole -character and aspect compelled respect and even admiration, and a girl -in whose eyes dwelt gentleness and goodness, and whose ways were all -kind and womanly and girlish. He pondered over it all, and looked again -upon the beauty of it, and muttered to himself: - -‘Mine by right—mine before God! and it shall be mine again, too.’ - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -NITA’S DIARY. - - -In her room at the same hour sat Nita Bolton: the door locked, the lamp -lighted. She was attired in a flowing dressing-gown, her hair falling -in two long, thick plaits over her shoulders. Nita had beautiful -hair—beautiful, that is, in quality, if not remarkable in colour. It -was of a dull, soft brown, without the suspicion of a tawny hue in -it, or of a glint of gold, but it was slightly wavy, fine, soft, and -abundant, and she had a harmless pride and pleasure in it. - -She was seated just now at a very elegant-looking writing-table, an -article of furniture which had so far been also distinctly an article -of luxury, for Nita’s letters were very, very few. It was not a letter -with which she was this night engaged. No! Open before her was a -substantially-bound volume, with a Chubb’s lock, and a little key to -open and close the same—a precaution which lost some of its value -when one considers how easy it would have been for an evil-disposed -person to carry off the book, lock and all, if he wished to pry into -the sacred contents thereof. In this precious volume Miss Bolton was in -the habit of inscribing her day’s adventures, or no-adventures, and her -own valuable comments and reflections thereupon, together with dark and -gloomy musings upon the sorrows and misfortunes of this present life; -the strange and inexplicable arrangements of Destiny (with a capital -D), and a chronicle of her mental experiences in general. Many pages of -such lucubrations filled the earlier portion of the volume. - -To-night Anita’s pen had not run with its accustomed rapidity over -the page. She had recorded how ‘John returned from London yesterday -morning, and came in in the evening and brought me some novels, because -he said he knew I cared for nothing else, which was mean of the dear -old fellow.’ How ‘Aunt Margery came to dinner, and sat with me all -afternoon, and was very amusing. What a clever old thing she is!’ How, -‘about six o’clock, I heard papa’s voice, and looked up, wondering what -had dragged him away from his beloved Dante, at that hour, and I saw -him coming along with a gentleman, a stranger, the very handsomest man -I ever saw.’ Then followed a minute description of the introduction, of -every word that Jerome had said, that Aunt Margery and papa had said, -that ‘I’ had said, and in addition, what ‘I’ thought on the subject: To -her diary Nita might betray, and did betray what she would conceal from -all others, the fact that from the moment in which she had looked up -and met Jerome’s eyes, she had been fascinated, spell-bound, possessed -with the thought of him. - -Much unpublished as well as published rubbish is written every year, -and Nita Bolton’s journal was not an exception to the rule that most -young ladies’ journals are not worth the time that is spent upon them. -Her cousin John having discovered once by accident that Nita kept a -journal, had ever since oppressed her at intervals with cruel remarks -upon it, questions as to what she had written about, insinuating -inquiries, ‘Did you mention how agreeable I made myself the other -night?’ and so on. - -Mr. Bolton had laughed a little when he heard about it, and had said: - -‘She’s dull. Girls must have some outlet for their feelings. It’s -better to sentimentalise in a diary than with a curate. I’d rather she -sat up late scribbling, than rose at cockcrow to get cold at “early -celebrations,” and all that rubbish—eh, Jack?’ - -To which ‘Jack’ always and devoutly yielded his assent. - -Nita, on this particular occasion, had more and darker reflections to -make than usual, upon the dark and tortuous ways of ‘Destiny.’ Such -effusions might be the result of a mere surface feeling, or they might -be the indications of some deeper, more tragic emotion. Who was to say? -Nita herself less than anyone. - -‘I never,’ she wrote, ‘_never_ before saw, or imagined anyone in the -least like him. It was like seeing a new kind of creature.’ - -Then there was a long pause, as she laid her pen down, folded her -hands, and pondered. Then she took up her pen again and wrote: - -‘He may well look sad and melancholy, and gaze sorrowfully on the scene -around him. He may well look long and gravely at _me_ when he speaks -to me. Only quite a short time ago, he supposed himself the heir to -all this place, and now he is dispossessed, and it is _I_ who shall -sometime have it! What romances there are in the world, far wilder -romances than one reads of in books. How will it all end? What hand has -brought us together in this strange manner—I and he, of all persons -in the world? This is indeed one of those dark mazes of life through -which one must wander on trust—one can _know_ nothing.’ - -Having written thus far, Nita carefully read over the chronicle, -closed and locked the book, and put it away. Then, starting with a -sudden movement, she ran to the window, opened it and leaned out, -looking forth upon the moonlight. To a romantic mind and one given -to sentimental musings, Wellfield Abbey must have been provocative -of much moon-gazing and many reveries. Nita Bolton was romantic, was -sentimental, in no small degree, though these qualities had been well -kept in check by the healthy and natural though quiet life which she -had lived, and by the perpetual shafts of satire directed against all -sentiment by her three associates—her father, her Aunt Margery, and -her cousin, John Leyburn. But the tendency to weaving romance out of -her surroundings, if they would by any means allow it, was there, -powerful, though dormant. The fire smouldered. It needed but a spark -to kindle it. The sudden appearance of Jerome Wellfield supplied that -spark. Nita’s innate love of sentiment and romance was aroused. It -appeared as if life suddenly contained a new, fresh interest. It was -long before the girl undressed, and then it was long before she slept. -At last slumber came, and dreams in which Wellfield had no part. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -WITH THE STREAM. - - -Morning again—a hazy, glorious August morning. When Wellfield threw -open his window, a draught of air scented with everything that is -sweetest and most exquisite was borne into the room. The heavy trees -outside stood motionless; the dazzling spikes of gladiolus, and the -parterres of geraniums looked dim in the morning mist which still hung -white and palpable over the course of the river. Each day that Jerome -passed here was fairer than the last; each morning and each evening -made more palpable to him what a goodly heritage had departed from -him, and fallen to the lot of others. This may have influenced his -course: who shall say what and where is the first upspringing of that -current which, slight at first, presently grows so strong as to sway -our actions and decide our ‘will’ to some particular course? - -On going downstairs, he found the breakfast-table spread, and Mr. -Bolton seated at it. Nita was standing in the window, the newspaper in -one hand, while the other caressed the head of her great dun-coloured -mastiff, Speedwell—another dear friend who, like nature, ‘never would -betray the heart that loved’ him. Mr. Bolton made a measured apology -for beginning his breakfast, adding that he had to go to Burnham by the -nine o’clock train, but would be in to dinner in the middle of the day, -and he hoped Mr. Wellfield would do just what was agreeable to him, and -Nita would do her best to entertain him. - -With which Nita also advanced, looking rather pale, but also almost -pretty. She laid down the paper, remarking: - -‘There’s nothing in it, papa. The market is up, and there is a leading -article absolutely annihilating the Opposition, so let that content you -until this evening.’ - -‘I suppose it must,’ said he, rising; and wishing them good-morning, he -departed. - -Nita, when breakfast was over, proposed a tour round the garden, she -had some orders to give the gardener, and must go to the farm, or -perhaps he would prefer to stay indoors. - -‘I should prefer to go with you if I may,’ he said; and they strolled -out together. - -Nita appeared quite at home outside the house. During their progress -round the garden Jerome grew more interested in her, and with him, -to be interested in a woman was to do his utmost to make himself -interesting to her. Nita was not aware of this idiosyncrasy; and a -man cannot say to a woman, ‘Do not make yourself interesting to me, -or I shall try in turn to captivate you.’ The rules of etiquette do -not allow such a statement, but when a man’s heart is given in one -direction, he may intimate that fact, and make it quite palpable to -another woman, without absolutely saying in so many words, ‘I am -engaged; do not fall in love with me,’ and he may do this without -hurting her feelings or her self-respect. Jerome Wellfield did not do -this. - -‘There is a farm belonging to the Abbey,’ observed Nita, ‘and papa -leaves all the management of it to me: he only cares for his books -when he leaves business, so I have the farm and the gardens and the -house—indeed, everything connected with our life here—to look after.’ - -‘Quite alone?’ asked Jerome. - -‘Yes; because I have no brothers or sisters, and very few friends. I am -the only one, and I am glad of it.’ - -‘Are you? Is it not rather lonely?’ - -‘I never feel lonely. I don’t know what it is to feel lonely. And -sometimes I think it is only the heroines of novels who ever do feel -so; but when I once said so to Aunt Margaret, she said who was I to -talk? and desired me to wait until I had had a little more experience -of life.’ - -‘Let us hope you may never have any experience in that line,’ said -Jerome, smiling. - -‘Why, do you know what it is to be lonely?’ - -‘No; I have never felt particularly oppressed by that sensation. But, -talking about brothers and sisters, I should have thought you would -have been—we won’t say less lonely, since you take exception to the -term—but would have enjoyed life more if you had had some of them.’ - -‘I don’t see it,’ persisted Nita. ‘I am very happy as I am. I like my -own way. I don’t care to be interfered with. A brother would take the -first place in papa’s heart, and have the first say in everything; and -a sister—no, I would rather not.’ - -‘You are exclusive, and contented. Some day you will have power -more undivided than now, even,’ said Jerome, dwelling with a morbid -persistency on the idea which at present haunted him. ‘I suppose you -like thinking of that too?’ - -‘Yes,’ said Nita, frankly and unthinkingly, ‘I do; I love to think that -I am not going to leave this dear old place, ever. And I love to think -that some day, though I hope not for a very long time, it will be my -very own.’ - -She looked up at him with a smile, as she finished; met his eyes, read -the expression in them, stopped abruptly, and said, in a voice of -consternation: - -‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ - -Her face was covered with a flood of colour. For a moment she put her -hand before it, as if to cover it, then dropped it again. - -‘What must you think of me?’ she exclaimed, in a voice full of tears. -‘Pray forgive me, if you can!’ - -‘Pray do not distress yourself,’ he rejoined, a curious flavour, half -bitterness, half amusement, in his voice—‘I led up to it; I wanted to -hear you confess it. I felt sure you were too natural not to feel so. -You are quite right; you and yours have not stolen the place. You came -by it honestly, and have a right to rejoice in it if you like.’ - -He made a step onwards, inwardly wondering a little why he _had_ led up -to this topic. Nita’s face was downcast, as she said, in a deep tone of -annoyance and vexation: - -‘It does not matter. I am a little fool, I believe. After all my -resolutions that I would not drop a syllable that could wound you while -you were here—_idiot_ that I am!’ - -‘Did you make such resolutions?’ asked Wellfield, suddenly stopping -again, and bending his eyes beneath their frowning brows upon her. - -‘Yes. Oh, don’t look so severe, Mr. Wellfield, or I shall have to go -in. Indeed it was an oversight, my saying such a thing.’ - -‘I wish you would not take it so to heart,’ he said, with a short -laugh. ‘It is well that I should learn to grow accustomed to my -position. You have given me the first lesson, that is all. Shall we go -on?’ - -Nita answered nothing, but paced on beside him. Jerome was fully aware -in his secret heart that his last speech was claptrap; but if it had -the same effect upon Nita as if it had been fresh from the real well -of pathos, what did it matter? There was a vague feeling present in -his mind, that Nita seemed to take a good deal of interest in him—a -feeling which gave him suddenly great interest in her. - -‘You are very fond of the Abbey, then?’ he asked. - -‘Yes—very.’ - -‘Why so? What makes you like it so much? Stop! I am sure you need not -give orders to the gardener this very moment. Take one other turn with -me on the river walk. Why are you so devoted to the Abbey?’ - -‘I can hardly tell,’ she answered, a little shyly. (Evidently she -was dreadfully afraid of hurting him by any second remark like that -one which had already, as it were, exploded like a conversational -bombshell. To her he was still the lord of the soil, despite her love -for the place, and her keen sense of joy in the possession of it. He -saw the feeling in a moment, and it gratified him.) ‘I hardly know,’ -repeated Nita; ‘it seems to have grown part of my life—it is so -different from other places. It suits me. I was so glad when we came -here.’ - -‘And you knew when you came that you were the only child of your -father, and you liked the idea of sometime reigning at the old place?’ -pursued Jerome, tranquilly. - -‘Yes. Oh, do please excuse me. I did like it very much. But if I had -known about you, I should not have liked it; and I shall not like it -now.’ - -‘Known about me!—you mean that you were unaware of the existence of -such a person?’ - -‘No; I had heard of you. But Aunt Margaret—is a little prejudiced, I -think. She knows all the traditions of the place, and all the histories -of all the old families in it, and she used to say that—that your -father——’ - -‘What about my father, Miss Bolton?’ - -‘It was not your father in particular. It was the Wellfield family. -She had a dislike to—no, not a dislike. Aunt Margaret never has such -strong feelings as likes and dislikes. She said your family were proud -and unscrupulous, that they had never worked for others, or cared for -any but themselves; that they were—but I have no business to say such -things,’ said Nita, who had by this time become so nervous and so -confused as not really to know what she was saying, and who rambled -on, fascinated by the calm, pale face and intent dark eyes of her -companion. She spoke of the old Wellfields as if they had been a dream, -and did not realise that this man beside her was actually one of the -race. - -‘Go on, please,’ he said; and Nita continued, as if it had been a -lesson she was repeating by heart. - -‘That they were selfish and luxurious——’ - -‘The last fault will not be laid to their charge in this generation, at -least,’ observed Jerome. ‘Well, what else?’ - -‘I am only saying all this because you _make_ me!’ said Nita, with -almost passionate protest in her voice, ‘not because I wish to. She -says—but I will tell you no more. I will not be so odious. If you -really desire to hear such things, ask Aunt Margaret. She will tell -you, and will not spare anything on account of your name and your race.’ - -‘Thank you. I shall have a little conversation with her some day. I can -quite imagine that she thought it was an unmitigated benefit when the -Abbey passed from the hands of our dissolute race into the honest and -untainted ones of your father.’ - -‘I knew you would never forgive me, and yet you would make me go on,’ -said Nita, in a tone of despairing resignation. ‘I can’t help it. I -wash my hands of it.’ - -‘You at least may “wash your hands in innocency,”’ he replied. ‘Since -my old home is never to be mine, I would as soon you had it as anyone; -and since you wish for it more than for anything in the world——’ - -‘There is one thing now which I feel that I wish for more,’ said Nita, -in a vibrating voice. - -‘Is there? What is that?’ - -‘That you—that those whose home it really is, should own it once -again. I would gladly leave it now to let you come into it.’ - -‘That is generously said, and I thank you for it,’ said Jerome, in a -voice not altogether unmoved. His eyes looked gratefully into hers. He -took her hand, and carried it to his lips. Nita thrilled from head to -foot. Was this the same world as the world of twenty-four hours ago? - -‘To know that goes as near as anything can to reconciling me to my -inevitable loss,’ he said, still in a low tone, as they resumed their -way. - -They left the solitary, silent river walk, dangerous in its beauty and -its associations, for the more prosaic regions of the kitchen-garden. -While they waited for the gardener to come, Nita said: - -‘Don’t let me keep you here. I shall be ever so long; and then I have -to go to the farm. You will want to go down to Monk’s Gate, I daresay.’ - -‘I do; but I am emboldened to ask a favour of you, first.’ - -‘What is that?’ - -‘When you have quite finished your business here, will it be too much -to ask you to come down to Monk’s Gate, and give me a little advice? -There is some furniture in it, but I don’t know whether it can be used. -I am a man, you see, and naturally helpless in such a case. If you did -not mind very much——’ - -‘I shall be delighted. I will come down as soon as ever I have -finished. Shall I find you there?’ - -‘You will find me there. If not in the house, in the garden; and if not -in the garden, in the house. Thank you, very much.’ - -Lifting his hat he left her, and went down the river walk. - -Adamson, the gardener, found his young mistress strangely distraite -and forgetful—a phenomenon which puzzled him, for he was wont to -bear admiring testimony to her clearness of head, and readiness of -comprehension, saying: ‘Eh, but hoo’s a rare sharp un, is Miss Bolton. -Hoo’s a chip of the ’owd block in more ways nor one, _hoo_ is.’ - - * * * * * - -Wellfield, meanwhile, had taken his way down the river walk, the -entrance to which was in the village street, close beside the ancient -stone bridge. On the other side of this bridge, a stony, steep, -wood-shaded walk led invitingly up a hill, then bent round to the left, -leaving the rest of that enticing way to conjecture. This path, as -Jerome remembered, took one to the top of a hill called Wellfield Nab -or Neb, or simply ‘the Nab.’ He remembered climbing it sixteen years -ago, with his tutor and John Leyburn; and the glorious view of the -surrounding country which it commanded, he remembered too. - -At the foot of the Nab, almost out of sight from the bridge, he could -just catch a glimpse of a couple of gables, belonging to the Abbot’s -Knoll house—Leyburn’s dwelling. John rode every morning to his mill, -which was some two miles distant, on the road to Burnham. - -Down the quaint paved street Jerome walked towards the church, that -ancient ‘white church under the hill,’ which had weathered so many -storms and troubles. A sleepy place, Wellfield—a place which seemed -forgotten of all men save the few who lived in it. - -Monk’s Gate was only a very few minutes’ walk from the church, the -clock of which struck eleven as Jerome opened the gate of the garden. - -He unlocked the door, and went into the house again, but did not remain -there long. He felt that he really did require Nita’s assistance, and -must wait until she arrived. - -The quiet and sunshine of the old-fashioned, untidy garden were -congenial to him. He wandered about it, inhaling the scent of roses -and carnations, and the rich, spicy odours of picotees and the -old-fashioned white pink. The sun shone pleasantly upon everything, -doing his best towards ripening the young pears and apples on the -trees, and bringing the flowers into more ample bloom. Where is the -charm that can compete with that which pervades an old-fashioned -English garden?—the flavour of grace and quaintness, and the -suggestions of a ‘gentle life’ which hang about such a garden are to be -found nowhere else. - -Wellfield had turned his back to the gate, and was looking at the -great, blunt, boulder-shaped head of Penhull, and observing the purple -mist of heather which clothed its mighty sides, when a voice behind him -said: - -‘Mr. Wellfield!’ - -He turned, a curious thrill shooting through him. The speaker must, -he thought, have almost stolen up to him, so noiseless had been -his approach. He confronted a tall, spare man, in the dress of an -ecclesiastic. The voice in which he had spoken was soft and musical; he -took off his hat with a smile, as Jerome’s eyes met his, and the smile -was a singularly fascinating one, giving an expression of exceeding -graciousness and sweetness to a pale, finely cut, ascetic-looking -countenance. There was a courtly grace in the man’s appearance, in his -bow and manner. - -For a moment Wellfield paused, then, bowing in his turn, said: - -‘Surely I cannot be mistaken—you are the Father Pablo Somerville whom -I met years ago?’ - -‘The same,’ he replied. ‘I am glad to find you remember me. For me, I -saw you as I passed the garden, and concluded it was you; but had I met -you anywhere else, I should have known you instantly.’ - -‘Am I so little changed, then?’ - -‘Not much. And,’ with a slight smile, ‘even had you changed a good -deal, yours is not a face one soon forgets.’ - -Wellfield held out his hand, saying cordially, ‘I am glad to see you.’ -He felt glad. In Somerville’s presence he felt at ease—felt as though -he were with one of his own kind; a sensation he had never experienced -since before his father’s death, and which was pleasant to him, as it -is pleasant to return to European civilisation, with its beloved and -elaborate shams, after wandering amidst the primitive and repulsive -honesty of savages; as it is pleasant to return to stove-heated rooms -and a perfumed atmosphere, to rich meats and dainty wines, after a -forced sojourn amongst bare boards, hard pallets, and a diet of bread -and water. Such exactly was the sensation experienced now by Wellfield, -as he clasped hands with this high-bred, polished-looking priest and -man of the world. - -‘I would ask you into my house, but I doubt whether there is a chair in -it fit to sit upon. I only arrived here yesterday, and am surveying now -all the home that I have.’ - -‘The Abbey has passed away from you, as I heard,’ observed Somerville. -‘That is a pity, for many reasons. We at Brentwood at least regret -it. In the old days, when your forefathers belonged to us, Wellfield -Abbey was noted far and wide for the munificence of its gifts, and the -splendour of its hospitality. Even in the days when your people were -Protestants, they have always been gentlemen—Wellfields, despite the -Protestantism, and they have never treated us churlishly. Down to the -last visit of your late father to the Abbey, we were always received -with hospitality and kindness—then, especially, for Mrs. Wellfield was -there——’ - -‘My mother!’ exclaimed Jerome, eagerly, ‘Did you ever see her? Were you -at the Abbey then?’ - -‘It is a long time ago. Twenty-four years ago. I was a lad of thirteen; -and I was even then destined for the priesthood. I have been at -Brentwood all my life. I was taken by one of the professors, to call -at Wellfield Abbey, and I remember it well to this day. It was winter -weather, and there were roaring fires all over the old house. Mr. -Wellfield complained of everything being heated to furnace-heat. Your -beautiful young mother—and she _was_ beautiful—sat crouching over a -huge fire, with you—a little infant—swathed in warm shawls, in her -arms. I think all the beauty of her beautiful land was concentrated in -her. What wonder that I sat and gazed at her, and thought her like the -Madonna, and wondered how Father Leigh presumed to talk, and even laugh -with her?’ - -‘You remember all this!’ exclaimed Jerome, earnestly. ‘Since I -came here, almost every hour has brought back some incident, some -recollection, some remembered face, which have made the reverse more -cruel, and more terrible to bear, than I had imagined anything could -be.’ - -‘I can well believe it. _Autres temps, autres mœurs._ Things are -changed now, from that time of gracious hospitality and high-bred -courtesy. The present owner of Wellfield Abbey’ (a slight sneer played -about the finely-cut lips) ‘detests “Papists” with a truly Protestant -candour and liberality. I must say, even if it appear like boasting, -that his bigotry is his misfortune, since the “Papists” he objects to -are the only society worthy of the name in the neighbourhood.’ - -‘I suppose so,’ said Jerome, whose face had grown dark during this -discourse. He was pacing with Somerville up and down the gravel walk. - -‘Yes. The Lathebys of Latheby—do you remember them?’ - -‘The name I know well enough. What of them?’ - -‘They were formerly on the best of terms with the Abbey. You must -come and see the exquisite chapel which Mrs. Latheby has offered to -Brentwood. And the Ormes of Brownhill, and some others—these are the -only gentry, and the only cultivated people for miles around. But Mr. -Bolton does not care to associate with such popish _canaille_.’ - -He smiled again, more sneeringly than before, and Jerome felt his heart -warm towards him. This classification of Mr. Bolton with one world, and -of himself with quite another, was not unpleasant to him. - -‘Many things have happened which go sorely against the grain with me,’ -he rejoined. ‘The mischief of it is, my hands are tied. I am powerless, -because I am moneyless.’ - -‘I have heard of your losses,’ said Father Somerville, ‘and regret -them. You will believe me, Mr. Wellfield, when I say that we at -Brentwood would have welcomed you back in any case, rich or poor, with -the Abbey or without it, as a gentleman and a civilised being. We shall -welcome you as it is, if you decide to settle amongst us—welcome you -heartily. And you will think no wrong when I say that had you been -coming amongst us to take that position which in the sight of heaven -you ought to have, we should have welcomed you, not more sincerely, but -perhaps more openly and ceremoniously.’ - -‘You flatter me,’ said Jerome, a flush of something like pleasure on -his cheek. ‘Such a welcome can by no means be indifferent to me. As to -settling here myself, it seems the only thing for me to do at present. -At any rate, even if I should have to leave, I shall bring my sister -here, and she will live here.’ - -‘Your sister! How old is Miss Wellfield, if I may ask?’ - -‘Sixteen. She is at present in Germany with—a friend.’ - -‘I see. When you have settled things, you will bring her here. And -yourself—pardon these inquiries, and do not answer them if you think -them not allowable, but——’ - -‘They are more than allowable. They are very kind; and I feel it -a privilege to be able to speak to you of my affairs,’ returned -Wellfield, with some animation. ‘Myself, I consider destitute until I -have found some employment. What little remains of my fortune, I shall -devote entirely to my sister’s use. With strict economy, and in this -quiet place, I may make it suffice for her wants. They say trade is -good. I may succeed in finding a clerk’s place in some office, in which -a “thorough knowledge of several foreign languages” is a desideratum, -though, to tell the truth, I should first have to learn the entire -technique of any business I entered. I should be a bad bargain at first -for any employer, whatever glories I might attain to later in the -matter of book-keeping or correspondence. Still, I may earn enough to -keep me—what do I know?’ - -He threw up his head, and laughed a little, plunging his hands into -his pockets. Father Somerville watched him narrowly and unobserved. -The study pleased him, interested him, made him curious to pursue it -further. - -There was a pause till the priest said: - -‘If I remember aright, you are a good musician, Mr. Wellfield.’ - -‘Yes. It is the only thing I have—the only talent my God has given me. -Of much use it appears it will be to me!’ - -‘Hush, hush, sir! As you say, your God has given it to you, and He -doubtless had some purpose in so endowing you.’ - -‘I beg your pardon,’ muttered Jerome. ‘It is not my habit to speak -in that manner; but I have been harassed almost to madness by the -embarrassments and difficulties of my position. Sometimes I have -wondered whether the last Wellfield was sent into the world to make a -name and a fortune on the stage.’ - -‘I can well understand your feelings. Where are you staying?’ he added, -suddenly. ‘At an inn? Will you not come and take shelter with us at -Brentwood. They would be——’ - -‘I thank you. I am staying at the Abbey.’ - -‘Ah, at the Abbey? Then you simply came down here for a stroll. Will -they turn you out of the Abbey as a polluted thing if you enter -Brentwood to take a meal there?’ - -‘I don’t suppose they would; but at this moment I am waiting, and must -continue to wait until she comes, for Miss Bolton, who has been kind -enough to promise me her assistance in deciding what part of the lumber -inside here is fit to keep and which is good only to be cast into the -fire.’ - -‘You know Miss Bolton, then?’ - -‘I made her acquaintance, and that of her father, yesterday; and they -asked me to stay with them until my business here was done.’ - -‘Her father is enormously rich.’ - -‘Is he? I knew he must be rich from the sum he paid my father for the -Abbey. I did not know his wealth was “enormous.”’ - -‘But it is, without any exaggeration. He has been one of the most -successful manufacturers in Burnham, and does an immense foreign trade: -perhaps your knowledge of foreign languages might be useful to him. -Knowledge _is_ power, you know, let fools say what they may against -it,’ observed Father Somerville, who had a way of throwing out hints -which suggested the largest possibilities, in a casual careless way -which was quite peculiar to him. - -‘It is no small thing to be one of the wealthiest manufacturers of -Burnham,’ he went on. ‘In plain English, it means an income like that -of a nobleman—an income which in this case is not one quarter spent, -but which goes on accumulating in excellent investments.... And Miss -Bolton is sole heiress?’ - -‘Yes—so I understand,’ said Jerome, absently, his mind occupied with -the priest’s suggestion that perhaps his knowledge of languages might -prove useful to Mr. Bolton. Why not? It would be well for him if it -should turn out to be so. The natural indolence of his half-southern -temperament made the idea of strenuous exertion in search of -employment, which hardly could in the nature of things be remunerative, -utterly abhorrent to him; and he grasped with the more eagerness at the -idea suggested by Somerville’s words. - -The latter was tempted to smile at what at first appeared the -obtuseness of the young man. But he was a man of the world. Wellfield’s -absence of mind, and his unconsciousness of the hint which lay behind -that remark about the sole heiress, might be an innocence which would -certainly be refreshing in one who must have been the object of so much -matrimonial angling as Jerome Wellfield, in the days when he had been -the supposed heir to the Abbey and a fortune; but it also might not -be innocence at all. It might be that some deeper reason caused that -obtuseness. Probably young Wellfield was in love already. With his -disposition, and with the life he had led, it was most unlikely that he -should have travelled so far in life without ever having had his heart -touched. - -Pablo Somerville knew when to be reserved and when to be open, even -cynically open and candid. He judged this a fitting occasion on which -to display the latter qualities. - -‘She knows it, I should imagine?’ he said. - -‘Yes—of course, yes. She told me this morning how pleased she often -felt at the idea of one day owning the Abbey,’ said Jerome, still not -awake to the palpable bearings of the case. - -(‘_Quelle bêtise!_—how like a _roturier_!’ flashed rapidly through -Somerville’s mind; ‘if she likes the Abbey, no doubt she would like the -owner—the once owner!’) - -Aloud, he said, striking at once me, and sharply: - -‘Has a _mariage de convenance_ never occurred to you as a way out -of your difficulties?’ he inquired, in a thoroughly matter-of-fact, -composed tone. - -Jerome abruptly came to a dead stop. His eyes leaped to the other’s -face. The priest looked at him with a slight cool smile, half rallying, -half surprised. - -‘Never,’ at last replied Wellfield, almost frigidly. But his heart was -beating fast and suddenly. - -‘I am surprised at that. I should fancy it would be very easily -arranged. And then, if you really wish for employment, nothing would be -easier than to find it. It is always to be bought, if you will pay dear -enough for it. Were you but a Catholic, I know of one—two marriages of -that kind, which might soon be negotiated through our influence. As it -is, I am not Jesuit enough to pretend that I would connive at marrying -a Catholic heiress to a heretic, even where the heretic is Jerome -Wellfield.’ - -Jerome laughed a little. ‘It would certainly be a good deal to expect,’ -said he. - -‘It would, since you would probably not only marry the heiress, but -convert her, if you wished to. But why should you not think of Miss -Bolton? You would soon win her, and, with her, regain your patrimony -and your home.’ - -He did not expatiate upon the subject. Jerome, engrossed by his real -love, had absolutely not once thought of Miss Bolton in the light in -which she was now held up to him. She was very rich. Some time she -would be the mistress of Wellfield Abbey. He rather liked her, in -a superior, patronising kind of way, but otherwise she was utterly -indifferent to him; whereas every fibre of his heart was powerfully -drawn in another direction. - -‘Impossible, Father! The circumstances make it out of the question,’ -said he, coldly and decisively. - -‘The course is clear,’ said the priest, calmly. ‘Miss Bolton is not -engaged. She is anything but disagreeable or stupid. Considering her -training, she is a marvel of refinement; and if you married her you -could make her into what you pleased. You have no rivals, and if you -had, none here who could for a moment compete with yourself.’ - -‘Pardon me; I know nothing of Miss Bolton’s feelings, of course, but -unless I am much mistaken I have—should have, I mean—a rival in her -cousin, John Leyburn, as good a fellow as ever breathed.’ - -Father Somerville laughed—laughed as a man laughs who has heard a jest -full of a quaint conceit which delights him. He had a musical laugh, -and there was nothing offensive in his manner. - -‘A good fellow enough, and liberal minded. I have encountered him once -or twice on local business. But a girl like Miss Bolton wants something -more than a good fellow for a husband—something different, at least. -She lives alone, reads novels and poetry, has known Mr. Leyburn all her -life, while you—bah! my dear sir, the idea of a rivalry is absurd.’ - -‘Your imagination is vivid. I say again, it is out of the question. No. -Wellfield is gone from me, and I must abide without it as best I may.’ - -(‘A woman in the case, assuredly,’ thought the priest, ‘or he would -never hesitate. No Wellfield ever did hesitate at so easy a means of -making himself at ease again. It was honest work that always made that -race kick and plunge.’) - -Before he could speak aloud the gate had been opened, and Nita, -accompanied by Speedwell, her mastiff, entered the garden. - -‘We must drop that topic,’ murmured Somerville with a slight smile, as -he bowed low to the girl, who returned the salutation very slightly, -saying with marked coolness of manner to Jerome: - -‘You are engaged, Mr. Wellfield. I am intruding, and will come another -time.’ - -‘By no means,’ said Somerville, quickly. ‘I must go—I was on the point -of taking leave.’ - -‘But I shall see you again,’ said Jerome. - -‘Certainly, and often, if I consult my own inclination,’ said -Somerville, with his strange, sweet smile. ‘Call at Brentwood, and -ask for me at any hour after vespers, and I shall receive you with -pleasure.’ - -Nita, followed by her dog, had walked into the house while these -farewell amenities were taking place. - -‘Will you not come to-morrow?’ added Father Somerville. - -‘Thank you. I shall be glad to do so.’ - -‘That is well. Then, _auf Wiedersehen_!’ - -He lifted his hat, and was gone. Jerome entered the house, and found -Nita standing at the window of the larger parlour, motionless, her -eyes fixed upon the retreating figure of the priest in his long black -soutane. Speedwell, his forepaws upon the window-ledge, looked too. -Nita did not hear Jerome. She was too absorbed in her watch, but as he -entered, he saw her pat her dog’s head and heard a low ‘Ss-s!’ from her -lips. - -‘Miss Bolton!’ he exclaimed, in astonishment, while Speedwell’s low, -thunderous growl was exchanged for two deep, angry barks. - -Nita started, turned, and laughed. - -‘Are you shocked?’ she said. ‘I do so hate that man. I call him the -“Polished Panther.” I should not wish to be rude to him if he is a -friend of yours, but for myself, I cannot stand him, and that is all -about it.’ - -‘I can hardly call him a friend, though he is an old acquaintance. Do -you know what post he has at Brentwood?’ - -‘Oh, you know they go through a course. They don’t keep on teaching the -same thing. I heard the other day that he was teaching history—Jesuit -history, of course, which proves beyond dispute that the Jesuits always -have been right, ever since the first one first founded the order, and -that everyone else always has been and will be wrong. That is what -Father Somerville is teaching at present, I believe.’ - -‘You speak with heat, and surely with a little prejudice,’ said he, -smiling, but—insensibly it seemed—his manner towards her had changed, -had taken a shade more of interest, of familiarity; there was a subtle -difference both in his feelings towards her, and the behaviour which -expressed those feelings. ‘Father Somerville is an accomplished——’ - -‘Deceiver! Oh yes; I know he is. He would deceive anyone less clever -than himself. I dislike him exceedingly, and so does Speedwell. Well, -shall we look at your furniture, Mr. Wellfield?’ - -‘Thank you,’ said Jerome, accepting the hint, if hint it were—‘if you -don’t mind.’ - -They began with the room in which they were standing, and Nita soon -displayed capacities for arranging and settling and turning things -to the best advantage, which perfectly astonished Jerome. Numbers of -things which he was about to cast aside as being utterly useless, -she quickly reclaimed, remarking that they only wanted such and such -repairs to make them serviceable and even good. - -‘And it would be sinful to throw away a scrap of this old furniture,’ -she added. ‘You can’t buy any like it except for fabulous prices, and -then you are never sure that you are not being cheated. I am convinced -that for fifty pounds or so, you may make the house very nice—at -least if you will let me dispose of the fifty pounds for you,’ she -added, colouring a little; ‘for I am sure you would be like a child—so -helpless—if you went alone to a furniture shop.’ - -‘I do not doubt it, and would accept your offer gratefully if I did not -think it was imposing on your kindness.’ - -‘Not at all. We will drive into Burnham to-morrow, and see about it,’ -replied Nita. ‘Meantime, it is nearly dinner-time, and papa will be -waiting. Shall we go back to the Abbey?’ - -Jerome accompanied her to her home, with new agitation in his breast, -and a vague wonder whether, for the future, Monk’s Gate were to be his -home. - - - END OF VOL. I. - - -BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD. - - _J. S. & Sons._ - -Footnote. - -[Footnote A: _Mein Genügen_—‘my content,’ or ‘my delight.’] - - - - - 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/69428-0.zip b/old/69428-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 0355c7e..0000000 --- a/old/69428-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h.zip b/old/69428-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 82aa2c2..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/69428-h.htm b/old/69428-h/69428-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 5e1b704..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/69428-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9905 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html> -<html lang="en"> -<head> - <meta charset="UTF-8"> - <title> - The Wellfields, Vol. I, 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%;} -.xxxlarge {font-size: 200%;} -.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; -} - -.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%; -} - -/* Footnotes */ -.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} -.footnote {margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 10%; - font-size: 0.9em;} -.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 73%; text-align: right;} -.fnanchor { - vertical-align: super; - font-size: .8em; - text-decoration: none; -} - -/* 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-container32 {margin-left: 32%; width:68%;} -.poetry-container38 {margin-left: 38%; width:63%;} -.poetry-container40 {margin-left: 40%; width:63%;} -.poetry .indent1 {text-indent: -3em;} -.poetry .indent2 {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;'>Vol. 1 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: November 26, 2022 [eBook #69428]</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="1773" 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> -</div> -<br><br> -<div class="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> -<br> -IN THREE VOLUMES.<br> -<br> -VOL. I.<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="center"> -To<br> -<br> -<span class="xlarge">MY FRIENDS AT LOWESWATER,</span><br> -<br> -IN REMEMBRANCE OF SOME PLEASANT DAYS<br> -SPENT THERE WITH THEM.<br> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<h2 class="nobreak"> - <img src="images/a005_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</h2> - -<p class="center xxlarge"><b>CONTENTS OF VOL. I.</b></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/a005_deco2.png" width="250" height="52" alt="Decorated horizntal rule"> -</div> - -<table> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<td class="tdc"> </td> -<td class="tdr">PAGE</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -<td class="tdl">PRELUDE</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#PRELUDE">1</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 I.</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">CHAPTER </td> -<td class="tdl"> </td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">I. </td> -<td class="tdl">EMS</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">16</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">II. </td> -<td class="tdl">FRAU VON TROCKENAU’S ‘GESELLSCHAFT’</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">41</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">III. </td> -<td class="tdl">A LANDPARTEI</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">72</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">IV. </td> -<td class="tdl">OF THE WELLFIELDS</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">116</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">V. </td> -<td class="tdl">FATHER AND SON ARRANGE ACCOUNTS</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">133</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VI. </td> -<td class="tdl">AVICE READS A CHAPTER OF A NEW BOOK</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">155</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VII. </td> -<td class="tdl">LIFE’S FULLEST STREAM</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">163</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VIII. </td> -<td class="tdl">‘CONTENT THEE WITH ONE BITTER WORD, ADIEU!’</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">183</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">IX. </td> -<td class="tdl">ELLEN’S OPINION</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">195</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 II.</td> -<td class="tdr"> </td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">I. </td> -<td class="tdl">WHAT MR. NETLEY SAID</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_I">204</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">II. </td> -<td class="tdl">MONK’S GATE</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_II">217</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">III. </td> -<td class="tdl">THE NEW MAN AND THE OLD ACRES</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_III">229</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">IV. </td> -<td class="tdl">NITA’S DIARY</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_IV">258</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr">V. </td> -<td class="tdl">WITH THE STREAM</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_CHAPSS_V">265</a></td> -</tr> -</table> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[1]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="PRELUDE"> - <img src="images/p001_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak"> THE WELLFIELDS.</h2> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/leaves_rule.png" width="250" height="45" alt="Decorated horizntal rule"> -</div> - -<p class="large center"><b>PRELUDE.</b></p> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p001_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">In</span> very early days, -in the beginnings of Saxon Christianity, a certain Saxon potentate -erected a church at Wellfield, now a village in the north-east -corner of a great and wealthy English county. -This church he called, as many churches in -those times were called, the White Church; -and since it stood in a peculiar situation, in -close proximity to the foot of a lovely wooded -rise, he added the further distinguishing title -of ‘under the Hill,’ and for hundreds of years -it was known as the ‘White Church under - -<span class="pagenum">[2]</span> - -the Hill.’ Generations came and went, and -worshipped there, and led lives pious or -otherwise: it was a wild race of people that -dwelt in that well-watered valley, and the -White Church under the Hill was known far -and wide, long before such things as monasteries -and cloisters, with their attendant good -and evil, were thought of. It was a wild and -lovely region, watered by three fair streams -well stocked with fish, while venison and -game abounded in the woods and on the -moors around. Gradually a village clustered -around the White Church. Wealthy and -pious persons made gifts to it, and built -houses in the vicinity of it, until the Normans -came, and soon after that changes took place. -Monasteries and abbeys and nunneries sprang -up, here and there, throughout the land; and -it so chanced that a certain pious baron presented -to a company of Cistercian monks a -very fair site by the river, and not far from -the White Church. There they began to -build themselves an abbey, the fame of which -soon spread far and wide in the land. Its - -<span class="pagenum">[3]</span> - -farms were fat, its lands productive, its -abbots proud, its hospitality unbounded; for -three centuries they built at it and lavished -upon it all manner of beauty, in the shape of -rare carvings of oak and stone. Its church -was as large as many a cathedral; it stood -on an exquisite site beside the river, and the -size of the abbey-grounds soon exceeded that -of the whole village and the White Church -counted into the bargain. Then, while it was -still in its glory and still unfinished, while the -proudest and most domineering of its abbots -was ruling the land around with a rod of iron, -and hunting out witches and chasing them -over Penhull, the great hill hard by, and -burning them when he caught them, and was -rioting in power—then, under the ferocious -auspices of the Eighth Harry of glorious -memory, a reform was effected—a reform -which took the shape of a sack of the -glorious abbey. Its church was demolished, -the friars disbanded, the proud abbot was -gibbeted in full view of his birthplace over -the water, on a wooded mound called to this - -<span class="pagenum">[4]</span> - -day ‘The Abbot’s Knoll.’ All the church -plate and jewellery was confiscated by the -royal robber; while the abbey and the lands -thereof were magnanimously presented by -him—what was left of them—to two of the -neighbouring gentry, one John de Wellfield -and one Ralph de Burnshire, which -gentlemen had gallantly espoused the cause -of the king, and had assisted in driving -forth the monks from the abbey at the end -of the pike. The families of Wellfield and -Burnshire presently were united by the marriage -of the sole heiress of the Burnshires -with the sole heir of the Wellfields, and it was -at this juncture that another great property -called Brentwood, some three miles away, -lapsed, through lack of direct heirs male, -from the Burnshire family to a collateral -branch of the same, named Waddington, -which Waddingtons continued to be devout -Roman Catholics, while the Wellfields turned -heretics, to the great distress of the reverend -fathers, the Jesuits, who about this period in -the family history were beginning to make a - -<span class="pagenum">[5]</span> - -great noise in the world, and to exert their -power and make it felt. Wellfield Abbey, -then, got into heretic hands, and the heretics -continued to be men of mark; while the -pious and devout Waddingtons had the ill -luck (or the ill grace) to die out, and their -representatives, in the year of grace 1794, -let their ancient abode on the hill-side at a -nominal rent to those Jesuit fathers who -were driven from their French college at -L—— by the Revolution. They were -thrifty, these Jesuit fathers, and eventually -bought the whole estate, and their representatives -possess it to this day, and have made of -it the first Roman Catholic seminary in the -north at any rate, if not in the whole of England. -Indeed, that corner of this favoured -land is a Catholic stronghold.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, the heretic Wellfields of Wellfield -continued to flourish, seemingly, like a -green bay-tree; though, taking the royalist -side in the Stuart troubles, they are said to -have suffered heavy losses therefrom. The -most perfect <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">entente cordiale</i> always existed - -<span class="pagenum">[6]</span> - -between them and the neighbouring Catholic -gentry, and the reverend fathers at Brentwood; -and they were always classed amongst -the first families of the neighbourhood when -they were at home. Of late years they had -lived much abroad. At the time now -referred to, 18—, there were only two -representatives of the line: John Felix -Wellfield, and a son; the said John Felix -had been an only child, as had his father -before him, and his own wife was recently -dead.</p> - -<p>Meantime, while the gorgeous abbey -church, which had been centuries a-building, -had been so razed to the ground as that -hardly a vestige of it remained, save a green -space in the shape of a cross to show where -it had once stood, and while the two great -entrances of the abbey—Monk’s-gate and -Abbot’s-gate—were like great ruined caverns, -grown over with ivy; while the cloisters were -a line of hoary ruins, and nought of the -abbey remained save enough to make a -quaint old dwelling-house—all this time the - -<span class="pagenum">[7]</span> - -White Church under the Hill stood intact—added -to a little here and there; enriched by -the spoils of the abbey—they rescued the -exquisite carved black oak stalls and a magnificent -rood-screen, and set them up in the -humbler building. Now it was a Protestant -place of worship; in the midst of the old oak -pews some evangeliser had set up a ‘three-decker,’ -in which the service was performed, -and there is no record of this piece of vandalism -having met with the condign punishment -it deserved. It—the ‘three-decker’—stared -down upon an ancient pew of black -carved oak which glittered like a mirror, -which pew was said—along with many others—to -be the oldest in England. Built by one -Roger of Wellfield, it had been left by him -as a legacy for ‘the proud dames of Wellfield’ -to sit in every Sunday, which ‘proud -dames’ are at this date represented by three -decrepit old women, who enjoy the best view -in the church of—the pulpit. The old church -is sturdy yet, having survived so many -changes, including a visit from George Fox, - -<span class="pagenum">[8]</span> - -in the days when he went about denouncing -‘steeple-houses,’ and who stood in the aisle -and stigmatised the then priest of Wellfield -as ‘a light, scornful, chaffy fellow.’ It shows -no signs of decay. May it be long before -such symptoms appear in it!</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>A party of visitors, thirty years ago and -more, were strolling round this old church one -summer afternoon, escorted by a young woman -who had the keys, and who had told them all -she knew about the place and its history.</p> - -<p>‘Then does the present Mr. Wellfield not -live at the abbey?’ inquired a young lady -who was of the party.</p> - -<p>‘No, ma’am. They say he lives a deal in -Italy, and the lady he married came from -those parts. Young Mr. Wellfield is staying -at the abbey now, and his tutor says it’s -because of his health; but they do say that -Mr. Wellfield is going to be married again, -and wants him away.’</p> - -<p>The visitors exchanged glances, and the -young woman continued:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[9]</span></p> - -<p>‘See, there’s the young gentleman looking -in now, and his playfellow, old Mr. Leyburn’s -lad.’</p> - -<p>Indeed, at this moment two boys, whose -ages might be ten and eleven, or eleven and -twelve years, came strolling into the church -by the chancel door, which stood open, their -arms about one another’s shoulders, and their -faces rubbing together now and then after -the fashion of a couple of friendly ponies. -One was tall and slender, and was of an -extraordinary beauty of face and figure, with -solemn, liquid dark eyes, and a very un-English -look. The other was not quite so -tall, was sturdy, square and strong, but -clumsily built—‘a little <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">pleb</i>,’ thought the -young lady, who was watching them with -interest. The rest of her party had strolled -on with the young woman to look at proud -Abbot ——’s tombstone, which, said -tradition, if a Wellfield walked over it, he -should not live out the year. But the girl—she -was no more—remained where she was -until the boys came up to her, and they were - -<span class="pagenum">[10]</span> - -all standing at the foot of the chancel steps, -just outside the rood-screen.</p> - -<p>‘Have you come to see the church?’ she -asked, smiling.</p> - -<p>‘We saw the door open, <i xml:lang="it" lang="it">signorina</i>, and -came in,’ said the beautiful boy; ‘but we can -see it as often as we want—twice every -Sunday.’</p> - -<p>His voice was sweet; his accent more than -half Italian.</p> - -<p>‘Do you live here then? What is your -name?’ she asked, wishing to draw him -out.</p> - -<p>‘No; I do not live here. I am only staying -a few months here. I am called Jerome -Wellfield, and the abbey belongs to my -father.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed! Would you not like to live in -such a beautiful home?’</p> - -<p>‘If it were not so cold in England I would; -but I like Italy: it is warm there.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes. And you—what are you called?’ -she asked, turning to the other lad.</p> - -<p>‘John Leyburn,’ he made answer, looking - -<span class="pagenum">[</span> - -at her with clear, considerate, rather light-brown -eyes, which looked very ineffective -beside the velvet softness and darkness of -young Wellfield’s.</p> - -<p>‘You live here, I am sure.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes; I live at Abbot’s Knoll with my -father and mother.’</p> - -<p>‘And are you great friends? Have you -known one another long?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! we have known one another a long -time—two months,’ replied young Wellfield; -‘and we are great friends, aren’t we, Jack?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ replied ‘Jack,’ with much deliberation.</p> - -<p>Indeed all he did and said was deliberate.</p> - -<p>‘And can you tell me what each of you -likes better than anything else?’ she asked, -loth to break off the conversation, and -charmed with Master Jerome’s grace and -beauty. ‘You, Jerome Wellfield, what do -you like best?’</p> - -<p>‘I like so many things that are nice,’ said -the boy, with a pensive smile; and glancing -downwards, the long lashes swept his pale - -<span class="pagenum">[12]</span> - -cheek. ‘I like music; and I liked mamma. -I liked her drawing-room at Frascati, where -the beautiful ladies used to come when I was -a little boy. I like—oh! I like everything -that is not ugly,’ he concluded, looking rather -bored.</p> - -<p>‘And you, my boy?’ she turned to the -other.</p> - -<p>‘I like birds’-nesting,’ was the reply, deliberate, -but prompt.</p> - -<p>‘What, better than anything? Oh, horrible!’</p> - -<p>‘He does not mean birds’-nesting, exactly,’ -Jerome explained for him. ‘He means all -sorts of things—going into the woods, and -learning about birds and watching them, and -plants, and butterflies, and all that sort of -thing.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, natural history!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes; natural history,’ replied the sturdy-looking -boy.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t care for the birds in the woods -here,’ said Jerome, carelessly; ‘ugly little -brown things! I liked the golden pheasants, - -<span class="pagenum">[13]</span> - -and the scarlet humming-birds, and the big -white macaw, and the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">papagei</i>—parrot, you -know—in Countess Necromi’s aviary.’</p> - -<p>‘Laura, my dear, we must go. We have -to do Brentwood yet, you know, and then to -drive to the Lathebys.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes; I suppose we have. Well, boys, -good afternoon. Will you shake hands with -me?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, <i xml:lang="it" lang="it">signorina</i>. <i xml:lang="it" lang="it">À rivederci</i>,’ said young -Wellfield, looking so enchantingly amiable -that Miss Laura stooped and kissed him.</p> - -<p>‘Since you say <i xml:lang="it" lang="it">à rivederci</i>, I suppose you -do not count me as an ugly thing?’ she said, -laughing.</p> - -<p>‘Oh no, the very opposite!’ he smiled, -and she tapped his cheek, and said he was -a precocious boy. She felt no interest in poor -John Leyburn, but being of a kind disposition -held out her hand to him too. He -flushed all over his plain young face, and -asked:</p> - -<p>‘Will you—would you tell me what you -are called?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[14]</span></p> - -<p>With a rapid flash of intuition ‘Laura’ -realised that with all Jerome’s pretty words -and liquid glances, he had not troubled -himself on this point. She put her hand on -the plain boy’s shoulder, and kissed him too, -saying:</p> - -<p>‘My name is Laura Dewhirst. By the -time you are grown up you will have forgotten -it, and I shall be such an old woman -that you would not know me if you met -me.’</p> - -<p>All three laughed, and with another nod -to the boys Miss Dewhirst ran after her -papa and mamma. The two boys left the -church, and the young woman locked the -door and contemplated the gratuity she had -received with great satisfaction.</p> - -<p>‘Where shall we go?’ asked Jerome.</p> - -<p>‘To Mr. Philips, to do our Latin.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Latin!’ sighed the boy. ‘I never -used to do any Latin when mamma was -alive—before I came to England.’</p> - -<p>‘Would you like to go back to Italy?’</p> - -<p>‘Not much, because papa always makes - -<span class="pagenum">[15]</span> - -me feel such a very little boy. Mr. Philips -doesn’t.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, come along then! Was not that -a beautiful lady?’</p> - -<p>‘Very pretty. She liked talking to us.’</p> - -<p>‘I liked talking to her,’ said John Leyburn, -sedately, as they turned in at the abbey -gate, and went up the river walk.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[16]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_I"> - <img src="images/p016_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated -Heading"> -<br><br></div> - -<div class="xxxlarge center"><b>STAGE I.</b></div> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/leaves_rule.png" width="250" height="45" alt="Decorated -First Letter"> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I. -<br><br> -<small>EMS.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p001_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">It</span> was half-past nine in the evening. -The concert in the great Saal of -the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Kurhaus</i> at Ems was just -over, and the audience streamed out, with a -clatter of conversation, and a sudden restoration -of animation, into the fresher and yet -deliciously warm air of the gardens. It was -the end of July, the height of the season -at Ems; and that small, enervating, fashionable -watering-place was thronged with -visitors of every age, nation, and rank, from -the royal and imperial, as represented in the - -<span class="pagenum">[17]</span> - -persons of Germany and Russia, down to the -English family of Robinson, who had never -felt so genteel before, or been in (whether -of or not) such aristocratic company in their -lives, and the German family of Braun, who -were wealthy, and who revelled luxuriously -each day at a different <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">table d’hôte</i> of a -different hotel, and who sat in a row in the -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Kurgarten</i>, morning and afternoon, listening -devotedly to the music, and occasionally -murmuring ‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Schön!</i>’ if it pleased them. Or, -oh joy! standing in rapt respect and attention, -as an old white-headed, white-moustached -man in a grey summer-suit came -walking along, very erect, one hand behind -his back, in friendly converse with, now one, -now another, bare-headed gentleman who -kept just a pace behind him.</p> - -<p>‘There’s the emperor! <em>dear</em> old thing!’ -whisper all the Miss Robinsons, standing up -too, as the grey old gentleman comes past.</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Unser Kaiser!</i>’ murmur the Brauns with -beaming smiles of satisfaction, and gazing at -him with broad-faced loyalty.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[18]</span></p> - -<p>This ‘watching for the emperors,’ and the -thrills of emotion which ran through every -loyal heart when they were visible, was the -chief pastime of the day; and if one failed to -see the emperors, there were always those -who had lived near them—princesses, countesses, -baronesses, and their consorts; highnesses -of every degree of transparency and -serenity, half the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">vons</i> in the Almanach -de Gotha; together with unpronounceable -Russians, fascinating Poles, well-known diplomatists, -representing both the <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">suaviter in -modo</i> and the <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">fortiter in re</i>—to wit, the ‘blood -and iron’ policies of their respective courts. -All these were there, besides the shoals of -nobodies who bought up the <cite>Kurlisten</cite> in -order to read their own names in close proximity -to those of somebodies, and who, it is to -be hoped, felt rewarded by these and similar -privileges for the crowding and pushing and -swindling to which they were in other matters -subjected.</p> - -<p>On the night in question the concert-room -had been thronged, for the two emperors and - -<span class="pagenum">[19]</span> - -their suites had condescended to look in for a -few moments, and the orchestra had performed -the Russian national hymn with great spirit -and much applause. The distinguished guests -were felt to be still lingering somewhere about -the gardens; and moreover the river was -illuminated, and was dazzling with lines of -fairy lights, from the bridge opposite the -Darmstädter Hof to the other bridge at the -extreme end of the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Kurgarten</i>—and of civilisation, -of course, in Ems—and beyond the house -called the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Vier Thürme</i>, at which the Russian -monarch was lodging.</p> - -<p>Two barges, brightly illuminated with -the imperial crowns and lovingly-entwined -initials of Russia and Germany, were floating -about the river, while ‘the music’ on -board alternately played <cite>Die Wacht am Rhein</cite> -and the Russian national anthem—a spectacle -most thrilling and edifying for all loyal souls; -if somewhat less enchanting to the musicians -and boatmen who perspired in the glare and -smell and heat of the lamps, and industriously -paddled up and down the little Lahn, - -<span class="pagenum">[20]</span> - -below the walls of the broad walk of the -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Kurgarten</i>.</p> - -<p>Down that broad walk, from the concert-room, -came a crowd of the notabilities and -otherwise, who had composed the audience; -all chattering, laughing, flirting, and intriguing -in almost every European tongue.</p> - -<p>About the middle of the throng came a -group of some four or five ladies and gentlemen, -and walking a little in advance of the -others with one of the men beside her, a tall -girl whose accent was English, though she -spoke German. Some dark thick trees overhung -that part of the walk, making it dark on -the side next the river wall; but the lamps -cast a bright light upon the girl’s face, and -showed its every feature and the play of its -expression clearly and distinctly to one who -sat on a bench in one of the little recesses in -the wall which almost overhung the river; and -who from this position had for some time been -indifferently watching the brilliant throng as -they trooped past.</p> - -<p>As the girl came on, now looking straight - -<span class="pagenum">[21]</span> - -before her, now turning her head to speak to -the man, who from the thickness of the crowd -was compelled to go just half a pace behind -her, the hidden watcher observed her closely -and intently. She was tall, well-formed, and -well-developed. There was much grace and -a great deal of pride in her carriage; her head -was habitually carried high, as might easily be -seen; her face was very handsome indeed, -even splendid, with a brow like Chaucer’s -nun:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container32"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘And sickerly she had a fayre forehead,</div> - <div class="verse">It was almoste a spanne brode, I trow,</div> - <div class="verse">For hardily she was not undergrowe.’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>A large, well-cut mouth, in the sweep of -whose lips there was both thought and -grandeur; bright, glossy, chestnut hair, rich -in hue and crisply waving; fine dark-grey -eyes, with level brows, the eyes deep-set and -critical in expression; her whole aspect was -dignified, and yet there was assuredly a gleam -of humour in her eyes, as she stepped composedly -on, in her light, softly falling dress -and broad plumed black hat.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[22]</span></p> - -<p>‘Tell me, Herr von Lemde—you have -made a study of the nobility, I know——’</p> - -<p>‘It is true, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">mein Fräulein</i>. What ought a -man to study, if not his own order?’</p> - -<p>‘And that <em>such</em> an order! Indeed, you are -right. I want to know who that lovely -woman near us was, in a dress like a cloud -of creamy muslin and lace. I thought she -must be a Pole, from her gracefulness and -from the spirited way in which she spoke.’</p> - -<p>‘You were right,’ he said earnestly. ‘It -was the Princess ——.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you very much. I feel happier -now. Suppose it had turned out to be some -Mrs. Smith, or Frau Müller!’</p> - -<p>‘I fear, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">mein Fräulein</i>, that you are a little -tinged with——’</p> - -<p>‘But, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">liebe</i> Sara,’ cried a lady behind, ‘it is -getting late, and we have such a long drive.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Carla, don’t go yet!’ expostulated, -not Sara, but a German girl, dark, handsome, -and defiant-looking. ‘It is so fine; and we -have not seen the emperor, and, after all, it -is not so late.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[23]</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh, it is quite early!’ said an English -girl who was of the party.</p> - -<p>She addressed as Sara at this moment -turned, and the whole group paused, a few -paces from the place where the silent watcher -sat. He had turned aside as soon as Sara -had passed, and was now gazing intently -down into the mysterious eddies of the river, -his chin propped on his hand.</p> - -<p>‘Just as you like, Gräfin,’ said Sara Ford, -smiling; ‘it is very nice here, and Herr von -Lemde’s society makes dullness out of the -question.’</p> - -<p>Evidently Miss Ford, dignified though she -looked, was not above amusing herself at the -expense of a rather stupid young man.</p> - -<p>Baron Lemde smiled all over his handsome, -meaningless face, and dropped a little into -the rear, embracing Miss Ford’s shawl with -effusion, while she stood, still the centre of -the group, and the Countess of Trockenau -paused, looking thoughtful.</p> - -<p>‘It is too bad of you, Miss Ford,’ said the -other English girl in her ear. ‘How can you - -<span class="pagenum">[24]</span> - -make fun of poor Lemde and make others -laugh at him in that way?’</p> - -<p>Sara smiled a bright, frank, disdainful -smile, and the Countess of Trockenau said:</p> - -<p>‘Well, shall we be going?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh—h—h!’ sighed the younger English -girl, with an accent of disappointment.</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Mein Fräulein</i>,’ began Lemde, bending -towards Sara, who neither heard nor saw him; -or if she did, did not notice him.</p> - -<p>He saw that her eyes were fixed upon -some one who approached them; her lips were -gravely set, yet in their sweet and gracious -curve there was an expression which, though -it was not for him, made the simple young -baron’s heart beat faster. His glance followed -hers. The silent watcher had arisen -from his hiding-place, and was advancing -towards them. He met Sara Ford’s eyes, -and took off his hat. In another moment -they were shaking hands, and though she -was self-possessed, and almost distant in her -manner, poor Hans von Lemde’s heart fell.</p> - -<p>‘Good-evening, Miss Ford.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[25]</span></p> - -<p>‘Good-evening, Mr. Wellfield. I did not -see you at the concert. Were you not -there?’</p> - -<p>‘No; I have been sitting here by the -river instead. I hope you are well?’</p> - -<p>‘Quite well, I thank you. And your——’</p> - -<p>The countess had seen and accosted him, -and he turned towards her.</p> - -<p>‘You stay late to-night, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">gnädige Frau</i>,’ -said he, kissing her hand with sedate gravity.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Wellfield! ah, that reminds me—your -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Herr Vater</i>, how is he—any better? -I sent one of my men to inquire while we -were in the concert, but have not seen him -yet.’</p> - -<p>She was a very pretty woman of eight or -nine and twenty—a small, brilliant brunette; -and Jerome Wellfield was dark too, yet the -contrast between them was a startling one.</p> - -<p>‘I thank you,’ he answered; ‘my father is -somewhat stronger to-night. I trust he will -soon be quite well again.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope so; and your sister, she is not with -you to-night?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[26]</span></p> - -<p>‘Avice—she did not wish to leave my -father; and then, she is a child as yet.’</p> - -<p>‘Is she? I should have said—What is it?’</p> - -<p>‘See, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">liebe</i> Trockenau, his majesty is -coming,’ said a German lady of the party, -and with a quick movement the group was -divided.</p> - -<p>The German ladies, being both of rank, -and <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">geborenen</i> of distinguished families, and -Hans Lemde, stood stock-still by the roadside, -waiting until the emperor should pass, -to make their reverences and receive a recognition; -while the English girls, Jerome -Wellfield, and a German man who was not a -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">von</i>, strolled off down a side-walk. Sara Ford -and Jerome Wellfield insensibly, but as if by -general consent, dropped a little behind. The -underlying sparkle of malice and mockery -had died out of the young lady’s eyes, as she -turned to her companion, saying:</p> - -<p>‘I am glad your father is better, Mr. -Wellfield, for I had heard that he was -very ill.’</p> - -<p>‘You are very kind. He really does seem - -<span class="pagenum">[27]</span> - -better to-night, and I am in hopes that the -attack will pass over, as all the others have -done, though it has certainly been a severer -one than usual.’</p> - -<p>‘You look as if you had been watching -and sitting up—have you?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, a mere trifle. My father gets -nervous, and, as you may easily imagine, -a large hotel is not the most comfortable -place in which to be taken ill.’</p> - -<p>‘No, indeed.’</p> - -<p>‘Avice insisted on my coming out to-night. -And you, Miss Ford, are you enjoying yourself -at Count Trockenau’s?’</p> - -<p>‘Very much. The change from the hot, -dusty town, and from my paint-smelling atelier -is really delightful. Everything up at Trockenau -is so fresh, and the society is very -amusing—yes, really exceedingly amusing.’</p> - -<p>Sara laughed as she spoke—a pleasant, -round, though not loud laugh.</p> - -<p>‘Herr von Lemde’s society makes dulness -out of the question,’ said Wellfield, composedly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[28]</span></p> - -<p>Miss Ford reddened a little.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, did you hear all that? Well, who -could be dull with Herr von Lemde? So -long as I know that I may quit his society -whenever I choose, he is delightfully -amusing; and if I knew that I had to endure -his society whether I liked it or not, I -should at once become desperate, and capable -of any crime, I think, so that in any case -dulness is out of the question.’</p> - -<p>Wellfield laughed.</p> - -<p>‘How long are you staying?’ he asked.</p> - -<p>‘Another week, I think, at least. The -countess is very kind, and will not hear of -my leaving sooner. You, I suppose, will -remain with your father?’</p> - -<p>‘I shall remain with my father at present,’ -he answered.</p> - -<p>There was a pause as they paced along -the side-walk, somewhat removed from the -glare of the lamps, and felt, each with a -different degree of intensity, that they were -alone. The other girls and their companions -had fallen behind, and the countess - -<span class="pagenum">[29]</span> - -and the others had not yet come up, glorified -and hallowed by their interview with -their Imperial Master.</p> - -<p>Sara Ford, beautiful, talented, and charming, -was an artist, almost alone in the -world, fatherless, motherless, and with very -little money, but with great talent and high -ambition. She was spending her holiday at -the country house, near Nassau, of the Count -and Countess of Trockenau, her fast friends, -and almost her only rich or distinguished -patrons. Jerome Wellfield, who walked by -her side, was the heir to an old name and a -fair estate, of whose beauty she had heard him -speak in terms which, with him, might pass for -enthusiastic. This enthusiasm was the result -of a visit to the said house years ago, when he -had been a mere child, and so deep had been -the impression then made upon him by the -beauty and desirableness of the house of his -fathers, that he was firmly resolved, far from -following his father’s example of absenteeism, -to settle there as soon as conveniently might -be. His acquaintance with Sara Ford had - -<span class="pagenum">[30]</span> - -not been a very long one; he had met her -at the Countess of Trockenau’s house about -a month ago, during the first part of her -visit; yet, even now, neither ever saw the -other without feeling a secret thrill of joy. -As they silently walked on, she suddenly -looked up at him, almost involuntarily—for -though she was ‘more than common tall,’ he -had somewhat to bend his head to speak to -her—and found his dark, sombre, and, as she -felt, most beautiful eyes, fixed upon her face. -She blushed a little, and sighed quickly. His -face, like some exquisite ivory cameo in its -perfect outlines, and in the still, severe beauty -of its contours, haunted her with a persistence -which would not be accounted for merely by -the fact that she, as an artist by nature and by -trade, must delight in all things beautiful. -For it was not all delight, far from it, which -she felt in the haunting presence of that face. -There was delight, but even more strongly -there was the sense of captivity, the intuitive -consciousness that she, like Gretchen, might -make her moan:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[31]</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container40"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Meine Ruh’ ist hin,</div> - <div class="verse">Mein Herz ist schwer;</div> - <div class="verse">Ich finde sie nimmer</div> - <div class="verse">Und nimmermehr!’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>‘Did you enjoy the concert?’ asked -Jerome, suddenly, after that long look which -had passed between them.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, in a way. I don’t much care for the -music they have at places like this, but it -was better than usual to-night. But I prefer -our homely Elberthal concerts—so far as -music is concerned. Here one goes to look -at the people and the dresses, and to hear -the gossip, and very amusing it is. I think -you don’t go much to the concerts?’</p> - -<p>‘No! I really cannot stand the everlasting -waltzes and mazurkas and operatic selections. -And one gets so tired of watching the -same affected, overdressed women and insipid-looking -men engrossed in one another.’</p> - -<p>‘Yesterday the countess and I were sitting -in the gardens, when we saw a man and -woman coming along. The woman was -dressed most gorgeously, and could scarcely - -<span class="pagenum">[32]</span> - -walk because of her high heels; she hobbled -along looking pitiful. He was a tall, strong, -robust-looking fellow, and he carried her -shawl, and her parasol, and her little bag -with her handkerchief and scent-bottle, and -he led her little white dog along by a blue -ribbon; and he seemed happy.’</p> - -<p>Wellfield laughed a little contemptuously.</p> - -<p>‘I can imagine a man, if he were weak-minded, -descending to even that depth, for -the sake of some woman,’ continued Sara, -reflectively. ‘What I cannot understand is, -that any woman should like him for doing it; -should be gratified in seeing him acting the -part of a lady’s-maid to her. But I have -seen many things lately which have puzzled -me. Is your sister fond of music?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I think so.’</p> - -<p>‘You only think so?’</p> - -<p>‘I hardly know her, you know. She is -my half-sister. Once, when she was a mere -baby, I saw her; and not again till a month -ago—till I came here. Most likely I shall -see more of her now. My father has been - -<span class="pagenum">[33]</span> - -instructing me in my duties towards her, and -he is perfectly right. If he would but come -home and settle down at Wellfield all would -be well. It is not good for a girl to live in -hotels, with no woman about her whom she -really knows, except her maid.’</p> - -<p>‘No, indeed. But your sister does not -look in the least spoiled by that life.’</p> - -<p>‘Because she is so isolated. She never -goes amongst the people at these places; she -cannot, because my father himself does not. -But it is a dull life for her.’</p> - -<p>‘How old is she, exactly?’</p> - -<p>‘A little more than sixteen.’</p> - -<p>‘You must know, though, that she is very -lovely now, and that sometime she will be -remarkably beautiful.’</p> - -<p>‘Avice—will she? She is pale, and her -hair—yes, her hair is beautiful, isn’t it?’</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Wellfield! your own sister, whom you -see daily, and you ask if her hair is beautiful!’</p> - -<p>‘Well, it is the fact of her being my own -sister, I suppose, whom I see daily, that -makes me ask,’ said Jerome, calmly. ‘I am - -<span class="pagenum">[34]</span> - -not so—forgetful in all cases. But I was -going to say that, though I don’t in the least -know when I shall be free again, yet, when I -am free, I am going to Cologne, where I -have some musical friends. Cologne is not -far from Elberthal, and, if you will allow me, -Miss Ford’—he hesitated in a manner which -his hearer thought decidedly becoming to -him—‘I should like exceedingly to come -over and visit your atelier, if I may—if it is -not too great a favour that I ask.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no! If you care to see my poor -attempts at pictures, I shall be delighted to -show you them.’</p> - -<p>‘I have heard great things of your “poor -attempt at pictures,” Miss Ford.’</p> - -<p>‘Have you? Some partial friend——’</p> - -<p>‘It was Professor Wilhelmi, your master, -I think.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes. Well, he is a very partial friend. -He has been goodness itself to me. I should -never have done anything without his help. -But when you see what he has praised, you -can judge for yourself.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[35]</span></p> - -<p>‘I am no judge when the work is the work -of a friend,’ said Jerome, smiling.</p> - -<p>‘To-morrow they expect at Trockenau a -most formidable person—Herr Rudolf Falkenberg.’</p> - -<p>‘The Frankfort banker?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know whether he is a banker or -not, though I believe I have heard that he is. -The important thing to me is, that he is a -great judge of pictures; and that, as he is -rich, he can afford to buy them when they -please him: but I have heard as well that he -is very severe, and most difficult to please.’</p> - -<p>‘Surely that does not trouble you!’</p> - -<p>‘It would trouble me if Herr Falkenberg -were to see some of my pictures, and pronounce -them very bad.’</p> - -<p>‘As if he would have the ill-breeding to -do so!’</p> - -<p>Sara laughed.</p> - -<p>‘I see, you would never make a critic,’ she -said; and just then, coming to the end of a -long walk, they found themselves suddenly -in the full blaze of light which illuminated - -<span class="pagenum">[36]</span> - -the linden-planted square where all the little -tables stand, at which people sup or dine, or -take coffee, wine, or ices. A score of heads -and twice as many eyes were quickly turned -upon the tall and certainly striking-looking -couple who thus advanced into the light.</p> - -<p>‘Take my arm,’ murmured Wellfield; and -Sara, dazzled by the light in which they so -suddenly found themselves, and a little embarrassed -by the amount of attention bestowed -upon her and her companion by the well-bred -crowd, complied mechanically, and they -walked rather quickly through the square.</p> - -<p>‘I think, if we turn this way, we shall -probably find the others,’ said Jerome, as they -disappeared into the comparative obscurity -under the shade of the Kurhaus.</p> - -<p>‘Very likely,’ said Sara, and at that moment -Hans Lemde came breathlessly after them.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">mein Fräulein</i>, we thought you were -lost!’ he said, addressing Sara, and studiously -avoiding even looking at her companion. -‘The countess is waiting to seek her carriage, -for the road to Trockenau is rough.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[37]</span></p> - -<p>‘Well, show us the way to where she is, -please,’ said Sara, with a touch of impatience.</p> - -<p>Hans von Lemde walked stiffly in advance, -trying rather feebly to look dignified. He -was not naturally majestic in demeanour, and -the circumstances deprived him of what little -scrap of dignity he might in ordinary moments -rejoice in. The effect of the procession was -that of a noble and his lady preceded by a -somewhat weak-minded retainer, new to his -duties and afraid of taking too much upon -himself.</p> - -<p>The Countess of Trockenau was not in the -violent hurry which might have been expected -from Lemde’s representations. She had time -again to greet Jerome Wellfield, and to -say:</p> - -<p>‘By-the-bye, Mr. Wellfield, I have a party -to-morrow. Will you come?’</p> - -<p>‘A very large party?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">so ziemlich</i>—quite without ceremony. -The ladies come to coffee and remain; the -gentlemen later, to the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Abendbrod</i> and music. - -<span class="pagenum">[38]</span> - -And a little dancing for the young people, I -daresay, and wandering in the garden for -those who like it. I shall expect you.’</p> - -<p>‘If my father is better, or rather if he -should be no worse, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">gnädige Frau</i>, I shall -have the utmost pleasure,’ he said, bowing, -while Sara stood a little apart and carefully -fastened her glove. The countess turned to -speak to some one else, and Wellfield, with a -half-smile, politely suggested to Sara that -perhaps he could button her glove.</p> - -<p>‘There is your carriage, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">gnädige Frau</i>, -going slowly down the road,’ exclaimed young -Lemde, as if eager to end the scene.</p> - -<p>‘Call it, then,’ said Frau von Trockenau, -in much the same tone as that lately used by -Miss Ford. It was a tone very generally -adopted towards ‘poor Lemde.’</p> - -<p>Obediently he hurried forward and hailed -the coachman of the lady, who was still in -lively conversation with a friend.</p> - -<p>‘The carriage is here, most gracious, by -the roadside, waiting!’ announced Hans, in a -voice growing gradually louder and more portentous; - -<span class="pagenum">[39]</span> - -and he repeated the information -impressively.</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Aber, dieser Mensch!</i>’ murmured the -‘gracious lady,’ as Wellfield advanced, gave -her his arm, and led her across the avenue to -the roadside, where her carriage was waiting.</p> - -<p>Lemde wished very much to offer his arm -to Sara, but, looking furtively at her, decided -with a sigh not to venture, and turned instead -to Emily Leigh, the other English girl, who -immediately put her hand within his arm, and -tripped after Frau von Trockenau with the -utmost cheerfulness. Sara followed, dignified -and solitary. It was Jerome Wellfield who -handed her into the carriage.</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Also—bis Morgen!</i>’ said the countess, bowing, -and waving her hand as they drove away. -Wellfield and Hans Lemde were left alone.</p> - -<p>‘Are you going to the party to-morrow?’ -asked Wellfield.</p> - -<p>‘I? certainly. I go to all Frau von -Trockenau’s parties.’</p> - -<p>‘That shows your good taste,’ replied -Jerome, gravely, raising his hat and wishing - -<span class="pagenum">[40]</span> - -him good-evening; and then, after another -look after the carriage as it drove rapidly -away down the Nassau Road, he turned and -sauntered slowly along the road towards the -hotel of the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Vier Jahreszeiten</i>, where Mr. -Wellfield and his family were staying.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[41]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_II"> - <img src="images/p041_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated -Heading"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II. -<br><br> -<small>FRAU VON TROCKENAU’S ‘GESELLSCHAFT.’</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p041_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">The</span> Count and Countess of Trockenau -were both young, rich, and -what their countrymen call <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">lebenslustig</i>, -a word for which we have no equivalent -shorter than a well-rounded sentence of -explanation.</p> - -<p>Their estate was large, and as beautiful as -heart could desire. It stood sloping up a -rounded, richly-wooded hill in the neighbourhood -of K——au; and from its great terrace, -as well as from other less distinguished points -of vantage, there was a broad and beautiful -vista over the rich and many-coloured plain, -to where in a silver line the Rhine might be - -<span class="pagenum">[42]</span> - -seen winding his way towards Coblenz. Far -distant, like blue clouds on the horizon, lay the -soft outlines of the Rhine mountains; far over -hill and dale shone the delicious sunshine, -while the fair land spread her broad bosom, in -the rich maturity of the latter July, to his -fervent beams.</p> - -<p>All the summer long, Frau von Trockenau -loved to have her friends around her, and -those friends were various. Coffee-parties -and picnics—or rather the German equivalents -of picnics in the shape of <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">fêtes</i> and -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Landparteien</i>, suppers and dances, riding and -driving, and, when it was late enough, shooting -and <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">die Jagd</i>. An admirable cook, wines of a -character not to disgrace the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">cuisine</i>, a hearty -welcome, and unlimited liberty to the guest to -follow the bent of his own wishes—these were -the attractions offered to their guests by the -count and countess, and they proved so strong -that Frau von Trockenau very rarely had an -invitation refused. People refused or put off -other visits in order to make one to Schloss -Trockenau, and persons who were not - -<span class="pagenum">[43]</span> - -spontaneously invited there schemed to get -invitations.</p> - -<p>To the initiated reader the remark will be -almost superfluous that the practices at -Schloss Trockenau must have been characterised -by a certain unconventionality and -<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">laisser faire</i> not always found in German -or any other country houses, whether belonging -to the nobility or to the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Bürgerschaft</i>. -This was the case, and the guests of the -countess were by no means confined to -persons who were her equals in rank, many -of whom, she was wont to say, might be -excellent creatures, but were often old, and, -when they lived in the country, were wont to -be dull. And dulness was the bane of the -countess’s existence. In their hatred of it -she and her husband were sworn allies; they -were never known to oppose one another’s -schemes for killing time, though it often -happened that in their zeal in that cause they -would both have provided some entertainment -for the same time. When this occurred, -the rule was that each should give way in - -<span class="pagenum">[44]</span> - -turn, and this plan was found to answer -admirably, and to be productive of the -greatest harmony, conjugal and social.</p> - -<p>On the evening after that meeting in the -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Kurgarten</i>, a large company, or <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Gesellschaft</i>, -was assembled in the rooms, or wandering -about the gardens and terraces of the Schloss. -It was a mixed and motley society. There -were friends of the count, brother officers -who were staying in the house, or who had -come over from Coblenz for the occasion; -young men from Berlin, fashionable or otherwise; -some gay cousins of Countess Carla, -very stylish young ladies indeed, who, with -their pretty cousin as a chaperon, were -creating havoc by their accomplishments, and -by their airs and graces, in the hearts of all -the shy young <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Junker</i> in the vicinity, except -in that of Hans von Lemde, who was irresistibly -drawn in another direction. There -were some young Englishmen from Bonn, -fellow-students and friends of the count’s -younger brother. There were two learned -professors, and a poetess whose verses were - -<span class="pagenum">[45]</span> - -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">fades</i>, and who was rightly and universally -voted a bore, but who was amongst the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">von</i>-est -of the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">vons</i>, and who distinctly and unmistakably -belonged to the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">genus irritabile</i>, -and apparently to no other.</p> - -<p>There was Jerome Wellfield, who had just -arrived, and who was talking to his hostess; -there was Herr Rudolf Falkenberg, the -great banker and picture-critic, who had -arrived that morning. There was a knot of -stout, oddly-dressed, <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">gauche</i>-looking ladies of -a certain age, who clubbed together in a -corner, and represented the local nobility and -squirearchy.</p> - -<p>‘No one knows who else may be coming,’ -said one. ‘I think die Trockenau is much -too careless. She does not consider the -dignity of our position.’</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Ach, lieber Himmel!</i> Who is that?’ -murmured another.</p> - -<p>‘That’ was Sara Ford, who came sweeping -down the room with her head in the air, -followed by Herr Falkenberg, to whom she -talked in her frank, audible, unconstrained - -<span class="pagenum">[46]</span> - -English fashion, and who begged her to come -with him to the terrace that he might show -her a view which he said ought to be painted.</p> - -<p>The pair were followed by the disapproving -looks of the local <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Junkerthum</i> before spoken -of, and by the round eyes of a number of -young German girls, just arrived at that -stage in life which is known to their countrymen -as the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Backfisch</i>. Now, a <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Backfisch</i> is -a kind of <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">ingénue</i> not often met amongst -English girls; and Sara Ford could never, -by any chance, have had anything of the -genus about her. Consequently she was an -object of wonder, and some disapproval to -those who either were or had been <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Backfische</i> -themselves.</p> - -<p>‘These English girls!’ sighed one of the -native nobility, shaking her head portentously. -‘If I were to see my Paula monopolise a man -in that way—but she is incapable of even -speaking to a gentleman before he speaks to -her. If a girl of mine were to be like that, I -should die.’</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Gott</i>, yes!’ answered another, intently - -<span class="pagenum">[47]</span> - -watching, while Herr Falkenberg held open -the long glass-door, and Sara stepped through -it and down the steps on to the terrace. The -sun was setting as the young lady and the -banker paced towards the point to which he -wished to draw her attention. Sara was -dressed in black, and there was nothing -costly about her attire; for she was not rich, -and her only jewellery consisted in certain -old rings and a pearl-necklace, which had -long ago belonged to her mother when, as the -beautiful Marion Fanshawe, she had been -married to Sara’s father. Plain though the -dress was, it set her noble beauty off to great -advantage; and one felt—at least Herr Falkenberg -felt—the same conscientious delight in -looking at her grand, simple loveliness, as -results from the contemplation of some fine -carved gem of ancient days, found perhaps by -accident in the midst of a stock of gaudy -modern jewellery.</p> - -<p>Sara had never met Herr Falkenberg -before. His name was well known to her -and to other artists as a judge of almost - -<span class="pagenum">[48]</span> - -unerring taste, and a patron of generous -liberality. He was the last of a line of -financiers and bankers of princely fortune -and passionate devotion to ‘the noble pastime -of art.’ She had felt highly flattered -when Frau von Trockenau brought him to -her, saying:</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Liebe</i> Sara, Herr Falkenberg wishes to -be introduced,’ after which he had remained -beside her chair, speaking of two of her pictures, -and discussing them with an admiration, -and at the same time a discrimination, which -instantly showed her that report had not -belied the keenness of his critical powers -and the purity of his taste in such matters. -‘Perhaps,’ thought Sara to herself, repressing -a smile of satisfaction, ‘if she were very -amiable, and listened with attention to his -criticisms, he might some day give her an -order; and if she could say to friends and -fellow-students, “I am painting this for Herr -Falkenberg,” it would be as good, indeed -much better, than fifty laudatory but unprofitable -criticisms.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[49]</span></p> - -<p>‘See!’ said he, as they came to the end of -the terrace—and he pointed to the round -shoulder of a hill, round the foot of which a -bend of the river flowed in a silver curve, -while the setting sun gave the most mellow -and warm tints to the stretch of the landscape -in the background—‘that is almost -perfect; there is a meaning in the scene—a -poetry. Do you not see it?’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed I do!’ she replied; the deep look -settling in her eyes, which always visited -them when she looked upon grand or beautiful -things, and which alone would have made her -face a rare one. ‘I see it!’ she continued; -‘and I have studied and sketched it often since -I came here, and the result has been despair! -I hate myself, and every attempt I make. -I don’t think landscape is my forte.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t agree with you. I think you -ought to study landscape. I believe, from -the examination I have given to those two -little pictures of yours, that you might attain -high rank as a painter, both of landscape and -<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">genre</i>; with hard study, of course.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[50]</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh, Herr Falkenberg, you are flattering! -It is impossible. I often think how presumptuous -it is in me to imagine that I shall -ever do well in either. Why should I?’</p> - -<p>‘Why should you not?’ he asked, smiling. -‘You are ambitious.’</p> - -<p>He had seated himself on the arm of a -bench at the end of the terrace, and Sara was -leaning upon the parapet, her arms folded on -the ledge of it; her glorious eyes gazing out -upon the feast of colour, of rich calm beauty -which lay below. As he uttered the last -words, the deep musing look left those eyes; -another fire flashed like lightning into them. -Her lips parted, the delicate nostril quivered. -She raised her head, and looked full at her -companion.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I am. I am as ambitious as a man—the -worse for me, I suppose.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not say so. How old are you?’</p> - -<p>The question was put with a grave, -patronising directness which was free from the -faintest trace of curiosity or impertinence. -She answered it in the same spirit:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[51]</span></p> - -<p>‘I am twenty-three.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! it will be many years, no doubt, -before you do anything that will live. It is a -toilsome ascent to the high peaks and pure -snows of real lasting fame, but it may be accomplished -by a single-hearted perseverance.’</p> - -<p>He paused, looking at her. The girl felt -herself strangely moved, half depressed at the -calmness with which he adjudged to her years -upon years of future toil, as if from that -verdict there could be no appeal, half with a -proud elation at the fact that so great a judge -should hold it possible that she could ever do -anything which would live. His eyes still -dwelt upon her face, and hers upon his. He -had a good, powerful, and attractive face; -dark, massively cut, with keen, shrewd, sarcastic -eyes under level dark eyebrows. The -small moustache and short pointed brown -beard gave great character to this visage, and -were two or three shades lighter than the -short-cropped hair. He was a man whose age -it would be difficult to guess. Sara imagined -him to be about forty; he might have been - -<span class="pagenum">[52]</span> - -any age from thirty to five-and-forty. She -had spoken to him, and listened to him entirely -as a well-known judge and possible -future patron of great power and influence—so -she regarded him still. Of what he was or -did, how he was regarded outside this, to her, -most important capacity, she had not the least -idea, and formed none to herself.</p> - -<p>‘You have a sketch of that bit,’ he said at -last; ‘would you mind letting me see it?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! well, if you will promise to regard it -merely as a rough attempt, done more because -my instinct compelled me to try to reproduce -that scene—not as anything that was ever intended -for anyone to see but myself,’ said -Sara, very unwilling to submit so crude an -attempt to such critical eyes, and yet not -wishing to appear affected.</p> - -<p>‘If you showed it me, I should judge it -entirely on its own merits, of course,’ was the -composed reply, and Sara felt suddenly, as -many other persons often felt in exchanging -ideas with Herr Falkenberg, that with him -simplicity of nature and conduct reigned - -<span class="pagenum">[53]</span> - -supreme, and that to make excuses and apologies -to him was so much trouble lost. Sara -wished she had not made that little speech -about her sketch, and Falkenberg went on:</p> - -<p>‘I am staying here a few days, so perhaps -to-morrow, before we set off to Lahnburg——’</p> - -<p>‘Are we going to Lahnburg?’</p> - -<p>‘I believe so; the countess is, at any rate. -I have a little country house there, which she -was so kind as to say she very much wished -to see, and I asked her if she would not make -a party and go there with me to-morrow. -She said she wanted you to go too, but I -don’t suppose she will force you there against -your will,’ he added, smiling.</p> - -<p>‘It would be anything but against my will. -It is a place I have often wished to see.’</p> - -<p>‘Then I am glad you are going. There -may be time for you to give me your sketch -to-morrow morning, early, if you will be so -kind; and, as I expect to be in Elberthal -during the autumn, may I call at your -atelier?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[54]</span></p> - -<p>‘I shall be honoured if you do,’ said Sara, -her cheeks flushing with pleasure at this -mark of favour. ‘I only fear that you will -leave the said atelier a sadder and a wiser -man.’</p> - -<p>‘As how?’</p> - -<p>‘As having discovered my attempts to be -very poor, commonplace delusions after all.’</p> - -<p>‘That remains to be seen; all I hope is -that you will not be offended if one who, by -some misfortune, has got such an inveterate -habit of pointing out what appear to him the -merits and demerits of any composition, -should——’</p> - -<p>‘That would be of the utmost advantage -to me,’ said she, gaily, wondering how long -the interview was to last, and wondering also, -in strict privacy, whether critics—of that eminence—never -relaxed into a laugh; whether -a sedate smile were all their lips would condescend -to.</p> - -<p>How long the interview might have lasted -it is impossible to say. At that moment it -was interrupted. Frau von Trockenau, with - -<span class="pagenum">[55]</span> - -a number of the ingenuous girls before -alluded to—whose tender years and inexperience -she seemed to find somewhat embarrassing -during the ‘off season,’ before the -dancing began—Emily Leigh, Jerome Wellfield, -Hans Lemde, and others, came up.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Herr Falkenberg!’ cried the -countess, seeing him, ‘a word with you.’</p> - -<p>She paused, as did also Jerome Wellfield, -and the others went on. Wellfield had not -yet spoken to Sara, and while Frau von -Trockenau discoursed with much animation -to Falkenberg on some point connected with -the morrow’s excursion, Jerome turned to -Miss Ford.</p> - -<p>The flush of exultation which her conversation -with Falkenberg had aroused, died -from her cheeks. She silently put her hand -into that of Wellfield, while he, an expression -of pleasure dawning in his face, asked her -how she did.</p> - -<p>After a few minutes, the countess put her -hand within Falkenberg’s arm, and they -went up the terrace, in earnest conversation. - -<span class="pagenum">[56]</span> - -Jerome and Sara were left standing -alone.</p> - -<p>‘Herr Falkenberg is a friend of yours?’ -asked Wellfield.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know. I hope he will be. He -would be a very valuable friend to me.’</p> - -<p>‘I can suppose so. Does he wish you to -paint this scene?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes. And it is very beautiful. Do you -not think so?’</p> - -<p>‘It is—lovely. I wish you could see the -place my father will not live at—Wellfield -Abbey and the country round about. As an -artist, you would delight in it.’</p> - -<p>‘But it is in Lancashire, isn’t it?’ asked -Sara.</p> - -<p>‘Yes. What then?’ inquired he.</p> - -<p>‘I always fancy it such a black, hideous -place. I have only once been in Lancashire, -when I passed through Preston with my -father on our way to Scotland, years ago.’</p> - -<p>‘Then you passed not a hundred miles from -Wellfield,’ he rejoined with some animation. -‘But I own, you could not be favourably - -<span class="pagenum">[57]</span> - -impressed with what you saw there. It is not -lovely. But Wellfield is.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps I may see it some day—who -knows?’ said Sara, musingly.</p> - -<p>‘I am sure I hope you may,’ he answered -quickly. ‘There is nothing I should so -much——’</p> - -<p>He paused abruptly. Sara felt her face -flush, and said quickly:</p> - -<p>‘Would not you like to come down this -side-walk—this ilex walk? The countess has -spent a great deal of care and attention upon -it, in remembrance of the ilexes of Rome.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, the ilexes at Rome! I remember -them,’ he said, as he followed her into the -cool green gloom of the ilex walk, where -daylight was dimmed by the intertwining -boughs which formed a roof above.</p> - -<p>Three quarters of an hour later they returned -to the same spot, and found that it -was almost dark. The windows of the -Schloss blazed with lights, and the music -which streamed out on the air said that the -dancing had begun.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[58]</span></p> - -<p>‘What a long time we must have been -out!’ said Sara, in a dreamy voice. ‘They -are dancing.’</p> - -<p>‘So they are. Will you give me this -waltz?—it is a waltz, I hear.’</p> - -<p>‘With pleasure,’ said Sara, as they walked -towards the house. ‘There is to be a cotillon,’ -she added; ‘it is the great thing at -these German dances, and Frau von -Trockenau has made elaborate arrangements -for it.’</p> - -<p>‘What a pity I don’t know how to do it!’</p> - -<p>‘You should learn,’ said Sara.</p> - -<p>‘There is nothing I should like better if -you are at liberty to——’ began Jerome, as -they entered the room by the long glass-door, -just within which stood Lemde, not dancing.</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Mein Fräulein</i>,’ said the poor youth, -humbly coming forward, ‘will you honour me -by dancing the cotillon with me?’</p> - -<p>‘How fortunate for me that I secured your -promise a moment ago,’ said Jerome, with -imperturbable composure and a slight -smile.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[59]</span></p> - -<p>Hans’s face fell; that of Sara crimsoned as -she said:</p> - -<p>‘I am very sorry, Baron Lemde, but I have -promised it to Mr. Wellfield.’</p> - -<p>In another moment she was waltzing with -Jerome Wellfield, and Junker Hans, after -watching them for a few moments, turned -aside.</p> - -<p>‘She is too proud and too clever, I -suppose, to have anything to do with me,’ -he was saying to himself, as he struggled -with a degrading and childish inclination to -cry. ‘And those other fellows, Falkenberg, -and that Wellfield, and the others, I’ve no -chance against them. It’s odd,’ the youth -continued moodily to reflect, ‘how little a lot -of these English girls care for rank. Falkenberg -is <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">bürgerlich</i>: Wellfield—it isn’t his -rank she cares for; it’s his way, I suppose, -of behaving as if he had a right to everything -he sees—they don’t mind rank when a -man has “go,” or when he pleases them; -but then they are so hard to please.’</p> - -<p>To Sara, the evening passed like a dream. - -<span class="pagenum">[60]</span> - -This was the first, the very first and most -delicate flavour and aroma of love, which -with her could only be deep and earnest, full -and profound, as her own nature. She knew -that she was beautiful, without having ever -thought much about it. She had seen -admiration in men’s eyes before now; she -had heard words of love and beseeching -addressed to her once or twice, and all had -lightly passed over her spirit, like a breath of -air across a fair garden. But Wellfield’s -eyes, with their eloquent homage, thrilled her; -his mere presence aroused in her the feeling, -never known before, of delight, mingled with -apprehension; she shrank away from trying -to guess, even in her own mind, how much -his look meant—what the end of this episode -would be. She questioned and doubted, for -the first time, her own powers of pleasing, -because for the first time she was desirous -above all things to please. Advanced spirits -may condemn such anxiety as servile and -degrading. No opinion is offered upon -those points, only the certainty expressed - -<span class="pagenum">[61]</span> - -that such feelings of ‘servility’ are very -common amongst women, and men too, who -are in love. Instead of feeling confidence -now, she absolutely trembled lest she should -have mistaken the meaning of his glance, -and of the few words he had now and then -dropped, and which had seemed to her to -have a deeper meaning than mere phrases of -politeness or of compliment.</p> - -<p>Such was her deprecatory and tremblingly -uncertain state of mind—hers, who had -laughed through life, free from tyrant love -or care, undaunted by reverses, and holding -her own against difficulties with a steadfastness -born of innate, inbred courage of soul. -Till now every higher thought and aspiration -had been resolutely and singly directed -towards her art, and her own advancement -in it. Her heart’s desire had been faithfully, -so far as she could, to act up to Goethe’s -words, and—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container38"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Im Ganzen, Guten, Wahren</div> - <div class="verse">Resolut zu leben.’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>The defeat had been rapid and complete, - -<span class="pagenum">[62]</span> - -and, true to her woman’s nature, she rejoiced -in it rather than otherwise. At least, this -night, in Jerome’s presence, and surrounded -by the subtle incense of admiration and -flattery which he offered her, she rejoiced in -it. There were other times, when he was -absent, in which the rejoicing was not pure, -and the sense of captivity was stronger than -the thrill of love.</p> - -<p>The evening thus passed on, and every -time she met those dark and eloquent eyes -she felt, with a throb of the heart, the -half-welcome, half-dreaded conviction grow -stronger—‘This that I see in his eyes is -love!’</p> - -<p>There ensued a pause in the dancing, -organised by Frau von Trockenau, in order -to have some music; for she was a woman -who utilised all her resources, and never -allowed the meanest tool to rust for want of -use; and knowing that there were several -admirable musicians, vocal and instrumental, -in the company, she was firmly resolved that -they should display their talents.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[63]</span></p> - -<p>A certain young Englishwoman, married -to one Count Eugen of Rothenfels, was the -first to sing. The fair soprano was filling -the room with a flood of melody, when the -countess came up to the place where Sara -Ford was seated, somewhat apart, with -Jerome Wellfield leaning over the back of -her chair, his eyes dreamily fixed on the face -of the singer.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Wellfield,’ said his pretty little -hostess, ‘I know I am asking a very great -favour, and that you hate it; but <em>won’t</em> you -sing to-night, to please me?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, will you?’ said Sara, involuntarily. -She had heard wonderful rumours of Wellfield’s -voice, and the wish to hear him was -strong.</p> - -<p>He bowed towards the countess.</p> - -<p>‘To please you, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">gnädige Frau</i>,’ he said, -with a slight smile, ‘is a privilege, and I -shall at once obey your order when I -receive it.’</p> - -<p>‘That is good! <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">recht freundlich!</i>’ exclaimed -the lady, radiant with delight; for - -<span class="pagenum">[64]</span> - -Wellfield’s reserve was generally as great as -his talent was said to be, and she had had -little hope of his consenting to sing before -that large audience of perfect strangers. She -confided her success to the ear of one of her -cousins, Helene von Lehnberg, who said, -with a sneer:</p> - -<p>‘Another of your English amateurs, Carla? -For my part, I don’t think much of a talent -that is so haughty and reserved as almost to -require one to go on one’s knees to it.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, my dear Helene! I doat upon proud, -haughty people, when they are just the -reverse to me, which is the case with Mr. -Wellfield,’ rejoined Frau von Trockenau, not -without malice.</p> - -<p>‘I am glad you are going to sing,’ said -Sara to Jerome, when they were alone again.</p> - -<p>‘I am naturally of an obliging disposition, -and could not refuse the Frau Gräfin.’</p> - -<p>‘She is delighted,’ said Sara, with a smile.</p> - -<p>‘When I have done,’ said Wellfield, in a -low tone, ‘I shall come and ask if you were -delighted—may I?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[65]</span></p> - -<p>‘May you?’ she stammered.</p> - -<p>‘I mean, will you answer me if I do come?’</p> - -<p>‘Do you expect me to tell you that I am -not delighted?’</p> - -<p>‘I expect nothing, therefore I am blessed; -but I desire very much that you should tell -me the truth.’</p> - -<p>‘I will do so if you wish it.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you.... Yes, Frau Gräfin, I see -and I obey,’ he added, as the countess was -perceived making her way to him.</p> - -<p>There was some little stir and sensation -when Wellfield advanced to the piano. ‘An -Englishman, an amateur—<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">nun, wir werden -’mal sehen!</i>’ said one or two sceptics, with a -supercilious curl of the lip.</p> - -<p>‘What does he sing? English songs—“The -Last Rose of Summer”?’ asked one young -lady, sarcastically.</p> - -<p>‘No, no!’ whispered a dapper little lieutenant, -who was paying her devoted attention; -‘he will sing a comic song, “What Jolly Dogs -we are!” An Englishman told me last week -that they sang nothing else in England now. - -<span class="pagenum">[66]</span> - -He was at a party where nineteen of the -company had brought their music——’</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Gott!</i> Herr Lieutenant, how horrible!’ -tittered the young lady.</p> - -<p>‘And sixteen out of the nineteen had -brought “What Jolly Dogs we are!” Fact, I -assure you, <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">parole d’honneur</i>! But hush! -He is playing his own accompaniment. -What! Rubinstein! “Asra!” Impossible!’</p> - -<p>If so, the impossible was being performed -in a masterly manner. Would-be sarcastic -lieutenants, tittering young ladies, were -bewitched into silence and admiration. -Rubinstein’s weird and melodious legend -of the youth whose race ‘die if they love,’ -was sung to the end, as few of the audience -had ever before heard it sung. The last -notes, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Die sterben wenn sie lieben</i>, were -followed at first by silence; and then some -murmurs, not loud, but deep, of applause, -greeted the singer.</p> - -<p>The song that followed was, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Es blinkt der -Thau</i>, and it made Sara’s heart beat. That -finished, as if to give his audience a complete - -<span class="pagenum">[67]</span> - -change, he struck a couple of deep chords, -and began to sing that oft-quoted, hackneyed, -but ever-beautiful <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Ich grolle nicht</i>.</p> - -<p>Sara felt a slight shiver run through her. -Why did he choose that one weird song of -Heine’s, set to Schumann’s equally weird -music? She had heard it once at a concert, -sung in a style which hardly rose above -mediocrity, and yet even then it had -impressed her; and she had pondered -involuntarily over the gruesome, hinted -mystery of the last lines. Jerome sang the -strange song with a depth and a meaning -all his own: her artist-nature thrilled to the -strains, which are in very truth a song of -death; it was ghostly—it was as if her spirit -was enfeebled and chilled, and had to trail -its drooping wings through a land full of -vague and awful shadows.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container40"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="blockquot"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Ich sah die Nacht</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In deines Herzensraume;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Ich sah die Schlang’</div> - <div class="verse">Die dir am Herzen frisst—</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Ich sah, mein’ Lieb’,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Wie sehr du elend bist!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Ich grolle nicht.’</div> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[68]</span></p> - -<p>There was a pause as he finished this song. -Jerome half-rose from the piano, but a voice -cried from the window:</p> - -<p>‘We have not had the test yet, Mr. -Wellfield. Give us a love-song. Give us -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Adeläida</i>.’</p> - -<p>Sara saw, even from her place in the background, -the expression that flashed into the -young man’s eyes, and over his face.</p> - -<p>‘Good!’ was all he said, as he sat down -again, and that melodious, significant single -<em>F</em> was struck—that note which is the prelude -to the sea of love and fire and passion -which follows.</p> - -<p>Sara sat pale and composed in her place, -but feeling as if everyone in the room must -see and observe that she was blushing -furiously—so burningly hot were her cheeks. -Each time that the notes ‘Adeläida’ rang -out, she felt that she was apostrophised—the -company, and the lighted room oppressed -her—yet she looked, to one who was -observing her from the other side of the -room, grave, quiet, almost tired.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[69]</span></p> - -<p>When the last notes had died away, -Wellfield rose very decidedly, nor could he -be prevailed upon to sing another note. The -company clustered round him, thanked him, -and congratulated him; asked to be introduced -to him, and dispersed. Dancing began -again, and still Sara sat as if spell-bound, in -the place where he had left her.</p> - -<p>‘I have come to know if you approved?’ -murmured Jerome’s voice beside her.</p> - -<p>She looked up, and met his eyes with -an expression in them, before which her -own in vain tried to remain calm and untroubled.</p> - -<p>‘If I approved?’ she said, indistinctly. -‘How can you ask?’</p> - -<p>Jerome was leaning against the wall, looking -down at her—looking, too, as undisturbed as -if he had been asking her whether she would -have an ice. In the same manner, with the -same tone, so low that none but she could -hear it, he added:</p> - -<p>‘And did you understand?’</p> - -<p>‘I—I think so,’ said Sara, faintly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[70]</span></p> - -<p>‘Herr Wellfield, Miss Ford! the cotillon -is about to begin. Here is your favour, Mr. -Wellfield. Be good enough to let me pin it -on, and then go and find your partner.’</p> - -<p>It was Fräulein von Lehnberg, one of the -countess’s Berlin cousins, who spoke, with -some impatience in her voice; for she had -twice addressed Jerome, and he had taken no -notice of her. He stepped forward now, and -held the basket of ribbons while she pinned -on his favour, with an imperturbable severity -of gravity which irritated the young lady -exceedingly. Then he offered Sara his arm, -and they advanced to meet the rest of the -company.</p> - -<p>In the discussions next day on the subject, -it was universally decided that Mr. Wellfield -might be a musical, Miss Ford an artistic -prodigy; but that in the matter of dancing a -cotillon they both displayed to the full that -insular stiffness characteristic of their nation. -That little Emily Leigh had ten times the -spirit of her taller and handsomer country-woman. -How gracefully she danced, and - -<span class="pagenum">[71]</span> - -contrived to make even that maypole, Hans -Lemde, look almost graceful too.</p> - -<p>Beloved and candid discussions of the day -after! How much does not society and the -individual owe to you, in the matter of -establishment of the facts, and an exhaustive -analysis of the motives actuating the behaviour -of those who come before your -tribunal! May nothing ever occur to make -you less vigorous or less rigorous than you -are at this day!</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[72]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_III"> - <img src="images/p072_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated -Heading"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III. -<br><br> -<small>A LANDPARTEI.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p072_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">On</span> the following morning, Sara came -into the room where Falkenberg -was standing alone, waiting for the -rest of the company who were going to -Lahnburg. In her hand she carried a small -canvas.</p> - -<p>‘Here, Herr Falkenberg, is the sketch -you wished to see. I remembered it, and -brought it downstairs with me.’</p> - -<p>Falkenberg thanked her, took the sketch, -and looked at it in silence, until Sara said:</p> - -<p>‘It is as I expected. You are racking -your brains to find out how to say “Atrocious” -so that it shall sound like something else.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[73]</span></p> - -<p>‘If I had to say “Atrocious,” I’m afraid I -should say it, much though I might dislike -having to do so,’ he answered, smiling. ‘As -it is, I wish to say nothing of the kind.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, what a relief!’</p> - -<p>‘There are the carriages coming round,’ -he added composedly, ‘to take us to the Ems -railway station. May I take the sketch to -my own room? There is no time to look at -it now.’</p> - -<p>‘Certainly, if you care to do so.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you,’ said he, taking it up, and -leaving the room with it.</p> - -<p>Sara sat down at the piano, and played -tunes, until at last Frau von Trockenau came -whirling into the room with a pair of long -gloves in her hand.</p> - -<p>‘Are you ready, Sara? Yes—of course. -How horrid of you! You never keep the -company waiting. What a rush it is, this -life! Oh, how I long to be alone sometimes!’</p> - -<p>‘Complimentary to us and to poor Count -Trockenau!’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[74]</span></p> - -<p>The countess laughed heartily.</p> - -<p>‘My poor Fritz!—of course I spoke exceptionally.’</p> - -<p>‘You know you would hate to be alone,’ -added Sara. ‘You cannot live out of a rush. -I wonder what you would do if you had to -lead my life at Elberthal.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, but you have a great soul. Mine is -such a very little one. Little in every way. -It is so small that it has led me to—what do -you think?’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure I cannot say. To tell Hans -Lemde that I am dying to paint his portrait, -I dare say.’</p> - -<p>‘No! But oh, what a lovely idea! I will -tell him so, and I will say that you said it. -Poor Hans! I imagine him sitting to you. -Oh, I think I see his face!’</p> - -<p>They both laughed in a manner which -Baron Lemde would probably think malignant, -and Frau von Trockenau went on.</p> - -<p>‘No, but I was so annoyed at the way in -which Helene and Maria Lehnberg behaved -last evening—giving themselves such airs, - -<span class="pagenum">[75]</span> - -that I have done something spiteful to them -to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘Shameful! But what is it?’</p> - -<p>‘I have doomed them to drive with me -and Lemde in the barouche; Fritz rides, and -I am sending you first in the pony-phaeton -with Herr Falkenberg.’</p> - -<p>‘I see nothing so very spiteful in that. -Why should your cousins object?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear Sara! I believe you live in -a dream. Don’t you know that Helene -Lehnberg would give her right hand if -Falk——Oh, here he is. Good-morning, -Herr Falkenberg. I shall not be a moment. -How beautifully you are dressed, Sara! -Beside you, I feel like a collection of tags -of coloured ribbon. You are both ready. -Well, shall we go? Herr Falkenberg, I am -going to ask you to drive Miss Ford to the -station in the pony-phaeton. Herr von -Lemde will go with my cousins and me.’</p> - -<p>‘I shall be delighted,’ observed Herr -Falkenberg; and Sara followed the countess -out of the room, lost in wonder as to what she - -<span class="pagenum">[76]</span> - -meant by saying that she had done something -spiteful to her cousins, and what it was Helene -Lehnberg would give her right hand for.</p> - -<p>Very soon she was seated beside Falkenberg, -and they were driving down the hill, -along the Nassau Road to Ems, which was -reached before long; past the hotel of the -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Vier Jahreszeiten</i>, to the station.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>There is a wayside railway station on a -German line, which station, twenty years ago, -was a thing of the future, and which I will -here call Lahnburg. It is the scene of the -<cite>Leiden des jungen Werther</cite>—it is the place -where Goethe adored, and where the object -of his adoration placidly ‘went on cutting -bread and butter.’ It was then Goethe’s, -Lotte’s, Jerusalem’s home; now it is an out-of-the-way -country town which is completely -out of the beaten route of the tourist, and -which few persons have heard of, and fewer -still care to visit.</p> - -<p>Leave the train—it is a slow one—all the -trains are slow which deign to stop at Lahnburg. - -<span class="pagenum">[77]</span> - -At Lahnburg they hurry no one—themselves -least of all. Now we are on the -asphalted platform of the little station, in the -presence of a Prussian, with a blue coat and -a fierce moustache, who sternly demands -our <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Gepäckschein</i>. If we have luggage, we -meekly give it him, thankful to be so well, if -so severely taken care of. If we have none, -we mention the fact, and leave him to wonder -what sinister motives could have brought us -to that spot, and to look at us as if he would -place us under arrest, were not his powers so -shamefully limited. We leave the station, -and take the road leading towards the town.</p> - -<p>Along an uninteresting country-road, till -we begin to drive up the hill around and -upon which the town is built. Up the steep, -rugged streets, between the high antique -houses, slowly and joltingly lumbering over -the stones, in and out, and round about up -the hill, till we arrive at the Marktplatz, and -behold, surrounding the great cobble-stoned -square, all the principal buildings of the town! -Pause, Jehu! thou reckless charioteer—pause, - -<span class="pagenum">[78]</span> - -that we may fully take into our minds the -scene about us. Here we are, in the middle -of the square. There, opposite to us, stands -the solemn old <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Dom</i>, built of a warmly-hued, -reddish stone. From its midst rises the -nucleus of it all—that which is older than -Christianity, the seamed, cracked, scarred, -black, old <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Heidenthurm</i>—the ‘heathen-tower,’ -remnant of long-past Roman rule. Blasted, -black and ruined, but grim and defiant, -majestic and undegraded still, in the midst -of its wreck, it fronts us, and towers over the -town and landscape beneath; for the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Dom</i> is -built on the very summit of the hill; and -before it was, was the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Heidenthurm</i>. It -watches over the fertile hill-slopes and over -the level, poplar-fringed meads at the foot -of them, between which the gliding Lahn -holds its course. Since that grim old sentinel -first took his stand there, what changes have -not taken place! The very face of the landscape -has altered, while dynasties changed -and kings and people rose and fell, and -kingdoms and empires flourished and passed - -<span class="pagenum">[79]</span> - -away. Varied have been the signs of the -heavens above him—more varied far the life-stories, -the joys, the sorrows, the raptures, -and the agonies of the races which have -grown up, have lived and died, married and -brought children into the world—while he -stood there defiant and unchangeably grim.</p> - -<p>There on the right hand of the square is a -more modern safety-guard, and one more in -consonance with the advanced civilisation -which has arisen since the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Heidenthurm</i> was -built. This latter guardian is the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Wachtstube</i>, -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Wache</i>, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Hauptwache</i>, as it is indiscriminately -called—the guardhouse, peopled with half a -dozen scrubby-looking soldiers, and a couple -of lieutenants, with a white mongrel cur, alternately -their plaything and their victim during -the weary hours of ennui. The <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Heidenthurm</i> -turns its back upon this outcome of a high -civilisation and the Christian religion—what -has it in common with the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Wachtstube</i>, or the -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Wachtstube</i> with it? To the left, more -houses: that big clumsy building with the -Prussian eagle over the doorway is the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Rathhaus</i>; - -<span class="pagenum">[80]</span> - -therein the Herr Bürgermeister and his -belongings live and move and have their -being. Filling in the gaps more and more -houses, each one a picture, each roof a distracting -medley of hills and dales, ups and -downs, dormer windows, turrets, chimney-stacks -whose irregularity would break the -heart of a high-minded architect of modern -suburban villas. And here too, last but not -least, for those who want accommodation, with -mine host bowing and smiling before the door, -is that lumbering old structure, the inn of the -place—the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Gasthof zum Herzoglichen Hause</i>, -a building bearing some inexplicable, indefinable, -but most indubitable resemblance to -Noah’s ark, as pictured to the popular imagination -in the toyshop windows.</p> - -<p>Our party had proceeded thus far—that is, -to the market square—on their way from the -station. The countess and one of her cousins -only had taken seats in the carriage which -had met them. The men, Sara Ford, and the -other Fräulein von Lehnberg had walked. -The German ladies went into raptures over - -<span class="pagenum">[81]</span> - -the place; it was <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">reizend</i>, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">entzückend</i>, and -many other superlative expressions of admiration. -Sara asked Falkenberg aside:</p> - -<p>‘Is it impossible to go into the old <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Dom</i> -and explore Lotte Buff’s house, and these -other quaint old places?’</p> - -<p>‘It is, on the contrary, very possible, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">mein -Fräulein</i>. But,’ he added in a lower tone, -‘would you care to go with all these people?’</p> - -<p>Sara shrugged her shoulders, smiling a -little.</p> - -<p>‘I see you would not. I will arrange that -you have a good view of whatever you wish -to see. Meantime, suppose we go on to my -house, where lunch will be ready for us, I -expect.’</p> - -<p>‘I wonder,’ thought Sara within herself, -‘whether his wife and family are away from -home, or whether his wife is just a slave and -a <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Hausfrau</i>, as so many of them appear to -be.’</p> - -<p>The carriage was now driven past the -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Hauptwache</i>, up a street leading out of a -corner of the square, on to a breezy upland - -<span class="pagenum">[82]</span> - -road, from which there was a fine view over -the level fields far below to the left, while -on the right there were pleasant-looking fir-clad -hills, over which a bracing breeze blew.</p> - -<p>Herr Falkenberg’s ‘summer-house’ was -situated not very far up the said road; it was -an old grey grange, standing on a slope at the -right hand, surrounded on three sides by what -had been a moat, and it was over the remains -of a drawbridge that the carriage drove into -the grounds. Sara lingered a moment before -the grey moss-grown stone archway, trying to -make out a half-defaced inscription above it. -Herr Falkenberg lingered too, and said:</p> - -<p>‘You cannot read that, Miss Ford. I -own that it was one of the great attractions -of the place to me when I bought it.’</p> - -<p>‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘I cannot see.’</p> - -<p>‘First there are the initials of the builder, -R. K., which stand, I believe, for Rodolf -Kammermann; and then, beneath the date, -1560; and on either side, still easily to be -read, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Mein Genügen</i>. I thought it was a -good omen for happiness.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[83]</span></p> - -<p>‘Yes, indeed. And is that the name of -the place?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes. It is called to this day <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Mein Genügen</i>.’ -<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a></p> - -<p>‘I like it,’ said Sara, musingly. ‘That old -baron, or whatever he was, must have had -poetry in his soul.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes; poetry which he succeeded in -expressing simply and beautifully, in this old -house with the lovely view,’ said Falkenberg, -as they followed the others, overtaking them -at the door.</p> - -<p>From the door-steps there certainly was a -very fair prospect—an uninterrupted view to -the river in the vale below, and to the hills -on the opposite side of it. To the left could -just be seen some of the roofs of the town, -showing that <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Mein Genügen</i> was not utterly -alone in the world, and the higher red -turrets of the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Dom</i>, and the ragged top of -the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Heidenthurm</i>.</p> - -<p>‘Not the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Wachtstube</i>, fortunately,’ remarked -Sara.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[84]</span></p> - -<p>‘Luckily not,’ rejoined Falkenberg.</p> - -<p>More bursts of delight from the ladies—rushes -into the house, into the garden, everywhere. -A courteous invitation from the host -to enter, and lay aside their outdoor things -and rest, until lunch should be ready. Which -invitation was complied with. An entrance -into the house, and more admiration, for the -salon was a quaint and charming room, full -of quaint, charming, and costly things.</p> - -<p>‘He must be alone, I suppose,’ Sara -decided within herself, as no lady came forward, -and Herr Falkenberg continued himself -to do the honours with an ease of manner -and an apparent simplicity which exquisitely -concealed the perfect tact he employed.</p> - -<p>He contrived—for he had that special gift -so rarely found—to make each separate -person there to feel him or herself to be ‘the -honoured guest’ <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">par excellence</i>; and he -succeeded at least in delighting two of his -visitors, Frau von Trockenau and Sara Ford. -The two Fräulein von Lehnberg were rather -more difficult. They were annoyed that - -<span class="pagenum">[85]</span> - -there was only Hans von Lemde to be -monopolised.</p> - -<p>They stood in the window, talking with -him and Graf von Trockenau, who was -trying to recall the particulars of some place -in the neighbourhood ‘which everyone -ought to see,’ and in this endeavour he was -feebly and ineffectually seconded by Hans -von Lemde, whose profound studies in such -literature as the <cite>Almanach de Gotha</cite> had -apparently disqualified him for more commonplace -topics. Sara had seated herself beside -a curious old painted spinet which stood at one -side of the room. Frau von Trockenau was -beside her, and Falkenberg was leaning on the -aforesaid spinet talking to them, or rather -listening while the countess talked to him.</p> - -<p>‘It is a paradise of a place, Herr Falkenberg. -There is nothing I should like better -than to have such a place—only a week of it -would be enough for me, because it is too -small to have a large party in. It would be -dull beyond expression after seven days, and -you see my husband is not a financier—the - -<span class="pagenum">[86]</span> - -very reverse, poor fellow!—so he could not -afford to indulge me with such a toy for one -week in the year.’</p> - -<p>‘I spend a good deal more than one week -in the year here, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">gnädige Frau</i>——’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, yes; but you have a great soul, like -Miss Ford. I was telling her so this -morning. You can exist without company -and distractions.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps Herr Falkenberg does not care -for visitors,’ suggested Sara, utterly unconscious -of committing any solecism. ‘Perhaps -the society of his wife and family is sufficient -for him.’</p> - -<p>‘Sara!’ ejaculated the countess; and then, -as if much entertained, the pretty little lady -tried to stifle a laugh which would not be -altogether repressed. Into Falkenberg’s -eyes leaped a strange, disappointed expression; -and at that moment they met those of -Sara, who was looking up at him, surprised at -his manner and at that of her friend. The -man’s colour rose, and he laughed too, a little -unsteadily, as he replied:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[87]</span></p> - -<p>‘I am not so fortunate as Miss Ford -imagines. I have neither wife nor child.’</p> - -<p>‘No wife!’ echoed Sara, in astonishment; -and then, laughing too, but with a heightened -colour, she said:</p> - -<p>‘I am sure I beg your pardon. I don’t -know what made me take it for granted that -you were married. No one ever told me so. -It was stupid of me.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not see why you should think so,’ -he answered, trying to laugh in his turn; but -there was a tinge of constraint in the laugh, -and by some means his eyes met those of -the Countess of Trockenau. She appeared -to be laughing still, a little; her handkerchief -before her mouth, but it was not all a -laugh in the glance that met his. Countess -Carla had indeed a most active brain, if one -somewhat lacking in consequence, and failing -in the matter of logic. The thought which -then darted through her mind was, ‘Falkenberg -is much struck with Sara Ford. He -does not like to find that she has all along -thought he was married and done for; and - -<span class="pagenum">[88]</span> - -that, therefore, she can never have bestowed -one tender thought upon him. And it is a -shame, too. I believe they are made for one -another, and I do like him so much. Why -should it not be? I like the idea.’</p> - -<p>She ceased to laugh entirely. She rose, -placed her arm within his, and asked him to -tell her about a picture at the opposite side -of the room.</p> - -<p>They walked away. Sara was left, with -her elbow resting on the top of the painted -spinet, thinking:</p> - -<p>‘Not married? how odd! But why should -I have supposed he was? I suppose that was -what Carla meant, when she said she had been -spiteful to the Lehnbergs—she said Helene -Lehnberg would give her right hand—oh, -that was too bad! He is immensely rich, if -not noble. Yes, I see it all now ... and -certainly he is far too good for that vain, -boastful coquette.’</p> - -<p>When lunch was announced they went into -the dining-room, and the repast was in no -way calculated to throw discredit on the management - -<span class="pagenum">[89]</span> - -of the occasional summer residence -of a rich Frankfort banker, or upon the presence -of mind and mental powers of his -housekeeper. Sara found herself seated at -one side of her host, while Countess Carla -was opposite; while Fräulein von Lehnberg, -drawing her black brows together, wondered -on what known or unknown principle of -etiquette that Englishwoman was given a -higher place than herself. But Herr Falkenberg -was most distinctly not only host but -master in his own house, and when he had -placed a chair for Helene and asked her to -take a certain place, she had perforce consented. -Sara did not bestow much attention -upon the order of precedence; but her interest -had been roused in her host, and she saw from -a certain beaming look on Countess Carla’s -face that she was thoroughly well-pleased with -everything, and with herself in particular. In -consequence of this, she seconded all Falkenberg’s -efforts at conversation, and the meal -was passing off brightly enough. Sara observed -her host more closely, and the more - -<span class="pagenum">[90]</span> - -she observed him the better she liked him. -By the time that lunch was half over, she had -forgotten that he was a great critic, who had -got a sketch of hers upon which he was going -to pass judgment: this point disappeared in -her growing appreciation of his qualities as a -man and a companion. His perfect modesty -in the midst of his wealth and great surroundings -struck her more than anything else. -Sara loved to see power in man or woman; -but assumption she hated with a hatred that -was almost ludicrous.</p> - -<p>Just at this time the door opened, and -a fresh-looking young gentleman entered, -started on seeing so many guests, and was -about to back out again; but Falkenberg -sprang up, saying:</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Willkommen!</i> you thought I was alone, I -expect. Come in and join us.’</p> - -<p>With which he introduced him as Baron -Arthur Eckberg, to the two Berlin ladies in -particular. He was awarded a seat between -them. Helene’s black brows relaxed in their -frown. Presently her voice was heard in - -<span class="pagenum">[91]</span> - -dulcet tones. She was appeased; and the -countess became more radiant than ever.</p> - -<p>When the party again repaired to the -salon, a rather confused conversation ensued. -It was found that three hours remained to be -disposed of, before it would be time to return -to the railway station. Herr Falkenberg, -with a courteous patience which was beautiful -to behold, tried to find out what his lady-guests, -to use an ancient phrase, ‘would be -at.’ This was rather a difficult task, as the -Lehnberg sisters displayed emphatically ‘a -diversity of gifts, but the same spirit,’—the -gifts, namely, of caprice, contrariety, and perverseness, -and the same spirit of cool self-seeking -and resolution that all should give -way to them. Some one appealed to Sara.</p> - -<p>‘Thank you,’ said she, holding up a little -sketching-board, ‘the present professional -opportunity is too good to be missed. I am -going to sketch the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Dom</i>, if my going out -alone will not be thought rude. I can find -my way to the Market Square, and I will -come back here in plenty of time, so I beg - -<span class="pagenum">[92]</span> - -that no one will be in any trouble about -me.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t go far away from here, as I may -join you later, <em>when</em> the others have made up -their minds,’ said the countess, in the blandest -of voices.</p> - -<p>‘Very well,’ said Sara, smiling, and, with a -slight salute to the rest of the company, she -took her way out of the house. Falkenberg -had not said a word either for or against -her resolution to go out alone.</p> - -<p>She left the garden, pausing once again to -contemplate with a peculiar pleasure the old -grey gateway, and to read over the inscription, -which seemed now to have a new meaning -for her.</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Mein Genügen</i>,’ she thought. ‘Yes, I -should fancy that that man would make a -“contentment” wherever he goes. There -is the harmony of a strong soul at peace with -itself and the world, in all he says and does. -But I wonder he is not married. I could -imagine some woman being very much in -love with him; and if he loved her, he would - -<span class="pagenum">[93]</span> - -most assuredly make her happy. Well, Carla -says that with the exception of her husband -and herself, the nicest people are not -married.’</p> - -<p>She smiled as she remembered that saying, -and, looking up, found herself again in the -centre of the Marktplatz, which was empty -of all human life.</p> - -<p>The afternoon was hot, and the sun shone -bakingly upon the round stones which paved -the square. A drowsy calm hung over everything. -Sara, pausing, looked around her, -trying to choose some vantage-ground from -which to sketch the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Dom</i>. She perceived -that to the left of it, immediately under its -wall, there were steps leading into a kind of -small retired square, which looked shady and -cool. Not a good position from which to -make her sketch, but it was inviting. The -ardour for work had left her. Ever since -last night she had been longing intensely to -be alone. She bent her steps towards the -spot, ascended the low, broad flight of stone -stairs, and found herself in a square, shady, - -<span class="pagenum">[94]</span> - -gravelled space, in the midst of which rose a -heavy, tasteless-looking stone monument, -something between an ambitious tombstone -and a grovelling obelisk. She walked up to -it and looked at it. It bore a long list of -names, and an inscription to the effect that -the town of Lahnburg raised this humble -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Denkmal</i> to the memory of those of her sons -who had died fighting for <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Kaiser und Vaterland</i>, -in 1870-71. There were the regiments -to which the deceased had belonged, their -ages, and the names of the engagements in -which they had fallen—Sedan, Metz, Saarbrück, -etc. And below all, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Auf Wiedersehen!</i> -Sara read it all, strangely moved by its -homely simplicity, the confident expression -of belief in a meeting again, and touched by -the profound peace of this quiet <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Ruheplatz</i>—so -fitting for those brave hearts. At one side -of the square there was a low wall, and some -seats before it, on one of which she seated -herself, and found that it commanded a -glorious view of the low-lying country through -which there the Lahn flows. The great, cool - -<span class="pagenum">[95]</span> - -shadow of the cathedral was cast over her, -while beneath her eyes the fertile land lay -spread under a quivering veil of golden sun-pierced -mist.</p> - -<p>It was a feast for eye and heart. The -artist soul of the woman drank in all the -broad, calm, peaceful beauty of it, and her -eyes dwelt lovingly upon every exquisite -curve of distant hill, on every silver link in -the windings of the placid river. She put her -hand upon her sketch-book—opened it; even -took her pencil in her hand; then laid it -down again, with a restless sigh breaking -from her lips. She felt the need of being -alone, and yet, now that she was alone, she -dreaded to acknowledge her own state of -mind to herself. Her thoughts were vague -and disconnected. There was a prevailing -sensation that the old life no longer satisfied -her. She knew that between her and her -rejoicing fulness of contentment in her art, a -barrier had arisen. A third thought now -always intruded between herself and her purpose. -She could handle no pencil, take up - -<span class="pagenum">[96]</span> - -no book, behold no beautiful thing, form no -plans for the future, without the influence of -Jerome Wellfield making itself overpoweringly -felt. At times—at this moment, even—she -almost resented this new feeling; -longed for freedom, and revolted at finding -her soul enslaved. She felt a tremor sometimes—the -unspoken question tormented her, -‘What if this passion be all wrong, instead -of all right? What if it paralyse, instead of -expanding, my nature? If it so absorb me -that I can forget others—forget, for one moment, -my highest aims—then it is surely -wrong. A love that is pure and true ought -to make one more unselfish, ought to make -one love better and more largely and liberally -everything and every person about one. Is -it so with me?’</p> - -<p>Some such thought as this was agitating -her mind this afternoon. She was striving to -be reasonable, to keep her head steady in the -midst of her heart’s wild storm—piteously -striving, while the tyrant sentiment shook her -with ruthless hand; while between her and - -<span class="pagenum">[97]</span> - -the wholesome outside nature, came the beautiful -face which now haunted her thoughts so -doggedly, and beyond the twitter of the hopping -birds about and above her, sounded that -voice to which every fibre had thrilled, every -sense had responded, last night. A lark suddenly -rose, fluttering aloft, pouring out a -full-hearted song—such a flood of trilling -ecstasy as must have nearly burst his little -throat. She heard it, and it troubled her; it -interrupted the memory of that other song, in -such weird contrast to this one, which Jerome -had sung:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container40"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘In dreams I saw thy face,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And saw the night</div> - <div class="verse indent1">Filling thy heart’s drear space,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And saw the snake</div> - <div class="verse indent1">That gnaws that heart apace.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I saw, my love,</div> - <div class="verse indent1">Thy great and sore distress;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I murmur not.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>‘What am I thinking of?’ she almost -uttered, starting quickly. ‘I am nervous. I -must be. Why didn’t I go to those Lehnberg -girls and be amiable to them, instead of standing - -<span class="pagenum">[98]</span> - -aloof and helping Carla to be ill-natured, -for I know she dislikes them. I should have -felt better now, had I done so. I am degraded -by indulging in this folly, and I——’</p> - -<p>‘Surely, Miss Ford, you did not think this -the best place from which to sketch the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Dom</i>?’ -said Falkenberg’s voice, just beside her.</p> - -<p>Sara turned slowly, too thoroughly absorbed -in her own thoughts to be startled. Her eyes -dwelt at first almost unrecognisingly upon his -face. There was trouble in them—a kind of -pained, hunted look. Gradually they cleared, -as she came down again into the world of -reality, and saw him stooping towards her. -He was alone. Her troubled heart grew -calmer, as she saw his good face, and grave, -critical brown eyes, full of wisdom and full of -kindness, fixed upon her.</p> - -<p>‘Whatever this man told me, I should -believe implicitly,’ she thought within herself, -and she smiled welcome to him. Indeed, she -did welcome him in her heart. He came as -a deliverer. Her thraldom had begun to gall -her, when he appeared.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[99]</span></p> - -<p>‘Where have you left the countess?’ she -asked.</p> - -<p>‘At my house. She discovered that she -could not walk so far as the others were -going, and that she wished to inspect my -house and farm and gardens; for she was -certain that she could find a great deal to improve -in all of them.’</p> - -<p>He smiled, and so did Sara, the latter of -course being unconscious of the additional -remarks made by the candid countess when -alone with her favourite guest—remarks which -it had required all his tact to receive with an -appearance of amused indifference.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, she is not fond of walking. You -may well ask if I thought this a good place -from which to sketch the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Dom</i>. I came -down here, and then found that I was not -inclined to draw. I hope you do not feel -that you have been beguiled here on false -pretences.’</p> - -<p>‘By no means. I am glad you don’t wish -to draw; perhaps you will be all the more -disposed to converse.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[100]</span></p> - -<p>‘If you will “introduce a subject,” as they -did in the old game, I shall be delighted.’</p> - -<p>‘I have a subject quite ready. I hope you -will not think me very impertinent for introducing -it; and if you consider my questions -unwarrantable, tell me so, and I will apologise -and be silent.’</p> - -<p>‘Now I know you are going to ask me -questions about myself, which I give you free -leave to do. I know of absolutely nothing in -my life which I care to conceal.’</p> - -<p>‘Then, do you live entirely at Elberthal?’</p> - -<p>‘I have lived there now for two years, -entirely, except when friends have invited me -to visit them.’</p> - -<p>‘And alone?’</p> - -<p>‘Alone, except for my old servant, Ellen, -my second mother, who lives with me.’</p> - -<p>‘And you have neither father nor mother?’ -he asked.</p> - -<p>‘No! My mother died when I was a -baby, almost. My father worshipped her. -He never married a second time. Nearly -three years ago he also died. I have very - -<span class="pagenum">[101]</span> -few relations, and those not congenial. I - -may therefore say, I am alone in the world.’</p> - -<p>‘And—and—excuse the question,’ he said, -flushing violently, so that she looked at him -in surprise. ‘Are you—but really, I have no -right to ask.’</p> - -<p>‘What do you mean, Herr Falkenberg?’</p> - -<p>‘I wondered whether you were entirely -dependent on your art, for——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I thought you were going to ask, like -my aunt in England, what I did when I was -asked out, and had no chaperon to take me,’ -said Sara, laughing. ‘Am I dependent on -my art for the means of subsistence? No! -I have just one hundred pounds a year of my -own, Herr Falkenberg, safe and secure.’</p> - -<p>‘I am glad of that,’ said he, with a sympathetic -smile of relief. ‘It makes all the -difference. With that income certain, you -may live to your art as art.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I find it a very good thing. My -hundred a year is worth a thousand to me, I -assure you. But what a paltry little sum it -must appear to you,’ she added, with a look - -<span class="pagenum">[102]</span> - -of humour in her grey eyes. ‘What was it I -once read about “spinsters and widows of -one or two hundred a year, and other -minute capitalists of the same kind?” I -remember being very much amused with it. -Do you not almost feel to require a magnifying-glass—mental, -I mean—to enable you -to see my hundred a year at all—you with -your immense transactions, and your great -income?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear Miss Ford,’ he expostulated, -blushing as if to apologise for having such a -large income when she had such a very small -one, ‘pardon me; I ought never to have -alluded——’</p> - -<p>Sara laughed with hearty enjoyment.</p> - -<p>‘Do not look so distressed,’ she said. -‘When I think how frightened I was at the -countess’s account of you, and how I quaked -when I saw her bringing you up to me yesterday, -and then realise your goodness—why -should you not ask how much money I have, -and why should I not tell you that I have a -hundred a year? I think there is such an - -<span class="pagenum">[103]</span> - -immense amount of false delicacy wasted -upon such matters.’</p> - -<p>‘Yet I know that you would not think of -asking me what my income is,’ said Falkenberg, -composedly.</p> - -<p>‘There is a difference between a great -financier and a “minute capitalist” like -myself. Have you some plan for turning -my hundred a year into two?’ she added, -laughing.</p> - -<p>‘No; I was innocent of wishing to speculate -with your money. I was only anxious -to know that you were not obliged to speculate -with your brains.’</p> - -<p>‘No; I have been most fortunate, I consider, -in that respect. When I first went to -Elberthal I was certainly seriously puzzled to -arrange my affairs, from a poverty of means, -not an <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">embarras de richesses</i>. You see—I -daresay you can bend your comprehension -to the fact—it <em>was</em> a little difficult to make a -hundred a year pay for board and lodging for -two, and for my lessons as well.’</p> - -<p>‘It must have been impossible,’ exclaimed - -<span class="pagenum">[104]</span> - -Falkenberg, looking so shocked that Sara -laughed again gleefully.</p> - -<p>‘I am sure I could “harrow you up,” as -the Americans say, if I were to relate some -of Ellen’s and my contrivances at that time. -We both were inspired with a Spartan resolution -not to get into debt if we had to starve -for it.’</p> - -<p>‘I cannot conceive how you lived,’ he said, -in a voice which had actual pain in it. ‘How -can you laugh at it? It is shocking. What -were your friends doing to allow——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! my friends were few, and they were -all so angry at the course I had taken, that -they would have rejoiced in the idea that I -was being humbled—that perhaps I should -be obliged to return home. But I was going -to tell you how we went on—if you want to -hear, that is.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, if you will be so good as to tell me!’</p> - -<p>‘I had lessons from Wilhelmi; I daresay -you know him?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes.’</p> - -<p>‘He is a splendid fellow, do you know? - -<span class="pagenum">[105]</span> - -At first I had great difficulty in getting him -to teach me at all. Then he suddenly became -quite kind. I believe it was as soon as he -saw that I meant work, and not nonsense. -He was good enough to say that I had talent, -and since then he will accept absolutely -nothing from me for my lessons. He says I -can give him a service of plate, with inscriptions, -when I am a popular painter. Is not -that noble generosity?’</p> - -<p>‘Very kind,’ assented Falkenberg, almost -coldly.</p> - -<p>‘And his wife and daughter have been -almost as kind as himself. I feel that they -are friends indeed.’</p> - -<p>‘But your people at home?’ he began.</p> - -<p>‘All my “people at home” consist in an -uncle, a brother of my mother’s, and his -family. My father was professor of modern -history at —— College, in London. His -opinions, both religious and social, were advanced. -When he was living, his house was -a favourite place with clever, cultivated men -and women, of all shades of opinion; most - -<span class="pagenum">[106]</span> - -of them, like himself, not particularly well off. -Then he died, suddenly, and left me, as I -said, with one hundred pounds a year. I -was just one-and-twenty, and my small possessions -were fortunately absolutely at my -own disposal. I tried living with “my people -at home.” My uncle is a clergyman; rector -of a very small village in the south of England. -They exist there; they don’t live. It -soon grew intolerable to me. I had been -accustomed to the society of men and women -of mind; and the gossip about the curate, -and my cousins’ frantic efforts to imitate the -dress of the county ladies who occasionally -came to church, and who most likely spent as -many hundreds on their clothes as Charlotte -and Louisa had sovereigns, drove me almost -wild. Then the curate tried to convert -me——’</p> - -<p>‘Heavens!’</p> - -<p>‘And I spoke disrespectfully of the Church. -My aunt and cousins were speechless, and -sent me to Coventry for a long time. I remembered -how well my pictures had sold at - -<span class="pagenum">[107]</span> - -some fancy fairs and bazaars in London, to -which I had sometimes contributed, and I -resolved that I would use the powers God -had given me. I laid all my plans in silence, -only taking my old Ellen into my confidence. -She vowed she would follow me to the -world’s end.’</p> - -<p>‘Of course!’</p> - -<p>‘Of course? Not at all. She had an -excellent situation offered her, as housekeeper, -in an English country house, where -she could have done as she pleased, and -where she also would have received a hundred -a year. When incomes dwindle down to -hundreds, Herr Falkenberg, one finds one’s-self -on a pecuniary level with strange companions -sometimes.’</p> - -<p>‘How you harp upon that stupid hundred -pounds!’ exclaimed Falkenberg. ‘I believe -you wish to defy me with it. Well?’</p> - -<p>‘She gave it up, and accompanied me. -There was a storm at the rectory when I -unfolded my plans. My uncle forbade me -to go, and said it would have broken my - -<span class="pagenum">[108]</span> - -mother’s heart.’ Her lip curled scornfully. -‘My mother, who always taught me that no -kind of work was shameful, and that every -kind of idleness was! Naturally I took no -notice of that. My cousins said I was a -Bohemian, and liked adventures, and that it -all came of my having been brought up -amongst unbelievers. My aunt was speechless -for a time, and then said, “Go abroad, -child, alone! What will you do for a -chaperon, when you are invited anywhere?”’</p> - -<p>‘And you?’ he asked, laughing.</p> - -<p>‘I said, “I suppose I shall go without -one.” And then I came to Elberthal. I -have been there now for two years. One of -my cousins occasionally writes to me, and I to -her. The rest ignore me. And I—have learnt -to live alone. With plenty of work it is not -so very difficult, and the depraved nature -of the German customs has even allowed me -to go out without a chaperon now and then, -without visiting the sin too severely upon me.’</p> - -<p>‘Then how did you meet with the -Trockenaus?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[109]</span></p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said Sara, a smile of pleasure flashing -over her face, ‘that was another pleasant -thing. Count Trockenau was once a student -in the very college in which my father was -professor of history, and had attended some -of his lectures; and, it seems, had been at his -house, and seen me when I was a mere child. -I don’t remember it, but he does. They saw -a picture with my name, at an exhibition in -Berlin; and he actually took the trouble to -ascertain whether I had anything to do with -the Professor Ford he had known. That is -a year ago; since then, they have been unvaryingly -kind to me. But people are kind, -it seems to me. As for Countess Carla—she -is goodness itself.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes; there is a wonderful charm about -her,’ he said, and then they were both silent -for a time.</p> - -<p>Her clear grey eyes were fixed upon the -fields below them—eyes so perfectly true, -pure, and candid, he thought he had never -seen. Now also, he saw the slight line about -the mouth—a line which was sometimes a - -<span class="pagenum">[110]</span> - -little hard, as if struggle and disillusionism -had called it there. Her open gaze, her -fearless smile, her unembarrassed manner of -holding her way through the world—what -was it all? Innocence, most assuredly; but -ignorance—no. She knew the world, and -knew that it was evil. He thought that in -addition to innocence there was perfect comprehension -of her position, great ambition, a -great deal of pride, and, mixed with that, a -touch of indifference that was almost cynical. -She did not sneer; there was no sneer on the -beautiful frank mouth, but there was disdain. -He had never seen anything quite like her -before. As he sat, looking earnestly at her, -he began to reflect that very soon she would -pass from his life. This conversation in the -afternoon sunshine, under the shadow of the -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Dom</i>, was pleasant—as sweet as it was -unexpected, and different from all other conversations -he had ever had. But soon it -would be over. After a few days at Trockenau, -she would return to her atelier; he to -his business and his—pleasures. His pleasures, - -<span class="pagenum">[111]</span> - -as he looked back upon them now, -seen in the light of <em>this</em> sun, looked grey and -dim and poor. Of course he need not lose -sight of her, and the most natural way of -keeping her in view, considering their relative -positions, would be to give her a commission -to paint him a picture. He felt himself revolted -at the idea—felt the blood rise to his -cheeks at the thought. Surely there must be -some other way of keeping her in sight.</p> - -<p>At this moment she turned, and found his -eyes so intently fixed on her face, that her -colour too rose a little, as she asked:</p> - -<p>‘Have I said something that shocks you -too, Herr Falkenberg? I should be sorry -for that.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Ford!’ he exclaimed earnestly, -‘what you have told me makes me honour -and respect you from my very soul. Do not -for a moment think that your confidence has -been misplaced, as it must have been if I -were “shocked” at anything you have said. -We only met yesterday, and yet I am bold -enough to say that if you would consent to - -<span class="pagenum">[112]</span> - -place me on the list of your friends and -servants, I should indeed feel honoured.’</p> - -<p>Sara looked at him with eloquent eyes and -parted lips.</p> - -<p>‘You are very kind,’ she said earnestly, -‘and I accept your kindness. I—my friends -are not many, but they are prized. I should -think it a privilege to count you amongst -them, for I believe you have the same -feelings about friendship that I have myself, -and my ideas on the subject are by no means -low ones.’</p> - -<p>‘Nor mine. And for that reason I am -like yourself. My friends are few,’ he said, -taking the hand she extended, and raising it -to his lips, his eyes still fixed on her face. -Suddenly her own eyes filled with tears. -She turned aside her face, and covered it -with her other hand.</p> - -<p>‘What have I done to deserve such kindness?’ -she said tremulously, and profoundly -moved. And indeed, what is there that -should move a human soul more than such a -discovery as this—the discovery of a friend? - -<span class="pagenum">[113]</span> - -Schiller felt it when he sang in that great -ode, which never has been and never can be -translated without being ruined:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container38"> - <div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse first-line">‘Wem der grosse Wurf gelungen,</div> - <div class="verse"><i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Eines Freundes Freund zu sein</i>,</div> - <div class="verse">Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,</div> - <div class="verse">Mische seinen Jubel ein!</div> - <div class="verse">Ja, wer auch nur <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">eine</i> Seele</div> - <div class="verse"><i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Sein</i> nennt, auf dem Erdenrund.</div> - <div class="verse">Und wer’s nie gekonnt, der stehle</div> - <div class="verse">Weinend sich aus diesem Bund.’</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>‘It is not kindness so much as selfishness,’ -said he, gently. ‘Do we not all try -to grasp that which seems very desirable to -us?’</p> - -<p>‘It is a kind of selfishness I like,’ said -Sara, recovering, and flashing a bright glance -upon him through the mist which still veiled -her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I should like to take you to one or two -places here—Lotte Buff’s house, and Goethe’s -Well, and some others, if you would care to -go,’ he said, as if to put aside her still unspoken -thanks.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[114]</span></p> - -<p>‘I should, immensely. Shall we have -time before the others come back? Where -are they gone, by-the-way?’</p> - -<p>‘They are gone to a celebrated restauration -on the top of that hill, the Kalsmund, -which you see opposite, with the ruined -tower upon it. At this restauration they are -famed for their <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Bowle</i>—pineapple <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Bowle</i>; and -I heard young Lemde, and the count, and -Arthur Eckberg arranging to take the ladies -there and have a large bowl of the said -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Bowle</i>, in the garden of the restauration,’ said -Falkenberg, with an imperturbable gravity -which the light in his eyes belied.</p> - -<p>Sara laughed.</p> - -<p>‘Should we not rather go and find the -countess, and ask her to come with us? I -am sure she will be dull.’</p> - -<p>Accordingly they went to the house, and -found the countess nothing loath to accept -their invitation that she would accompany -them. They had a very delightful tour of -discovery; and Sara noticed that wherever -they went, their companion appeared to be - -<span class="pagenum">[115]</span> - -known, and that he was greeted with smiles -and a pleasant word.</p> - -<p>When it was time they returned to the -house, and found the rest of the party there, -all in the highest good-humour, and all pitying -them for having missed the treat they -had had—the walk, the view, the ruins, and -the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Bowle</i>.</p> - -<p>It was time to go to the railway station, -and after a railway journey of one hour and a -drive of another, they found that their <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Landpartei</i> -was over, and they were again at -Schloss Trockenau.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[116]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_IV"> - <img src="images/p116_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV. -<br><br> -<small>OF THE WELLFIELDS.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p116_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">At</span> Ems, the morning of the same -day, some time after the Trockenau -procession had gone past on -its way to the station, two young ladies -seated themselves on a bench in the Kurgarten, -beside the broad walk. They had -brought their novels and their fancy-work, -and were of one mind and one spirit in their -purpose to idle away the morning, watch the -visitors, and, after the manner of Miss -Austen’s sarcastic heroes and ingenuous -heroines, ‘quiz the company.’ They were -English; they were the daughters of an -M.P. for one of the great manufacturing - -<span class="pagenum">[117]</span> - -towns. They were staying at the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Vier -Jahreszeiten</i>, and they had closely observed -all the rest of the company staying there. -Until a few days ago, the most perfect sisterly -harmony had reigned between them; but a -lamentable discord had lately arisen, and that -upon the subject of a man.</p> - -<p>‘Dora, see! There’s your wonderful dark -angel coming mooning along with his sister. -Pray don’t miss the chance of looking at them, -since you admire them so much.’</p> - -<p>‘You are boiling over with spite, Lucy. I -will look at them. I like looking at them, -and so do you, but you won’t own it.’</p> - -<p>‘<em>I!</em>’ ejaculated Lucy, with supreme contempt. -‘He is very handsome, I grant you; -but I believe him to be a sham.’</p> - -<p>‘What do you mean by a sham?’</p> - -<p>‘He looks like a hero of romance, and I -believe he is a very commonplace personage -after all.’</p> - -<p>‘No one with such a voice could be -commonplace, Lucy. Sims Reeves is nothing -to him.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[118]</span></p> - -<p>‘I should say you were cracked,’ replied -Lucy, witheringly.</p> - -<p>‘Should you? What a powerful imagination -you must have! He is coming down -this way. I am sure “a dark angel” is an -excellent name for him.’</p> - -<p>‘I shall conclude next that you write -poetry about him—a man who has never -spoken to you, and who doesn’t recognise -you when he sees you. And as for that -tall girl, with her streams of yellow hair, she -ought in decency to put it up, in——’</p> - -<p>‘In a chignon—do say a chignon at once! -It would suit her so admirably—about as -well as it would suit Venus or Hebe.’</p> - -<p>‘We shall never agree about them, that is -evident.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, I know that. Do let me admire -them in peace. ’Tis all I ask.’</p> - -<p>The causes of this deplorable breach of -good understanding between two generally -loving sisters, were now too near for them to -exchange any further remarks about them -at present. Lucy indignantly stuck her - -<span class="pagenum">[119]</span> - -parasol between herself and them, and studied -her Tauchnitz volume in moody dignity. -Dora, perfectly conscious that the Wellfields -were unaware of her existence, had no -scruple in raising her head as they went -past, and looking at them openly and scrutinisingly. -They did not see her, being -absorbed in conversation, and looking intently -at one another. Avice was hanging -upon her brother’s arm, which she had taken -as they left the hotel, and was gazing with a -sort of rapt attention into his face, as if something -in his looks or his voice attracted her -irresistibly. He had been saying something, -and had ceased to speak, and this something -seemed to give her matter for thought. Soon -after they had passed the two girls, Avice said:</p> - -<p>‘Jerome, since I knew you—how long is it?’</p> - -<p>‘It is just a month since I came to you -here.’</p> - -<p>‘It seems an eternity of pleasure. My -life has changed so much since then that I -hardly know myself.’</p> - -<p>‘For the better, do you mean?’ he asked, - -<span class="pagenum">[120]</span> - -looking down upon the delicately beautiful, -upturned face, and feeling that Sara Ford’s -words had been true: ‘She will some day -be remarkably beautiful.’</p> - -<p>‘For the better, of course. I used to be -very tired of my life sometimes. Often I -have sat in our balcony, when we had one at -any hotel we were staying at, and envied the -ragged children playing in the street.’</p> - -<p>‘But why, child? My father seems to -dote upon you.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes! he dotes upon me, I suppose. -But when the doting takes the form of -scarcely allowing me to leave the house, and -never to go out alone—in all the places we -have been at, I never went to see the sights -like other girls—I am so ignorant—you cannot -imagine <em>how</em> ignorant. I know absolutely -nothing.’</p> - -<p>‘You know French and German, and -Italian and English.’</p> - -<p>‘What is that, when I am afraid to speak -in them for fear of showing what an ignorant -little fool I am!’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[121]</span></p> - -<p>‘And you know politics. I sat in silent -awe and amazement the other day when you -were telling my father about the ministerial -tactics in France and England.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! because I have read the papers to -papa for years. I don’t know any grammar, -nor any arithmetic, nor——’</p> - -<p>‘What can you want with them? Grammar -is bosh.’</p> - -<p><em>‘Jerome!’</em></p> - -<p>‘Of course it is bosh. Never be afraid to -call it bosh. And as for arithmetic, you can -add up what you receive and what you spend, -I suppose.’</p> - -<p>‘But I don’t mean that kind of arithmetic. -I knew an English girl a little while ago -where we were at Florence. She was spending -the winter holidays there, and papa -allowed me to go to see her sometimes. She -showed me the work she had to do during the -holidays, and it made me feel, oh, so fearfully -ignorant. One of her sums was, “Find -the present value of £760 at four and five-eighths -per cent. for eighty days.” That is - -<span class="pagenum">[122]</span> - -what <em>I</em> call arithmetic,’ said Avice, despondently.</p> - -<p>‘Do you? Well, suppose we look out for -a governess for both of us, for I know just as -much about it as you do.’</p> - -<p>Avice laughed and said: ‘It would have to -be a very clever governess, Jerome.’</p> - -<p>‘But not old and ugly, or I could not -possibly learn from her; and yet, if she were -young and handsome, I might fall in love -with her. Upon my word, I think I should -like to have a governess, Avice. Shall we -see about it?’</p> - -<p>‘How ridiculous you are! Since I have -had you, I don’t care so much about a -governess. How horribly frightened of you -I was, before I saw you. Papa used to pinch -my ear sometimes when he wanted to tease -me, and say, “I wonder what Hieronymus -will say when he first sees you—little interloper!” -When I asked what you were like, -he said I should have to mind my P’s and -Q’s with you. Naturally I trembled at the -very idea of beholding you.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[123]</span></p> - -<p>‘It was too bad to make me out such a -bugbear.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, he did not make you out a bugbear, -exactly; but he gave me a fearful idea of you. -And one day he told me that you had been -sent for—that was when he was ill, and -thought he would not get better. And he -added that when he was gone, you would -have all his authority, and that he advised -me to make myself agreeable to you. It was -woman’s mission, he said, to make herself -agreeable.’</p> - -<p>‘My father has curious ideas upon woman’s -mission and place in life, my dear. If he -were to come in contact with the world again, -he would find that they were out of date. -Well?’</p> - -<p>‘I was in the greatest anxiety. I did not -know whether to put on my oldest, shabbiest -frock, and to go and sit up in my bedroom, -and not come down till I was sent for, and -not speak till I was spoken to.’</p> - -<p>‘What end did you purpose to serve by -such a course?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[124]</span></p> - -<p>‘I thought you would think, “At least she -is quite insignificant, and will not be in my -way.” Then I thought it might be better to -make myself look as well as I possibly -could——’</p> - -<p>‘Which you knew to be very well indeed, -Miss Vanity, in your bronze velvet gown -with the amber slashings, which makes you -look like some picture of Titian or Veronese, -but which would not lead anyone to suppose -that you were an English school-girl.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, don’t call me an English school-girl. -I think they are horrid. They know so -much more than I do. But do you like me -in that dress?’</p> - -<p>‘Very much.’</p> - -<p>‘I thought, well, if he sees me in this, he -will think, “Ah, after all she is presentable. -She might be worse.”’</p> - -<p>‘Preposterous child! Finally, if I remember -aright——’</p> - -<p>‘Finally, papa was so ill that I forgot all -about my dress. I was in a black frock, sitting -beside his bed, I know, when you came.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[125]</span></p> - -<p>‘Yes, I remember. My eyes fell upon -you the instant I came in. I remember -being struck, then and there, with the contrast -between your white face and black dress, and -great startled eyes, and this flood of gold, -Avice.’ He smiled slightly as he touched a -tress of her hair.</p> - -<p>‘And I remember that as you came in, I -really turned cold with anxiety and alarm. -You were pale too, and your eyes seemed to -burn upon me. I remember how you walked -up to my father, and bent over him, and I -thought suddenly, “Oh, I hope he will like -me!” Then papa remembered me, and took -my hand, and said, “Here’s Avice—you -must learn to know her, for when I’m gone -she will have no one but you; and she is a -hot-house plant, I can tell you.” And you, -Jerome, you took my hand—I could not -speak. You smiled at me, and I felt as if a -tight string had been cut loose from my -heart; and you said, “One only needs to -look at her to see that.” I must have looked -alarmed, for you said, “Do you think you - -<span class="pagenum">[126]</span> - -can spare me a little of your regard, my -child?” and you put your arm round me, -and kissed me. I would have <em>died</em> for you, -Jerome, from that moment,’ she concluded, -looking into his face with eyes full of suppressed, -passionate devotion.</p> - -<p>‘Why, you never told me before anything -of this,’ he said, in some surprise.</p> - -<p>‘Because I waited to see if you would -change; if you would presently begin to -think me an interloper. But I know you -don’t. Oh, I do so love you!’</p> - -<p>He took her chin in his hand, and looked -down into the glowing, excited young face; -then stooped and kissed her, saying: ‘I -only wish we had not been strangers so -long.’</p> - -<p>They turned back, having come to the end -of the garden, and Avice went on:</p> - -<p>‘I have a great many things to ask about, -Jerome. First, I want to know if we are -rich?’</p> - -<p>‘Rich! No. At least, not millionaires. -I don’t exactly know what my father’s - -<span class="pagenum">[127]</span> - -income is. Somewhere about two or three -thousand a year, I suppose. He has always -allowed me six hundred, since I came of age; -and it has been quite enough.’</p> - -<p>‘But you lead such a simple life, compared -with that of some young men.’</p> - -<p>He looked at her, surprised. ‘What do -you know about the lives “some” young men -lead?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know anything, except that most -of papa’s gentlemen friends spend more than -six hundred a year, I am sure. I could not -help seeing things, when we have stayed in -so many places. You don’t keep a lot of -horses, nor play cards for large stakes, nor -give grand entertainments, nor spend heaps -of money on dress.’</p> - -<p>‘In all those matters I am severely virtuous, -I confess—at any rate, in the last. At -the same time, my sweet child, I have always, -by dint of unwearying exertions, contrived to -live up to my income; and perhaps had it -been larger even, I might have succeeded in -spending it.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[128]</span></p> - -<p>‘I daresay; but you know what I mean. -You would never be like young Baron -Zeppenheim, for instance, whom we knew at -Wiesbaden. I really believe he had hundreds -of suits of clothes.’</p> - -<p>Jerome laughed.</p> - -<p>‘I think, sister mine, that such things have -about the same significance for us both. -You look charming in your bronze velvet, -with the old Venetian clasps; but had you -nothing to wear but some old black serge, -you would still be what you are.’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose so. I cannot imagine what -difference it makes. But next I want to ask, -have you ever been to our home—our real -home that belongs to us—and has the same -name as ourselves?’</p> - -<p>‘Have I ever been at Wellfield? Of course -I have—ages ago, though, when I was a boy -of ten or eleven—nearly sixteen years ago, -Avice; and yet I remember it as well as if it -had been yesterday.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it nice?’</p> - -<p>‘It is a fine old place—yes—in a fine - -<span class="pagenum">[129]</span> - -country. I should like well to see it -again.’</p> - -<p>‘I want to go there dreadfully, Jerome. -Couldn’t you persuade papa to let us go and -stay there for a while when he gets better? -He never will talk to me about it. He says -it is a musty old place, and that I may think -I should like it, but that I should be like himself -if I got there—dead in a week, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">aus lauter -Langeweile</i>. But I know better. I should -be able to do as I liked, and to go out without -a maid, and without gloves; and could have a -room of my own to put my things in, without -the horrid consciousness that in a week or -two I should have to rout them all out again. -That’s what I feel here; I feel an outcast.’</p> - -<p>‘You have never seen the home of your -ancestors, and you are sixteen! I never in -the least realised it. Certainly you shall go. -I will work him up to it.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Jerome, you are an angel!’ she exclaimed -fervently.</p> - -<p>They were passing the English sisters -again, who had quarrelled about them; and - -<span class="pagenum">[130]</span> - -on hearing this exclamation, and seeing the -enraptured face held up to Jerome, ‘Dora’ -gave an exultant glance towards ‘Lucy,’ who -merely shrugged her shoulders.</p> - -<p>‘Were you so anxious to see the old place?’ -pursued Jerome. ‘Well, I don’t wonder. It -is a place to be proud of.’</p> - -<p>‘Why don’t you go and live there? You -could.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, that is another thing. Wellfield is a -lovely spot, and the Abbey is a place to be -proud of, no doubt; but to live there, after -the kind of life one has been accustomed to -here—<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">c’est autre chose</i>! It’s a Roman Catholic -neighbourhood. Brentwood is close to, you -know—the great Jesuit seminary, and a lot of -those fossilised Roman Catholic gentry, as -proud as Lucifer, and as exclusive as—as -only such people can be.’</p> - -<p>‘But surely we are their equals.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh dear, yes! We have always been on -the best of terms with them all, chiefly -perhaps because we have been so little at -Wellfield that there has been no time or - -<span class="pagenum">[131]</span> - -chance for differences to arise. I don’t know -how I should like it to live in, unless——’</p> - -<p>‘Unless what?’</p> - -<p>‘If something I should like very much took -place, I should certainly ask my father to let -me take up my abode at the Abbey. Who -knows, Avice, under what circumstances you -may go first to Wellfield Abbey?’</p> - -<p>They found themselves opposite the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Vier -Jahreszeiten</i>. Jerome looked at his watch.</p> - -<p>‘I tell you what, young lady, we have consumed -no end of time in this discussion. My -father will think himself ill-used. We promised -to walk with him at twelve. Come and -let us find him.’</p> - -<p>They went into the hall, and an attendant -hurried up to them, only to say that Mr. -Wellfield the elder had been taken very ill -while reading his newspapers before rising, -that a doctor had been sent for, and that he -lay now between life and death.</p> - -<p>Jerome and his sister hastened upstairs, and -found their father in alternate convulsions of -pain and intervals of utter, swooning unconsciousness. - -<span class="pagenum">[132]</span> - -The doctor came, and after a -very short examination pronounced the attack -to be a most serious one. A Sister of Mercy -from a neighbouring institution was sent for. -Hours of suspense and anxiety passed before -the delirious anguish of the patient at all -abated. The dusk of evening had fallen, -when the doctor, coming into the salon, found -Jerome and Avice seated together in the -window; the girl’s head pillowed on her -brother’s knee, her hand in his.</p> - -<p>‘Your father is now composed, and perfectly -sensible,’ said the doctor. ‘He is very -anxious to speak to you alone,’ he added, to -Jerome. ‘The Sister will wait in the ante-room. -Call her if there is the least need for -help. She knows what to do. I will look in -again about midnight.’</p> - -<p>With a brief good-evening he was gone; -and Jerome, rising, went to his father’s room.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[133]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_V"> - <img src="images/p133_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V. -<br><br> -<small>FATHER AND SON ARRANGE ACCOUNTS.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p133_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">A LAMP</span> was brightly burning in the -sick-room, with a shade over it, -and so placed as not to dazzle the -invalid’s eyes. The Sister had left the room -when Jerome entered; and there was a stillness -as of death over everything. Jerome -went up to the bedside, and stooped over the -motionless figure lying back, nerveless and -exhausted, after the agonies of pain which -had shaken the already feeble frame. The -face upon which the lamplight shone was, or -had been, a fine one, as regarded features. -These bore little resemblance to those of his -son, though they, like Jerome’s, were finely - -<span class="pagenum">[134]</span> - -cut, pale, and clear. Now, they were wasted -and waxen in their languid weariness. A -high, somewhat bald forehead, a long, -slender, grey moustache gave a thoroughly -un-English appearance to the whole countenance. -As Jerome’s hands pressed the -bedclothes, and he stooped without speaking -over the pillow, the large closed eyelids were -raised, and a pair of strange bright blue eyes -were discovered, such eyes as are often the -token of a cool, self-seeking disposition—eyes -which contained a light and a life which not -even this day of mortal pain had been able -utterly to quench.</p> - -<p>Face of father and face of son were near -together; the one evidently near death, the -other scarcely less pale, quite as still and -composed, yet eloquent of health and strength, -and early manhood’s pride and power.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, Jerome, it is you?’ came in a feeble -voice from the patient.</p> - -<p>‘I am thankful to hear that you are out of -pain, sir. My sister and I have passed some -anxious hours.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[135]</span></p> - -<p>‘Yes; I feel easier now.’</p> - -<p>He spoke so slowly, so languidly, and so -faintly, that the voice was scarce audible.</p> - -<p>‘You sent for me; at least, Dr. Reichhardt -said you wished to see me.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes; I have something to say to you. -Sit down.’</p> - -<p>Jerome seated himself on a chair which -stood beside the bed, and waited. Since -opening his eyes, and seeing his son stooping -over him, Mr. Wellfield had not closed them -again. They looked restlessly round—at the -ceiling, the wall, the window—anywhere, -except into his son’s face. It was some little -time before he spoke again; what he had to -say seemed to require a considerable effort of -some kind. At last, in a voice which had -suddenly gained strength, he said:</p> - -<p>‘You don’t know what caused me to be so -suddenly taken ill to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘I had not thought of the cause. I was -disturbed at the fact.’</p> - -<p>‘I had a severe shock, after you went out -this morning.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[136]</span></p> - -<p>‘Indeed!’ said Jerome, with some animation; -‘I hope no carelessness——’</p> - -<p>‘None at all, except the carelessness of -circumstances, which is apt to be astonishing -sometimes, especially to those who suffer -from it,’ he retorted, a sarcastic flavour in his -voice. ‘I ought to have spoken to you long -ago—long ago.’</p> - -<p>Again he paused, and again Jerome waited. -He had not the faintest, most conjectural -idea of the subject upon which his father -desired to speak to him. He was beginning -now to wonder vaguely what it could be. -They had no confidences, this father and son. -Their tastes, habits, and dispositions had -always been utterly dissimilar. The elder -Wellfield had gone his own way, had led his -life of aimless travel from place to place, -generally from one fashionable foreign invalid -colony to another, accompanied by his -daughter and her maid, and by his own manservant. -His son had enjoyed the fullest -liberty to do the same; to live exactly as -seemed good in his own eyes, only receiving - -<span class="pagenum">[137]</span> - -long ago the curt recommendation to remember -who he was, and that there were some -things that a gentleman could never do. -‘No need to tell a gentleman what these -things are,’ he had further been informed. -‘If he be a gentleman, he will very soon -learn them for himself; if not, scorpions could -not whip the knowledge into him.’</p> - -<p>Furnished with such a formula, or creed, -as the basis of his ethical system, Jerome -Wellfield had been left to his own devices. -Three times since his father’s second marriage, -Jerome had met and stayed with that -father. The first time Avice had been a -baby, on the other occasions she had been -visiting friends unknown to her brother. -Jerome and his father had always agreed -together perfectly well. Each was conscious -that the other had tastes and habits and views -of life which to himself would have been -most distasteful. Each had had civilisation -and <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">savoir vivre</i> enough to ignore that altogether -during their brief glimpses of one -another. They had never quarrelled—they - -<span class="pagenum">[138]</span> - -had never been friends. Mr. Wellfield had -enjoyed his life of idle valetudinarianism—his -lazy days, his evenings at cards, or in reading-rooms, -or lighted gardens. Jerome had -enjoyed his life—his pleasant search after the -harmonious and the beautiful in life, in art, in -nature. He had gradually shut himself up in -his own reserve; in his over-refined cultivation -and fastidiousness; he had ‘built his -soul a lordly pleasure-house, wherein at ease -for aye to dwell,’ till now what was ugly and -coarse made him shudder, and gave him pain -that was almost physical. All this refinement, -he often told himself, was not essential to -him; he could do without it; poverty would -not be anything to dread, for one could have -simplicity therewith; the real bane of existence -was common, rampant, triumphant -philistinism. Wherever he went, he had -been well received, and generally flattered: -his beauty, his voice, the charm of his -manner alone, would have made him the -despair of prudent mothers, even as a detrimental; -but when to those advantages was - -<span class="pagenum">[139]</span> -added the primary one, that he was an only -son, heir to a fine estate, of unimpeachably -good and ancient name and lineage, an impartial -judge must confess that it was a great -thing that Jerome Wellfield had come out of -the ordeal, at least outwardly, unscathed, -calm, unperturbed, unvulgarised.</p> - -<p>Open admiration and adulation had revolted -his fastidious soul. Till he met Sara -Ford, he had never gone further than a mild -flirtation with any girl, for he was hard to -please. But, having met her, all was changed. -Her beauty, her pride, her indifference, calm -and smiling, to what other women so eagerly -sought after—the fact that she was no easy -prize, despite her loneliness and her poverty, -had fired him. He had loved with a rapidity -and a passion which showed the strange -blending of north and south, of Italy and -England, that was in him, and that made him -what he was. And he, as little as anyone, -knew what he was. In him there were two -natures; he only knew one, for up to now -his mother’s side alone had grown and - -<span class="pagenum">[140]</span> - -flourished; he little knew the modifications -of southern character which he inherited from -that man beside whose bed he sat, waiting -for the disclosure which he struggled to -utter.</p> - -<p>Born beneath southern skies, brought up -in his very early childhood in Italian cities, -these influences engraved themselves deeply, -indelibly upon his nature. The mother’s -blood streaked every thought, every impulse, -with a mixture of passion and indolence, fire -and superstition. That mother had been the -beautiful daughter of an old, impoverished -Sicilian house—a house which had never -before married out of its own nation and its -own sphere. To her son she bequeathed her -own hereditary tendencies—she had had -much of the indolence, all the superstition of -that glorious, yet degraded race of Magna -Græcia.</p> - -<p>In after-days, when Jerome looked up into -the murky skies of Lancashire—those skies -which gloomed over the grey walls of his -father’s house—those deep, unspeakably blue - -<span class="pagenum">[141]</span> - -heavens whose glory bathed the marbles of -Venice, the quays of Naples, the ruins of -Rome, the pictures of Florence, whose -glamour lent itself to the whispering, rustling -grey of the olives on Mediterranean coast -terraces, and made the yellow sand more -yellow, the blue sea more deeply violet, the -white sail more dazzling—this remembered -heaven used to rush to his recollection with a -light that was almost lurid, and scattered -tones of a speech that was music seemed to -ring melodiously in his ears. Italy had -faded, yet her finger-mark remained ineffaceable -upon his innermost heart, as his mother’s -beauty remained upon earth, stamped in the -beauty of his own face and the melody of his -voice, which, so long as voice or feature -remained, should visibly and audibly attest -the presence upon earth of a land where -skies are warmer, where love is fiercer, where -passions run more quickly into white-hot -rages than in this humid isle of ours.</p> - -<p>Another influence had been almost as strong -as that of Italy—as strong as any influence - -<span class="pagenum">[142]</span> - -which is not already in a man’s natural tendencies -can be—and that influence was -Germany. After a brief stay in England, -during which his father’s second marriage -had taken place, he had been sent to the -gymnasium of ——, where he had gone -through all the courses, and, besides the -regular school-training, had been trained also -in the school of music.</p> - -<p>In that land his voice and his musical -powers formed a passport. By degrees, the -Italian ditties, with their oily sweetness, -slipped away, as they have the trick of doing, -from his tongue, and the rougher, deeper -songs of the Fatherland grew at home there. -Casting himself with eagerness into the art, -he grew more and more devoted to it, and -but for one thing he often felt as if he would -never care to leave this <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Deutschland</i>, this -home of mighty harmonies, this adopted -country. That one thing was the remembrance -of his home itself—of the weird, -ancient Abbey, with its dark, quaint gardens, -its cloisters beside the river; and the still - -<span class="pagenum">[143]</span> - -more ancient church which he dimly remembered.</p> - -<p>Since his love for Sara Ford had arisen, he -had thought and dreamed still oftener of this -ancient place. Now he knew—he had thought -of it when he spoke to Avice that morning—that -with her by his side there was no place -he would so gladly go to, and stay there. -What a life they might lead—she with -her art, and he with his—and with their -love! He felt a thrill—felt the blood course -quickly on, as he pictured her—it was the -first time he had seen the picture clearly—with -him at Wellfield—his wife.</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps, when you know, you may blame -me; and yet—where would you have been -all these years if I had acted differently? -Did you know that Wellfield had ever been -entailed?’</p> - -<p>‘I think I have heard something about -it,’ said Jerome, surprised at the abruptness -of the question, and roused from his -dream.</p> - -<p>‘It was entailed until my father’s time. - -<span class="pagenum">[144]</span> - -He and your great-grandfather agreed to -cut it off.’</p> - -<p>‘Did they? Why?’</p> - -<p>‘Because the estate was thoroughly embarrassed, -and deep in debt, and they wanted -to restore it.’</p> - -<p>‘Then they succeeded?’ asked Jerome, to -whom this was news, but who concluded that -they must have succeeded. Had there been -embarrassments, surely he would have heard -of them before now.</p> - -<p>‘No; they did not. Neither of them had -the faintest notion of business’—it is to be -presumed that Mr. Wellfield was conscious of -himself possessing business talents of a -superior order. ‘They got money, but that -wasn’t improving the estate. They did not -retrench, and they spent nothing on improvements. -When I came into possession, I was -worse off than any Wellfield had ever been -before.’</p> - -<p>‘I had no idea of that,’ said Jerome.</p> - -<p>‘Of course you had not. How could you -have? It is a fact, nevertheless. I went - -<span class="pagenum">[145]</span> - -through some bitter experiences. I had all -their pride, and none of their resources. I -saw no way out of it. Your mother once -saw the place, and screamed at the very idea -of living there. She said she would die if -she had to live out of Italy. It was therefore -impossible for me to live on my estate, and -retrench, as almost any other man might have -done under the circumstances. Knowing -this, I kept you as much away from the place -as possible, lest you should get fond of it. -Things got worse and worse. After your -sister’s mother died, my own health failed, -and it became impossible for me to live in -England. I saw ruin staring me in the face. -I saw you, whom I wished never to be -troubled with sordid cares and anxieties, -growing up utterly unconscious of the kind of -lot that was hanging over you. I seemed to -see Avice, your sister, stinted of common -comforts, and perhaps reduced, as she grew -up, to earn her living as a governess, <em>she</em>—ordered -about by strange people, and breaking -her heart with fretting.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[146]</span></p> - -<p>‘Good God, sir! What must you have -gone through! And why did you not confide -in me? Anything in my power——’</p> - -<p>‘But there was nothing in your power—that -is exactly it. I did the only thing that -could be done. I looked my circumstances -full in the face, and the sight was not inspiriting. -Presently came a man with what -I wanted—money—any amount of money. -I—I sold Wellfield.’</p> - -<p>‘Sold it!’ echoed the young man, in a voice -of horror and incredulity combined, as he -started from his chair, and looked into his -father’s face. ‘You are dreaming. You -are delirious. Let me call Sister Ursula—you——’</p> - -<p>‘Sit down again!’ said his father, turning -upon him eyes so calm and lucid in their -perfect reasonableness and self-possession, that -Jerome felt his very heart give way within -him.</p> - -<p>This sin had been committed. He had -dreamed no ugly dream. He dropped into -his chair again, propped his head upon his - -<span class="pagenum">[147]</span> - -hands, and tried to take in what his father -went on to say.</p> - -<p>‘I sold it for forty thousand pounds to a -man called Bolton, who had a wild desire to -have it. He had some odd crotchet about it. -It was a dream of his to have the old -place——’</p> - -<p>‘But for you to dream of selling it,’ interrupted -the young man, with suppressed -passion.</p> - -<p>‘Needs must when the devil drives. Had -you been in my position—but there, I won’t -argue. I did it. I sold it. I invested the -money, and——’</p> - -<p>‘If the money is there, all is well,’ interrupted -Jerome, eagerly. ‘It can be bought -back again. That is what you mean, I -suppose. You want to explain why Avice -and I shall be poor and straitened after you -have gone. Never mind, sir; there will be -a pittance, I daresay. I am young. I can -work, and I will do so. When Wellfield is -ours again, we shall be content with very -little else. Do not reproach yourself.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[148]</span></p> - -<p>‘What are you talking about?’ retorted -the other in a voice almost of anger, and the -drops stood on his brow, for it was hard work -to brave it out. ‘Do you suppose I should -have made all this circumstance about it if -the money had been there? I tell you the -money is gone. It was invested—half in -mortgages, and half in the Mutual Liability -Bank of ——. The bank is gone—the -newspaper—this morning. It was there I -saw it—made me ill. The bank is limited, -but the other half—liable—ah!’</p> - -<p>His eyes closed; he sank back, his face -very pale. For a moment Jerome did not -move, but sat still, staring at the white face -with a blank, stupid gaze. Then he said, -quite audibly, for he had a vague impression -that his father was unconscious:</p> - -<p>‘Sold it! I would as soon have thought -of selling my wife or my sister.’</p> - -<p>‘Would you?’ replied his father, opening -his eyes unexpectedly upon Jerome. ‘When -misfortune has resulted from any course, it -is the easiest thing in the world to say you - -<span class="pagenum">[149]</span> - -would never have done it. Had I not done -it, you would have been a beggar years ago. -For purchasing you years of enjoyment and -prosperity, you reproach me. I have my -reward.’</p> - -<p>There was a flash in this of the more than -dissimilarity of tastes which had, <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">au fond</i>, -existed always between father and son—the -absolute antagonism—until now delicately -glazed over into a semblance of indifference, -but ready to burst forth the moment that -really deep feelings were touched.</p> - -<p>An angry, bitter retort was upon Jerome’s -tongue—the retort that his father, in purchasing -those ‘years of prosperity and -enjoyment,’ of which he made such a merit, -had incidentally purchased with them years -of something else—which years the young -man seemed to see now very clearly unrolling -themselves before him—drear and -bitter. But his father was about to leave the -world—there could be little doubt of that—and -there certainly was something in his -manner of doing it very strongly suggestive - -<span class="pagenum">[150]</span> - -of his having done the best for himself while -he lived—denied himself no luxury, made no -sacrifice, not even that very commonly -necessary sacrifice of early avowing an unpleasant -truth because it is right to do so—and -of his then quietly slipping away, and -leaving the son whom he had never accustomed -to work, and the daughter whom he -had taught to look upon luxury and refinement -as matters of course, to battle as best -they might with adverse circumstances. -This view of the case certainly did rush -very strongly over Jerome’s mind. His hot -southern blood drove some very bitter, sarcastic -comments to his lips; but suddenly -another feeling prevailed over them—a -feeling of cool, calm calculation; a sense -that there must be some way out of all this -coil, and a private resolve that this man who -had the Abbey now, should not keep it very -long. Mastering his hot and furious anger, -he said coldly:</p> - -<p>‘It would be useless to dispute the matter. -The damage, it appears, is done. Wellfield - -<span class="pagenum">[151]</span> - -has passed away from us, and the poor -money you got for it has passed away too. -But I suppose your affairs are in the hands -of some man of business?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes; Netley of Manchester knows all my -concerns. No doubt there will be a letter -from him immediately. He will have to -give you information, and settle it all -up.’</p> - -<p>‘Netley of Manchester!’ said Jerome, -deliberately making a note of it. ‘Where -does he live?’</p> - -<p>‘His offices are at 57, Canongate.’</p> - -<p>Another note. Then Jerome said:</p> - -<p>‘Have you any idea whether everything -will go—whether not even a pittance will be -left?—enough for Avice to live upon, while -I try to find something to do?’</p> - -<p>He spoke coldly and hardly, and in a -matter-of-fact tone; but as he uttered the -words, a vision rose before him of Sara -Ford; of her eyes, as he had whispered to -her, ‘And do you understand?’ He shivered -a little. Mr. Wellfield, too, was moved by - -<span class="pagenum">[152]</span> - -his words; by this stern bringing to reality -and commonplace of the whole affair. He -gave a slight groan as he turned his head -restlessly, saying:</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know. O God! I know nothing -about it. But’—his voice grew almost fierce—‘remember, -sir, as long as you have a -penny, your sister remains with you.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope I know my duty towards my -sister, sir, as well as you appear to have -known yours to your daughter,’ returned -Jerome, in a voice of some astringency; -‘and——’</p> - -<p>They had been parting words. The deathly -expression upon his father’s face alarmed -him. He rang the bell, and Sister Ursula -answered it. Restoratives were applied, but -in vain. The flame did not flicker up again. -In a very short time Jerome knew that the -face upon which he looked was dead—the -eternal repose had settled upon the features. -Clouds and tempests were over for him; -rocks and shoals of life beset the path of -him who was left. He who was taken had - -<span class="pagenum">[153]</span> - -slipped comfortably away. The pain of -want, of narrow circumstances, the smarting -for the sins of his fathers, had never been -his, nor the joy begotten of self-abnegation—the -peace that comes to one weary with a -burden gallantly borne.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>Jerome went into the salon again. The -lamp had been lighted. Avice sat on a -couch, her hands folded before her, her eyes -anxiously turned towards the door. She -sprang up as he came in.</p> - -<p>‘Jerome, is he better? Has he gone to -sleep?’</p> - -<p>‘He has gone to sleep, my love; but he -will never awaken again. He died just -now.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! is he dead?’</p> - -<p>She clung to him, looking up into his face, -in which she saw nothing but a pale, fixed -calmness.</p> - -<p>‘Dead, Avice. And you must brace yourself -up, and prepare for a trial, and that a -sore one. You asked me if we were rich, - -<span class="pagenum">[154]</span> - -dear, and I told you we had ample means. -It was not true, though I did not know it. -We have now either nothing, or next to -nothing. You asked me if we should go -back to Wellfield, and I promised that you -should soon go there. I cannot keep my -promise. Wellfield is no longer ours. We -have no home. To-morrow I will explain. -To-night I can only tell you the facts. You -said that your life had been happier since you -knew me. What do you say to your brother -and his kindness now?’</p> - -<p>Her eyes were eloquent as she looked up -at him, and said, gravely and calmly:</p> - -<p>‘I love my brother for trusting in me. -And he shall never hear a murmur from my -lips if he will continue to trust me and guide -me.’</p> - -<p>As they stood together, they kissed one -another with a kind of solemnity. Life was -changed, but they still remained to sustain -one another.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[155]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_VI"> - <img src="images/p155_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI. -<br><br> -<small>AVICE READS A CHAPTER OF A NEW BOOK.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p155_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">There</span> was no reason for, and no -wish to linger at Ems when the -necessary delay was over, and the -necessary business accomplished. In a week -from the time of Mr. Wellfield’s death, -Jerome and his sister proposed to leave the -place, on their way home. During this week, -Avice lived through more surprise, more -wonder, and more emotion, compressed into -seven short days, than had been contained -in seven long years of her former life.</p> - -<p>Her brother and his character formed to -her a strange new book, which she was never -weary of studying. The outside of that - -<span class="pagenum">[156]</span> - -book was of the most alluring character; -and she, of an intensely receptive nature, and -intensely sensitive, too, to beauty, delighted -in that fair outside, in those polished manners, -in the smooth, calm, composed demeanour. -She delighted to go out with Jerome, to -behold others turning to look at him; in -every proof that she was not alone in her -sense of being fascinated by him. They -naturally went out little during those days of -waiting; when they did go, they went alone -together, avoiding the crowded gardens and -the more public walks. They had, therefore, -ample opportunity of learning more of one -another; and perhaps each modified the -estimate already formed of the other’s character. -But the affection increased. In their -long walks to the <i xml:lang="it" lang="it"> Concordia</i>, or along the -white country roads, Jerome told her about -all their circumstances—told her he did not -know whether they would have any secure -income, even the smallest, upon which to -live; asked her if she could reconcile herself -to existence with him, perhaps in a back - -<span class="pagenum">[157]</span> - -parlour of some dingy town-lodgings. To -all of which questions her ‘yes, oh, yes!’ -leaped out with an eager readiness.</p> - -<p>‘Now I begin to see what papa meant -when he kept calling me a little interloper, -Jerome,’ she said one day. ‘If it were not -for me, how much easier everything would -be for you. I have heard that a man, alone, -need never fear anything, even starvation; -but that when he has a woman with him -it clogs him, and paralyses him, and unfits -him——’</p> - -<p>‘Hush, child!’ he said, putting his finger -on her lip, and smiling at the same time; -‘that is nothing less than blasphemy, and I -know where you learnt it.’</p> - -<p>Avice hung her head. Presently she -looked up again, remarking:</p> - -<p>‘Living with papa first, and then with you, -Jerome, is like going to school first with one -schoolmaster, and then with another; and one -uses the cane, and the other doesn’t.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it?’</p> - -<p>‘Sometimes, with papa, the sensation was - -<span class="pagenum">[158]</span> - -just like what I could imagine a child feeling -on being told, “Hold out your hand.” Horrible!’</p> - -<p>‘You don’t mean——’ he began sharply.</p> - -<p>‘That papa was cruel? Oh no! He -never meant to be, at any rate. I suppose -he could not help being cold and sarcastic -and severe in manner. What he hated most -was what he called drivelling sentimentality. -I always knew in an instant when I had said -something sentimental. And I think, as -long as I live, I shall never forget the tone -of his voice as he used to say, “That is -your view of the case, is it, mademoiselle? -Suppose we look at it in the light in which -persons of judgment will see it.” And then, -how foolish I was made to feel! Papa -certainly could put people down in a way I -never saw anyone else use.’</p> - -<p>She sighed, and Jerome smiled rather -bitterly, commiserating the young creature -who had been trained in such a school.</p> - -<p>‘She must be naturally gentle, I suppose, -or she would have been—good heavens! who - -<span class="pagenum">[159]</span> - -knows what she might have been at one-and-twenty?’</p> - -<p>He could not but see, however, that she -had much of his own intense fastidiousness, -and that she was proud, and that frequently a -flash of the sarcasm from which she had -suffered would appear in her own remarks. -And he was in despair at the prospect of the -future which lay before her. Avice herself -did not give much thought to that future. -She was happier in the present than she ever -had been before.</p> - -<p>The day came at last, the last day of their -stay at Ems. In the morning they were to -leave. Jerome strolled into their sitting-room -in the evening, and found Avice -there.</p> - -<p>‘<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Gott sei dank!</i>’ he remarked. ‘All the -dismissals are over.’</p> - -<p>He had been discharging his sister’s maid -and his father’s valet. For the future Avice -was to learn to mend and perhaps make her -own clothes, dress her own hair, and otherwise -become a useful and practical member -of society.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[160]</span></p> - -<p>‘Then they are gone, Jerome?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, they are gone.’</p> - -<p>‘Toinette came in floods of tears to say -adieu. “Ah, mademoiselle!” she exclaimed, -“when I reflect upon your hair, and your -desolation, without me, I am <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">près à -mourir</i>.”’</p> - -<p>‘She will soon console herself. She was -flirting atrociously with the porter when I -went downstairs.’</p> - -<p>‘And, Jerome, it has suddenly occurred to -me to ask you, at what hour do we start in -the morning, and by what route do we travel -to England?’</p> - -<p>There was a pause, as she looked at him, -and saw that her brother’s eyes were fixed -upon a book upon the table, and that there -was an expression in his face which she did -not quite understand. At last he raised his -eyes, and said, with, as she thought, some -little constraint:</p> - -<p>‘We must take the “cheapest and best” -route from the Continent, I suppose: -Cologne, Rotterdam, and Harwich. I am -sorry for you, my child, but——’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[161]</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh, sorry, nonsense! I am not made of -white sugar, Jerome. Then, at what time must -we leave? Shall I have to get up very early?’</p> - -<p>‘No earlier than usual, for I propose -breaking the journey, and staying all night -at Elberthal.’</p> - -<p>‘At Elberthal? Why there? It is not a -pretty town, and Cologne is far more interesting, -though I am tired of it.’</p> - -<p>‘I know Elberthal is not pretty. But -there is some one there whom I wish to see -before I go to England.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, is it anyone I know?’</p> - -<p>‘I think you have seen her once or twice. -It is Miss Sara Ford.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Ford!’ repeated Avice, not at the -first moment comprehending. ‘That beautiful -Miss Ford who was with the Countess of -Trockenau so often? Is she a friend——’</p> - -<p>Then, as she still continued looking at -Jerome, she understood in a moment, and -stopped abruptly. This was a new phase of -life, a fresh complication in her circumstances, -towards which her thoughts had - -<span class="pagenum">[162]</span> - -never before turned for a moment. For a -few moments she sat quite still, saying -nothing, pondering upon it; then, rising -quickly, she went to Jerome, and put her -arm round his neck.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Jerome,’ she murmured, in a half-tearful -voice, ‘how much you must have had -to suffer! I never knew till now what -“ruin” and having no money might mean.’</p> - -<p>He returned her kiss, saying gently, -‘Never mind, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Liebchen</i>! Things may turn -out well in the end. And meantime, before -we face Manchester and ruin, there is Elberthal -to be passed.’</p> - -<p>The following day they departed by the -afternoon boat from Ober-Lahnstein for -Cologne, thence to take the train to Elberthal. -It was a gorgeous afternoon, at the -very end of July. The sun was hot, the -river was smooth, the scenery was glowing, -the boat was full of gay parties of travellers -of all nations, when Wellfield and his sister -went upon it. A little after six they arrived -at Elberthal, and went to an hotel.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[163]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_VII"> - <img src="images/p163_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII. -<br><br> -<small>LIFE’S FULLEST STREAM.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p163_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">The</span> daylight lasts late in July. -Though growing dusk in the -house, it was yet broad daylight -on the balcony of the room in which Jerome -left his sister, when he set out to find Sara -Ford’s house. It was still broad daylight out -of doors, and the streets were thronged with -pleasure-seekers, and with the feet of those -on business intent. He had Sara’s address—Jägerstrasse, -No. 42. He inquired the -way there, and was directed to go through -a pleasant green Hofgarten, whose cool -avenues and great trees were just now -glorified by the yellow rays of the setting - -<span class="pagenum">[164]</span> - -sun. Somewhere, in the direction of that -setting sun, he knew the Rhine wandered by -the town. He had heard Sara describe how -broad and strong was its course just there, -and what a fascination it had for her, despite -the unpicturesque, low, flat banks on either -side. As he went along, his heart was light, -despite the heavy load of cares and anxiety -which hung over him.</p> - -<p>Sounds of music or singing greeted him -wherever he went, as they do in those -homely continental towns devoted to art and -to sentiment. There was a pleasant, homely -bustle going on. The town was small. One -could not easily have lost oneself in it. To -find the Jägerstrasse was no difficult matter, -and once there it was easier still to discover -No. 42, which was a great white house of -many stories, with an arched passage running -through it from front to back, and heavy iron -gates, at present thrown back. He went into -the passage, and to the side door, which had -the names of the different inhabitants put -up. ‘Miss S. Ford, <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">2te Etage</i>,’ he read, and - -<span class="pagenum">[165]</span> - -pulled the bell twice. His summons was -presently answered by a middle-aged woman -with a strong, sensible, good English face, -about whose whole aspect there was a -harmony, and in whose dress there was an -appropriateness and suitability which were -nothing short of admirable.</p> - -<p>‘Is Miss Ford at home?’ he asked, like -one in a dream; for, up to the moment of -pulling the bell, he had been engaged in a -puzzling mental debate as to whether he -ought or ought not to come—whether duty -did not clearly indicate the preferableness -of bringing his sister with him, or sending -a note to Miss Ford, and not calling -at all.</p> - -<p>He was not in the habit of having difficult -and delicate questions of this kind to decide, -and he had dallied with this one until the -second had arrived in which he must either -pull the bell, and go in and see her, or turn -back, and go away without seeing her. At -which moment the latter alternative had -appeared so horrible that he had lost not - -<span class="pagenum">[166]</span> - -an instant in availing himself of the former -one.</p> - -<p>Miss Ford was at home. She had returned -yesterday, said the woman, and asked -him to come upstairs, taking the card he -offered her, as she spoke. He accordingly -followed her till she threw open a door, and -entered a room where it seemed twilight; for -it faced due south, and there was only a pale -reflection to be seen of the westerly glow.</p> - -<p>In the window, in a large lounging chair, -he saw a woman’s figure, in a light dress, -which figure had a book in its hands, and -leaned towards the light as if to catch ‘the -last pale beam of even.’ He saw how -she turned as her servant gave her his card, -took it, read it, and rose. Then—he did not -quite know how it was—they were alone, -standing hand in hand, looking at one -another, speechless. In the suddenness and -the greatness of the joy of meeting, they -could not be conventional. They failed -entirely to use the requisite words of polite -surprise and delight which, if promptly - -<span class="pagenum">[167]</span> - -uttered, conceal so many a throb of joy—so -many a spasm of pain. The ‘Really, what a -surprise! Where do you come from?’ The -answering, ‘Passing through on my way to -England, and could not resist the pleasure of -calling’—none of it all was forthcoming. -The surprise on her side was too real, the -joy on both too intense, to leave room for any -of those prettinesses.</p> - -<p>Jerome, looking at her in the softened, yet -still clear light, thought he had never seen -anything half so beautiful, as she stood with -her hand in his, and her eyes fixed with -something like fascination in their gaze upon -his face. At last, he put his other hand upon -hers; and her gaze could no longer meet his -deep look, as he said, in a low voice:</p> - -<p>‘Then you are not displeased with me for -coming? You are glad to see me?’</p> - -<p>‘Very glad,’ she replied, in a lower tone -still. But it was as if, with the actual sound -of his voice and her own, her presence of -mind deserted her. She felt herself begin to -tremble. Withdrawing her hand from his, - -<span class="pagenum">[168]</span> - -she sank down again upon her chair, and -pointed to one beside her, saying, hesitatingly:</p> - -<p>‘You have left Ems suddenly. I—I -heard of your father’s death, before I left -Trockenau. I did not like to intrude or—or -I would have written; but——’</p> - -<p>‘But you have thought of me?’ he said, -looking intently at her half-averted face.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I thought of you,’ replied Sara.</p> - -<p>‘I hoped you would, though I do not -deserve that you should. I must explain -why I called. I am on my way home—to -England, that is, with my sister. I have to go -to look after my affairs, such as they are. You -said, when you were talking at Trockenau, -that you would allow me to call when I -passed through Elberthal. Miss Ford—I——’</p> - -<p>‘You—yes?’ she asked, for he had paused.</p> - -<p>‘I have fought a desperate battle with -myself, to know whether I ought to do what -I most desired to do—whether I ought to -call upon you or not.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[169]</span></p> - -<p>‘Whether you ought. Why not? I do -not understand——’</p> - -<p>‘Hear me out!’ he exclaimed; and when -he had spoken those words, he knew that he -must tell her all. There was now no alternative, -in honour and honesty, and he felt a -kind of rejoicing, as if he had won a battle, -nor paused any longer to reflect upon the -means by which it had been gained.</p> - -<p>‘And first,’ he added, rising, and standing -before her in the window, looking into her -upturned, wondering face, ‘first let me tell -you, a great change has come over my whole -life. It will never be what I had once hoped -for. With my father’s death I have had to -awaken to disagreeable facts. I find myself -a ruined man.’</p> - -<p>‘Ruined?’ echoed Sara, vaguely, hanging -on his words, which came rapidly now, and -with a sort of terse, restrained impetuosity. -‘Ruined, Mr. Wellfield?’</p> - -<p>‘Exactly so. I will not trouble you by -going into details of the matter. The simple -fact is that I have been living under a - -<span class="pagenum">[170]</span> - -delusion. I have never imagined myself -in any other circumstances than those in -which I have always been nurtured. One’s -thoughts turn to the future sometimes, and -in youth often and glowingly, I think. So -did mine. I was no exception to the rule. -Believe me, I never calculated on my father’s -death. That I can say honestly——’</p> - -<p>‘No, I am sure of it.’</p> - -<p>‘But I should have been more than -human had the thought never crossed my -mind that after his death I should be richer -than I had been—should have more at my -disposal, and should be able more freely to -follow the bent of my own tastes and desires. -He never gave me the least hint that there -was anything false in such an idea. I have -told you of Wellfield—of my old home, to -which I had hoped, more than I knew myself, -to succeed. Lately I had thought of it far -more than formerly, and had imagined myself -very happy there. It is no longer mine. -My father, it seems, sold the place years ago, -and the estate with it, in consequence of his - -<span class="pagenum">[171]</span> - -own money embarrassments. His speculations -have turned out badly, it seems. No -need to relate how. The money he received -for his father’s house, and the estate they had -lived upon, is gone—utterly gone. It was -the shock of hearing suddenly of this which -brought on the attack of which he died. He -had time to tell me the worst—that I was -houseless, homeless, it may be penniless—this -he told me, advised me to settle things -as well as I could, and then he died.’</p> - -<p>There was a concentrated bitterness in his -voice; a contempt which broke through the -calm, soft tones in which he spoke, and -which revealed to his listener an entirely new -side of his character. He said no word of -blame regarding his father, but none the -less was the blame there—trenchant and -biting, if unspoken.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Mr. Wellfield!’ was all she could say, -‘your trials have indeed been hard. I knew -nothing of this.’</p> - -<p>‘No. And perhaps you are wondering -why I should trouble you with the tale, and - -<span class="pagenum">[172]</span> - -thinking that it could be no possible concern -of yours——Forgive me,’ he added, in the -same low but vehement voice, as he came -nearer to her, and bent over her chair, ‘I -have no right—I have told you all this story -to show you how destitute I am of all right -to speak to you; but when I first met you—when -you roused me from my selfish self-satisfaction, -and I learned to love and -worship you, as I had never imagined that I -could worship, then I believed that I had to -offer you, not only my whole heart and my -entire devotion, but other things not utterly -unworthy of your just claims; I believed -that I could surround you, as I should have -delighted in doing, with every outward sign -of the love I bore you. All that is gone, -and in its going has carried with it my -hope; for it would be insult for me to ask -your love when I have just learnt that I am -a pauper. But I am not ashamed that you -should know I did love you. Good God! did -love you—that I <em>do</em> love you! That passion -masters me yet, and always will master me. - -<span class="pagenum">[173]</span> - -Nay, do not speak, do not rebuke me, and -yet—yes, tell me,’ he cried, taking her hand, -‘tell me if you ever could have returned that -love of mine, if I——’</p> - -<p>He paused a moment, for he had seen her -face. For one moment he felt as if the -riches of the world were his—as if nothing -could matter now; a triumph, a pride which -no adversity could tame. Let what might -happen. Let him be in rags, and begging -his bread; be compelled to stand aside and -see other men surround her and court her, -he knew now that other eyes she would meet -with a proud indifference, let their power be -what it might; but that his, let his station -sink as low as it might, his could subdue -her.</p> - -<p>‘Sara!’ All the fire of his mother’s land -was in his eyes, and all its voluptuous music -in his voice. ‘You love me. You do not -speak, but you tell me so. Look at me! -Let me see it in your eyes once again, Sara, -my love!’</p> - -<p>There was exultation in his voice, and the - -<span class="pagenum">[174]</span> - -exultation thrilled her. His passion over-mastered -her, and almost terrified her, and -yet it was rapture such as she had never -dreamed of. Earth and heaven, with their -deepest secrets, seemed suddenly opened to -her—a flood of light over all.</p> - -<p>‘Look at me!’ he exclaimed again, and it -was more of a command than an entreaty.</p> - -<p>‘Jerome!’ she said faintly, as he took her -hands with gentle violence from before her -face, and knelt on one knee beside her chair -to do so. His ‘Look at me!’ rang in her -ears; his eyes, which she felt were fixed -upon her, attracted her irresistibly. Why -was she so reluctant, so fearful of looking -up? Perhaps because she knew that when -their glances met her last power of concealment -or resistance would be gone.</p> - -<p>‘Sara!’ he whispered, and his voice, so -near and so impassioned, at last compelled -the look he demanded. Was it rapture, or -was it pain—an agony of pain—that she felt? -Was it the anguish of having to confess that -she was mastered, conquered? She did not - -<span class="pagenum">[175]</span> - -know. As he clasped her in his arms, and -pressed his lips upon her lips, and kissed her -cheek, her hair, her closed eyes, she felt that -it might be heaven indeed, but that her heart -was breaking with the greatness of her joy. -Perhaps to reach heaven—to finally pass -through its inner portals—a heartbreak might -be necessary.</p> - -<p>‘Do you remember when I was singing at -Trockenau, and the countess thought I did it -to oblige her?’ he asked presently.</p> - -<p>‘Do I remember, Jerome? Shall I ever -forget it? I have listened to no singing -since. I could not, and would not.’</p> - -<p>‘I sang <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Adeläida</i>, if you remember?’ he -said, but his eyes dwelt upon her face with -an intentness which she felt to be almost -tyrannous.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, and you sang “<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Ich grolle nicht</i>.” -Why did you sing that?’ she said, with a -kind of faint shudder. ‘It is such a terrible -song.’</p> - -<p>‘Why—I do not know. But tell me, was -I right to come to-night?’ he asked, persuasively. - -<span class="pagenum">[176]</span> - -‘I fought a long battle with -myself, as I told you. I was undecided up -to the very moment of entering the house.’</p> - -<p>‘Right, yes! I say you were right, at -least. What if you had gone to England -without coming? What if I had never -known—oh, Jerome, it is horrible to think -of!’</p> - -<p>‘For me! I feel that I came to you a -beggar, and that I sit here a king, and with -more than a king’s riches. I cannot -repent.’</p> - -<p>‘Did you think there was something -wrong in it?’ she asked, anxiously.</p> - -<p>‘Wrong, no! Is it wrong to love the sun, -and to go by preference where he shines? -What I felt to be wrong was my coming to -monopolise you—if I could persuade you to -be monopolised by me—just when I have -the least right to do so—when I can only -say, “I love you, and always shall love you,” -but cannot say, “Come and be my wife at -once.”’</p> - -<p>‘Knowing that you love me, I can wait,’ - -<span class="pagenum">[177]</span> - -she answered. ‘Surely, the highest and best -kind of love is that which sustains us through -waiting and trouble—not that hideous parody -of love which must not be spoken unless the -lover can say at one and the same time, “I -love you—I have got a house for you, and -enough money to keep you—will you marry -me?”’</p> - -<p>‘Rampant philistinism!’ said Jerome. ‘I -had no idea before, that I had so much of it -in me. You read me a lesson.’</p> - -<p>‘I will never believe but that your love is -of a different fibre to that, Jerome. Never -reproach yourself with having stolen a march -upon me; but think rather that you have -done a good deed in giving me the right not -only to share all your hopes and fears, but to -say that I share them, and to own to you -that your joy is my joy, and your sorrow my -sorrow.’</p> - -<p>He had not seen the case in that aspect -before, but he did not say so. The incense -she burnt before him, of love and a subtle -flattery, was sweet. It intoxicated him. - -<span class="pagenum">[178]</span> - -From his education and surroundings, he was -incapable of telling himself that he was -‘taking pity’ on any woman. No vulgar -parade of the love she felt for him was -possible; but at the same time his most -intense consciousness at this moment was, -not that a proud, and noble, and good, and -beautiful woman had given her happiness -into his keeping, but that he had been right, -she had loved him—he could bend her to his -will.</p> - -<p>Sara broke the pause which ensued by -suddenly asking:</p> - -<p>‘Where is your sister? Tell me about -her. What is she going to do while you are -settling all your difficulties at home?’</p> - -<p>‘I left her at the Breidenbacher Hof. -Yes, she is with me—my poor little Avice! -What will become of her in England—in -Manchester perhaps, in the smoke and fog, -while I am cooling my heels in a lawyer’s -office?—for there will be no hurry about -attending to my behests, my love. What -she will be amusing herself with while I am - -<span class="pagenum">[179]</span> - -agreeably engaged in learning how much we -have left to starve upon, I do not know.’</p> - -<p>‘Make me a promise!’ said Sara. ‘Show -your devotion and your confidence by an -unconditional promise at this very moment.’</p> - -<p>‘I promise, blindly, to do as you command.’</p> - -<p>‘Then I command you to leave your sister -here with me, while you go home. When you -are perfectly satisfied that you have found a -place for her, such as you would wish her to -be in, then you can come over here and -fetch her. Till then, let her remain with -me, and try whether she can learn to be -my sister.’</p> - -<p>‘Sara, you must be inspired, I believe,’ -exclaimed Jerome. ‘I could have asked no -better boon—none as good, for her and for -me. I will not deprecate such generosity. -I take you at your word. Teach her only to -be a little like yourself, and I shall find her -perfect.’</p> - -<p>‘You will bring her to me to-morrow -morning, will you not, before you go away? - -<span class="pagenum">[180]</span> - -What a joy it will be to have her! I know -I shall love her, and I think I can make her -love me; and it will bind your thoughts the -faster to Elberthal,’ she added, looking at -him with a tender smile.</p> - -<p>Jerome took one of her hands, and sat -with it in his, as Sara closed her eyes, and -leaned back in her chair, wearied with the -excess of emotion she had gone through.</p> - -<p>‘God knows, it is a wrench though, to -find all this wealth of love to-night, and to -have to leave it in the morning,’ muttered -Jerome, darkly.</p> - -<p>‘God knows, it is!’ echoed Sara.</p> - -<p>‘I have an undercurrent of feeling,’ he -went on, ‘which makes me almost wish I -had never crossed your path, nor linked -your lot with mine. The whole future is -so dark and troubled. You were so happy -and at peace, and your art was all in all to -you.’</p> - -<p>‘And you think now, I suppose, that you -will dethrone my art. I think not, Jerome,’ -she answered, smiling rather proudly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[181]</span></p> - -<p>‘Ah, you challenge me!’ said he, smiling -also, rather mournfully. ‘Never forsake -your art for me, Sara, for I am not worth -it.’</p> - -<p>‘You are worthy my best and deepest -love, and I shall give it to you,’ she said, -almost passionately. ‘Jerome, do not trouble -this night with these dark forebodings, and -this self-depreciation. It is something new -in you. I never imagined you troubled with -doubts or difficulties.’</p> - -<p>He made no answer, and they sat on thus -in silence for a long time, until at last he -rose.</p> - -<p>‘I must go to Avice,’ he said. ‘Good-night, -my love.’</p> - -<p>Long after he had gone, Sara sat in her -low chair, unseeing the considerate glances -cast towards her by Mrs. Nelson. She sat, -trying to analyse her own sensations—trying -to discover whether the happiness or the -trouble at her heart was greatest. Once or -twice lately, she had thought that could she -but know certainly that he loved her, or - -<span class="pagenum">[182]</span> - -did not love her, she would at least have -rest in the knowledge. Now, the knowledge -was hers—his love was hers. But with love, -not calm, but the very reverse, had come.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[183]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_VIII"> - <img src="images/p183_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII. -<br><br> -<small>‘CONTENT THEE WITH ONE BITTER WORD, <br>ADIEU!’</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p183_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">The</span> morning came, and with it, -according to his promise, Jerome -came to breakfast, bringing Avice -with him. ‘Try to persuade her to be -pleased to stay with me,’ Sara had said to -him, to which he had naturally replied by an -emphatic wonder as to what else than -pleasure his sister possibly could feel at the -prospect.</p> - -<p>Sara was restless that morning. She -wandered from her studio to her sitting-room, -and back to her studio again. She -had told Ellen that the gentleman who - -<span class="pagenum">[184]</span> - -had called last night would come to breakfast -with his sister, and Mrs. Nelson had busied -herself in preparing as <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">recherché</i> a repast as -possible, placing fresh flowers on the table, -and making everything look bright and -festive.</p> - -<p>‘The gentleman was English, wasn’t he, -Miss Sara?’ she asked.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, he was—is, I mean.’</p> - -<p>‘Then we’ll show him that we know how -to serve an English breakfast, nice, and -bright, and choice; rather different from -their pots of butter, and baskets of cobs, -and a table-cloth, and a coffee-machine—that’s -about all they give you for breakfast in these -parts,’ said Mrs. Nelson, resentfully, for she -had never got over the disgust she had -experienced in partaking for the first time, -and seeing her young lady partake, of a -German breakfast, in the native boarding-house -style.</p> - -<p>Accordingly, the breakfast-table, in the -shady corner of the room, was a refreshing -spectacle; but Mrs. Nelson’s eyes, despite - -<span class="pagenum">[185]</span> - -her seeming engrossment in her work, kept -wandering towards her mistress, whose restlessness -she had not failed to observe.</p> - -<p>‘Only the gentleman and his sister, Miss -Ford?’ she asked tentatively.</p> - -<p>‘Yes. And—Ellen!’</p> - -<p>‘Ma’am?’</p> - -<p>‘I want you to like Miss Wellfield very -much, for she is coming to stay with me, for -several months, at least.’</p> - -<p>‘Is she, ma’am? About how old is the -young lady?’</p> - -<p>‘About sixteen. Ellen, you know how -I trust your judgment—what confidence I -have in you?’</p> - -<p>‘You have often proved it, Miss Sara, -and I hope I shall always deserve it.’</p> - -<p>‘I know you will. Well, you will wait -upon us at breakfast, and I wish you to -notice both Mr. Wellfield and his sister well. -I want your opinion about them.’</p> - -<p>‘I will do so, Miss Sara,’ said Mrs. -Nelson, to whom such proofs of confidence -on her mistress’s part were by no means - -<span class="pagenum">[186]</span> - -new. She had been the girl’s closest attendant, -most faithful servant, and most -trusty friend from her earliest infancy. Mrs. -Ford had committed her child to Ellen’s care -on her death-bed. She loved her lady with -the devotion of a mother, and with the dog-like -fidelity, as well, of an old, trusty, conservative -retainer. Sara was accustomed to -consult her upon all imaginable matters, save -only those concerning the toilette, in which, -she told Ellen, her tastes inclined to the -sombre, ‘to the good, old-fashioned dining-room -furniture style, Ellen. Your dress -always reminds me of maroon rep curtains.’ -Ellen knew as well as a woman can know, -that there must be something between her -mistress and this Mr. Wellfield of the nature -of a love-affair. How far it had gone, she -did not know. She shrewdly suspected that, -sooner or later, she would hear more on the -subject. It pleased Sara to enlighten her, at -the present moment, on another point.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Wellfield has had a great misfortune -lately,’ she said. ‘His father is dead, and he - -<span class="pagenum">[187]</span> - -has lost his whole property and estate. He -does not know what he may have to live -upon, or if anything will be left. He is -going to England to settle his affairs, and I -have invited Miss Wellfield to stay with me -in the meantime.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, ma’am,’ Ellen had just replied, when -the two rings, following quickly one upon the -other, announced the expected visitors. -Ellen went downstairs to admit them. Sara -paced up and down her parlour, thrilling -with the sensation that Jerome was far more -formidable now, when he had her secret in -his keeping, than before, when at best he -could only have guessed it.</p> - -<p>They stood within the room. Sara felt -her heart beating and her eyes swimming, but -she discovered where Avice stood, and -holding out her arms said, in a faltering -voice:</p> - -<p>‘Has he told you? Will you come to -me?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, how good you are!’ sobbed the girl, -springing forward, throwing her arms about - -<span class="pagenum">[188]</span> - -her neck, and hiding her face on her shoulder. -‘How very good you are!’</p> - -<p>That was a pleasant meal, despite the -cloud which hung over them, despite the -unwelcome nature of Jerome’s errand to -Manchester. It was a pleasant, and almost -merry meal; and yet a nervous one, as the -minutes flew relentlessly by, and the time -for departure approached more inevitably.</p> - -<p>‘I must see your atelier before I go. I -came here on purpose, you know,’ said -Jerome; ‘and we must go now,’ he added, -looking at his watch, ‘for my time is -short.’</p> - -<p>They were alone in the studio. It was -light, but sunless, for it faced north. It was -bare, and yet furnished, like all studios. Two -or three easels stood about—a number of -unfinished canvases—some of the plaster -masks and casts known as ‘gyps;’ and on a -pedestal, a great jar of the blue and grey -pottery they make about Coblenz, full of -roses.</p> - -<p>Jerome saw them. ‘I must have one - -<span class="pagenum">[189]</span> - -of these,’ said he, turning the jar round. -‘Here is one—this Gloire de Dijon—more -than a bud, but not yet fully blown. -That is when a rose is more beautiful than -at any other time. It is just like you,’ he -added, drawing it from the jar, and shaking -the water from it. ‘And now, Sara, what of -the future?’ he added, drawing her to him. -‘Why do you always look at me as if you -were half-afraid of me?’ he added, gazing -down into her fascinated eyes. ‘Avice never -does. Yours is not “perfect love” if it has -not cast out fear.’</p> - -<p>‘Avice—you will never have the same -rights over Avice that you have already over -me,’ she replied, tremulously.</p> - -<p>Jerome smiled. The sensation he felt was -not one of displeasure. How rapidly his -nature had developed during the last six -weeks, he little knew. His former cool indifference -to most women had passed into passionate -love for one—he did know that. -What he did not know was that his love was -of the masterful kind, not only delighting - -<span class="pagenum">[190]</span> - -to inspire devotion, but loving to subdue. -He had said, ‘Why do you look half-afraid -of me?’ in an almost reproachful tone, but in -his own mind he did not reproach her with -that shade of fear, or anxiety, or whatever it -might be. He did not understand the weight -and the force of her nature. He measured -what was not shown of it by what was—her -utmost capacities by the devotion and humility -of her love for him. He knew from a -thousand signs and tokens that she was -proud to an exceeding degree, and sometimes -imperious. The knowledge that he had -tamed her, and the deprecating look which -told him that here he was supreme, was sweet—boundlessly -sweet. He would have given -worlds for a week to spare here—a week in -which to inhale these fumes of sweet-smelling -incense.</p> - -<p>‘What claims have I over you, that I have -not over my sister?’ he asked, smiling still, -looking down into her troubled grey eyes -with the look which had haunted her ever -since the first time she had met it. ‘Legally, - -<span class="pagenum">[191]</span> - -I have far fewer claims, for until Avice is of -age, she is as much in my power as if I were -her father; whereas you——’</p> - -<p>‘I did not mean legally. I meant morally, -of course; the rights that love gives, Jerome—the -right to my thoughts and wishes, and life -and hopes.’</p> - -<p>‘You have the same rights over me,’ he -said.</p> - -<p>‘And yet you do not look afraid of me, you -mean. It is different, Jerome. Not that I -am really afraid of you,’ she added, looking -up more confidently. ‘And you said something -about the future,’ she went on, as her -fingers played with the little locket and ring -which hung at his watchguard.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, about the future—yes. Will you -trust me, and wait?’</p> - -<p>‘Through everything, Jerome, most implicitly,’ -she replied, and this time there was -no wavering in the glance which met his, -full, open, and candid.</p> - -<p>‘And would you prefer it to be kept quiet, -or made known?’ he added; ‘because I - -<span class="pagenum">[192]</span> - -wish to do exactly as you please in the -matter.’</p> - -<p>‘Let us not mention it,’ she replied slowly, -and with downcast eyes. ‘My friends are -very few, Jerome. Let us have the comfort—you -and Avice and me—of keeping it quite -to ourselves. I hate to think of people speculating -about it.’</p> - -<p>‘As you will. But suppose—how shall I -put it? If it is imagined that you are free—Sara, -you must know it is most improbable -that no other man will ever wish to win you. -Some one is sure to fall in love with you, and -then——’</p> - -<p>‘It is most unlikely—most improbable,’ she -began, with a deep flush.</p> - -<p>‘That any other man in existence should -have the bad taste to admire what I have -found so perfect and so desirable,’ he said, -sarcastically.</p> - -<p>‘My life is so quiet. I go out so little. -Now, with Avice as my companion, and you -to think of, I shall go still less.’</p> - -<p>‘That is sophistry, Sara. Look at me, and - -<span class="pagenum">[193]</span> - -tell me you honestly believe that, if you are -supposed to be free, no man will ever care for -you again?’</p> - -<p>‘You are cruel to press it so. If such a -thing should happen, it will not be my fault, -and I should know how to set him right on -the subject,’ she said, proudly.</p> - -<p>‘Well—so be it! And now, my love, it -must be good-bye, for my time is growing -very short. Stay!’ he added, and he unfastened -from his watchguard a little ring which -hung to it. ‘This was my mother’s betrothal -ring. Take it from me, in token that you -are mine, and I am yours.’</p> - -<p>He slipped it upon her finger. It was a -hoop of sapphires—the stones which are emblematic -of steadfastness and faith, and it -had been given by his father to his mother. -With that he took her in his arms, and kissed -her good-bye in a long, sorrowful kiss; then -loosed her and took her to a chair.</p> - -<p>‘Stay there,’ said he. ‘It will only make -it worse if you come out. I will send Avice -to you.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[194]</span></p> - -<p>He was gone. She knew nothing more -until she felt another pair of arms about her -neck, and heard Avice’s voice choked with -tears:</p> - -<p>‘He has gone! What shall I do? Oh -Jerome, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">mein</i> Jerome!’</p> - -<p>Then her own tears were loosened. The -girls wept in one another’s arms, and were -comforted.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[195]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_IX"> - <img src="images/p195_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX. -<br><br> -<small>ELLEN’S OPINION.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p195_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">It</span> was not until night, after Avice, -wearied with sorrow and excitement, -had gone to bed, that Sara, -calling Mrs. Nelson to her, said:</p> - -<p>‘Well, Ellen, what do you think of my -new arrangement? Are you pleased to have -Miss Wellfield here?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, indeed, ma’am. I never saw a -sweeter young lady, nor one that was more -of a real lady. She’s one that it will be a -pleasure to serve.’</p> - -<p>‘That is well, and I quite agree with you. -And—Mr. Wellfield?’</p> - -<p>There was a pause before Ellen said: ‘It -is much more difficult to judge of a gentleman, - -<span class="pagenum">[196]</span> - -on the spot as it were; and for a woman, -too. And then he is so much older.’</p> - -<p>‘I know. But you must have formed -some opinion of him, Ellen. We never see -anyone strange without some impression -being made on our minds.’</p> - -<p>‘He is a noble-looking gentleman,’ said -Ellen, slowly. ‘What piercing dark eyes he -has; and such a presence, and such a voice—such -an air, Miss Sara, if I might say so. -One does not often see such gentlemen, -and——’</p> - -<p>‘Well, Ellen?’ said her mistress, resting -her chin upon her hand, and looking fixedly -at her, while her heart throbbed. Was he not -all that, and more?</p> - -<p>‘I was thinking—Miss Sara, you must -not think me impertinent. You are like my -child, you know.’</p> - -<p>‘I know it. Go on.’</p> - -<p>‘I was thinking that he has a way and a -look with him that must make it hard for any -woman to withstand him, supposing he were -making love to her.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[197]</span></p> - -<p>‘And is that all?’ Sara asked, almost -indignantly; her heart falling, though she -was herself at the moment so strongly under -the influence of that ‘way’ and that ‘look’—though -he had been making love to her, -and she had found resistance swept away -like a straw down a strong current. ‘Is -that all? Ellen, you know you are -evading my questions. You know that I -want to know whether he looked high-minded -and good.’</p> - -<p>‘And that is just what I cannot say, my -dear. I cannot tell. He looks splendid—I -know that. He looks a gentleman, and a very -grand gentleman. And I saw nothing to -make me think he would not be good. But, -since you will know all, Miss Sara, I thought -there was a look about his lips, as if he could -be cruel on occasion.’</p> - -<p>‘Cruel, Ellen? What do you mean?’</p> - -<p>‘Nay, don’t look at me in that way, ma’am! -You would make me speak, and I’m bound -to tell the truth, I don’t mean that he -looked as if he would hurt an animal, or wilfully - -<span class="pagenum">[198]</span> - -torment anything, but he looked to me -as if, supposing he was hard pressed, for -instance, he could be cruel, and unscrupulous—as -if he would gain his end, choose what -he had to do to get to it.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ said Sara, with a somewhat nervous -laugh, ‘you mean that he has a very strong -will. I hope indeed that he has, Ellen, for -he will need it, I assure you.’</p> - -<p>‘Then I am very glad he <em>is</em> determined,’ -answered Ellen, briskly, as if anxious to have -the subject disposed of. And Sara did not -resume it, but she was that night in no -humour for either work or play. She sat in -her easy-chair beside the table on which -stood her lamp, and thought and pondered -until her brain seemed to ache.</p> - -<p>Where was he now? How far advanced -on his dreary way to England and Manchester? -She knew nothing of the north of -England. She only knew that Wellfield, -where his lost home was, was in the north-east -corner of the great manufacturing county, -and that (so he had told her) it was a lovely - -<span class="pagenum">[199]</span> - -and fertile spot, surrounded on one side by -bleak Yorkshire moors, and on others by -great grimy manufacturing towns. Of course -she had heard of the north of England towns, -had met people who came from them, had -passed through some of them years ago, on -her way to Scotland with her father; but all -that region was a great unknown land to her, -with, as it seemed, the one exception of -Wellfield, which she had found upon an -ordnance map, and had pictured in her heart, -until it took up a great space in her imagination; -and for her ‘the north’ as applied to -England, meant Wellfield. A ridiculous -mental position no doubt, but one not entirely -without precedent.</p> - -<p>Well, she thought, he would soon be there. -He had told her he intended to go to see the -old place once again. Mr. Bolton, the new -owner, would not be so churlish as to refuse -him that grace. And he had promised to -write and tell her about it.</p> - -<p>‘Cruel?’ she thought, reflecting upon Ellen’s -words. ‘I suppose that means resolute. - -<span class="pagenum">[200]</span> - -People sometimes have to be almost cruel. -It is often apparent cruelty which is really -the greatest kindness. Jerome could be most -determined, I am certain. I have noticed a -change myself, since—since his trouble. I -daresay he could even be what Ellen would -imagine cruel; but if so, it would be because -he thought it right.’</p> - -<p>Meditating upon this thought and variations -of it, she sat until far in the night.</p> - -<p>It was several days before the two girls -heard anything of Jerome, and meantime -they were able to become better acquainted -with one another. Sara was predisposed to -love Avice, first because of her charming -appearance, and next because she was -Jerome’s sister. As time went on, the qualities, -mental and moral, of her new sister -made her love her for herself. Avice at first -stood in a little awe of Miss Ford, of her -grand manner, and of her indifferent way of -speaking of things which many persons, and -most women especially, thought of the first -importance. But very soon Sara’s great - -<span class="pagenum">[201]</span> - -heart and large benevolent woman’s nature -fascinated the younger girl. The whole -character of this new friend was so utterly -different from the character which had -hitherto overshadowed and stunted hers, that -very soon the joy of the new influence pervaded -her whole nature. Here every power -was encouraged to expand to its utmost—here -the cold question, ‘What will persons of -judgment say to it?’ was never asked; only -the question, ‘Is it right or wrong?’ or, by -preference, ‘Is it good and noble, or bad and -base?’ Things were looked at as they were, -not as the world preferred to see them. Here -was liberty in the most alluring guise—that -of a beautiful woman who loved all things -pure and of good report. Avice very soon -began to worship her new guardian.</p> - -<p>When at last the first letter from Jerome -arrived, there was little in it of actual news. -He wrote from the house of Mr. Netley, his -father’s solicitor, and said he had only just -arrived there.</p> - -<p>‘I found one of his clerks waiting for me - -<span class="pagenum">[202]</span> - -with an invitation to go to his house, and stay -there until this business is settled and the -worst known. I therefore drove straight up -to his place, which is three or four miles out -of town; and I am writing this before dinner, -while I wait for his return from business. -But I could not wait when once there was -a chance of writing to you.</p> - -<p>‘This Cottonopolis is a dismal hole—but -such a rush along the streets. Such earnest, -intent, money-making faces; shrewd, hard -and ugly for the most part. As their -owners bustle along the streets, I feel as if I -were a member of an extinct species, suddenly -resuscitated and plunged into the whirl -of the working half of the nineteenth century—and -I look the thing every inch, I don’t -doubt. I will write to-morrow as soon as -ever I have had a conversation with Mr. -Netley, and know my way a little better.’</p> - -<p>He asked her to address everything for -the present to Mr. Netley’s offices, at 57, -Canongate. And he added that he had -rejoiced every hour since his arrival in - -<span class="pagenum">[203]</span> - -England, to know that Avice was where she -was. ‘Not here—I do not know what would -have become of her here. I think of you -both, constantly, and the thought is as it -were a light unto my feet and a lamp unto -my path. With it, Sara, there may be -poverty and sorrow to contend with, but -there will always be something to live for -and something to hope for. And I say again, -“God bless you!”’</p> - -<p>With the receipt of this letter it was as if -one stage of a journey had come to an end. -The door of a former life of luxury and careless -ease had been closed and barred, and -before them all lay a rugged path to be travelled, -and moreover the light that shone -upon it was so vague and uncertain that it -was difficult to follow in its windings.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[204]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_I"> - <img src="images/p204_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> -<p class="xxxlarge center"><b>STAGE II.</b></p> -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/leaves_rule.png" width="250" height="45" alt="Decorated -First Letter"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I. -<br><br> -<small>WHAT MR. NETLEY SAID.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p204_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">A LONG</span>, dree journey by that very -unsavoury route to and from the -Continent—Rotterdam and Harwich—and -Jerome Wellfield, on the morning -after his parting from his sister and sweetheart, -found himself in London. He had -nothing to do there—no business in the great -city—no means, no right to take any pleasure -in the same. He made his way from the -Liverpool Street Station to that at Euston -Square, where he found he had some two - -<span class="pagenum">[205]</span> - -hours to wait before the express to Irkford -should start.</p> - -<p>Who does not know the dreariness of such -hours of waiting, weary, travel-worn and -alone, in some great wilderness of a city -station? They were the two most dismal -hours he had ever passed.</p> - -<p>At last, at eleven in the forenoon, the train -to Manchester started. Jerome cast himself -into a second-class compartment, and with -weary eyes saw, when he was not half-dozing, -‘the happy autumn fields’ through which the -express rushed smoothly and swiftly, and -with slackened speed at last rolled into that -cheering and inspiriting terminus, the London -Road Station, Manchester.</p> - -<p>From Ems—even from Elberthal—to -Manchester! The contrast just flashed across -his mind as he alighted.</p> - -<p>A clerk presently accosted him inquiringly, -‘Mr. Wellfield?’ and then gave him a note -which he carried. The note was a kindly, -pleasant one from Mr. Netley, begging him -to go to his house, and make it his headquarters - -<span class="pagenum">[206]</span> - -until his business in Manchester was -settled. Business prevented him from coming -to the station himself and taking his guest -home, but he would be in to dinner at seven. -The address was given, and he hoped his -clerk would bring word that Mr. Wellfield -was on his way to ‘Birch Lodge.’</p> - -<p>With the sensation that this was true -friendliness, Jerome bade the youth tell Mr. -Netley that he accepted his invitation with -many thanks, and, getting into a cab, gave -the address, and was driven to Mr. Netley’s -house—his ‘box,’ as he called it in his -note.</p> - -<p>For a bachelor’s box it was remarkably -roomy and comfortable. The housekeeper -had evidently expected the guest, and led him -upstairs to the room prepared for him. Declining -her offer of refreshments, he was left -alone, with exactly two hours on his hands -before dinner-time. Part of the time he -employed in writing that letter to Sara which -has already been spoken of—the rest in meditations, -not particularly agreeable, on his - -<span class="pagenum">[207]</span> - -‘present condition and future prospects.’ -During the few hours he had been in England -he had felt a distinctly stronger chagrin and -disappointment at the idea of the utter loss -of home than he had yet experienced. He -could not understand nor account for this -feeling, but it was there, and it was strong. -He felt a sudden rush of indignation at the -manner in which he had been all these years -cheated and hoodwinked—and that by his -father. This Mr. Bolton, who now reigned -at the Abbey—who and what was he? The -desire to visit the place once more grew -stronger. Wild schemes for becoming rich, -and having the place back again, ran riot in -his mind—chimerical schemes, for, as each -one rose and fell, he had to tell himself -again and again that each was vanity. In -England—in this part of England especially—the -way in which men made fortunes was -that of trade and successful speculation. He -knew absolutely nothing of trade, and had -not the remotest idea in what ‘speculation’ -consisted. He saw no way at all of becoming - -<span class="pagenum">[208]</span> - -rich. He saw the most probable and the -best fate he could expect rise up and stand -very clearly before his mental eyes—a secretaryship, -clerkship, or something of that kind—neither -of them avocations in which, as a -rule, money is very rapidly accumulated.</p> - -<p>In the midst of these agreeable meditations -the dinner-bell rang, and he went downstairs -and found his host standing in the hall, looking -out for him—a grey-haired, round-faced, -pink-cheeked, elderly man, with a bland smile -and an amiable expression.</p> - -<p>His appearance for some reason caused -Jerome a kind of shock, he had unconsciously -expected something so different. The climax -of disillusion and commonplace appeared -to have been reached when Mr. Netley, -shaking hands with him and smiling benevolently, -said he was sure Mr. Wellfield -wanted his dinner. With his usual <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">sang -froid</i>, Jerome, after a momentary pause, -smiled slightly, and said ‘Yes,’ he was very -hungry. They went into the dining-room, -and here Mr. Netley volunteered the remark - -<span class="pagenum">[209]</span> - -that he thought business had better wait until -after dinner, to which Jerome again yielded -a cordial assent, and they took their places—Jerome -with an ever-deeper suspicion that -somehow Mr. Netley was not—the only word -he could think of was, ‘sharp’—that, for a -solicitor of his standing, he was decidedly not -very sharp.</p> - -<p>‘Have you ever been in Manchester -before?’ asked Mr. Netley.</p> - -<p>‘As a child, I may. Never since I grew -up; nor, indeed, in any place like it.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! it’s an odd kind of place. Very -thorough-going—strong political views, you -know.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I suppose so. Not that I know anything -about politics; I never took the slightest -interest in them.’</p> - -<p>‘No? Not been thrown in the way of -that kind of thing, I suppose?’</p> - -<p>‘Not at all. All my friends have been -musical, or literary, or artistic people—or, -nothing in particular, like myself.’</p> - -<p>‘I see. Well, there is a section in Manchester - -<span class="pagenum">[210]</span> - -that goes in for art, and music, and -that kind of thing. We’ve very fine music -here—concerts, you know—a great many -concerts, in the season.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I suppose everyone has heard that -Manchester is a music-loving town.’</p> - -<p>‘Exactly so,’ said Mr. Netley, looking -cheered at this admission. ‘And then there -are literary people too, you know, and -scientific—oh, many scientific people, whom -I don’t know much about. And there are -some artists, too. There’s a School of Art—there -are a great many pupils at the School -of Art, and an exhibition every year of their -paintings.’</p> - -<p>‘Only <em>their</em> paintings?’ inquired Jerome, -politely.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, and other people’s paintings, of course. -Yes; and a Black and White Exhibition. Do -you care for black and white pictures? Have -you been much thrown amongst black and -white artists—I mean artists who do black -and white pictures?’</p> - -<p>‘Not more than amongst artists who do - -<span class="pagenum">[211]</span> - -red, and green, and blue, and other coloured -pictures in general,’ replied Jerome, beginning -to feel a little amused, and to realise that probably -Mr. Netley was one of those persons who -have one manner and set of expressions for -business hours, and quite another for those of -leisure.</p> - -<p>So it proved. When they went into the -library, and Mr. Netley began to talk on -business, it must have been a very clever man -indeed who could have caught him tripping, -or who could have discovered any want of -perspicacity or acumen in his utterances.</p> - -<p>They sat together in the study, with cigars -and coffee-cups before them, and Mr. Netley -had pulled out some papers, and begun to -turn them over, when Jerome, whose impatience -had been none the less keen in that -he had so strenuously concealed it, said:</p> - -<p>‘Before you go into details, I wish you -could give me one piece of information. -Will there be anything left? Will there be -enough just to give my sister a home? That -is what I am most anxious to know.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[212]</span></p> - -<p>‘There will be Monk’s Gate, and I think -from a hundred to a hundred and twenty -pounds’ income. Curate’s pay, Mr. Wellfield, -and a curate might make it do.’</p> - -<p>‘You are thinking I am not one. That’s -true. But this is a great relief. And Monk’s -Gate—what is Monk’s Gate?’</p> - -<p>‘Your father only sold the Abbey, not -Monk’s Gate.’</p> - -<p>‘Monk’s Gate, I conclude, is a house. -I don’t seem to have any remembrance -of it.’</p> - -<p>‘It is the little dower-house belonging to -the Abbey. It is close to the large outer -gate—Monk’s Gate they always called it.’</p> - -<p>‘I think I remember.’</p> - -<p>‘The old fellows used to use that gate. -They went out through it into the fields to -fish in the river. They knew what they were -about, those old grey-frocks. Show me an -abbey that was not built on a site at once -fertile, rich, and beautiful. I defy you, -sir.’</p> - -<p>‘There was Whitby—it’s the only one I - -<span class="pagenum">[213]</span> - -can remember; but it always struck me as -being rather bleak,’ observed Jerome.</p> - -<p>‘Well, Whitby, I grant you. But that -was a nunnery. Women like to make themselves -uncomfortable for the sake of religion, -or what they think religion. But that’s -neither here nor there, and if you are ready, -I’ll go a little into detail.’</p> - -<p>Jerome absently assented, and Mr. Netley -was privately thinking, with some contempt:</p> - -<p>‘He’s the old Wellfields all over again. -Let him only be secure of what will keep -him from absolute beggary, and he’ll sit down -with it, rather than stir a finger. The only -time at which you could arouse that race to a -transient activity, was when they were absolutely -hard-up. When there wasn’t a coin in -the house, they would suddenly drop their -pride, and descend to any expedient to stave -off personal inconvenience and discomfort. -And the most unscrupulous of the whole lot -was this lad’s father. This fellow, it strikes -me, has all the pride and all the laziness of - -<span class="pagenum">[214]</span> - -the breed, but not their dishonesty, I should -say. Mother’s blood, perhaps.’</p> - -<p>Jerome must have been gratified indeed, -could he have known his host’s opinion of -him.</p> - -<p>There was not very much to be explained. -It seemed that Mr. Wellfield had sold the -Abbey about seven years ago, when Jerome -was nineteen and Avice nine years of age. -Mr. Netley explained about the ways in which -the purchase-money had been invested, and -how the bank failure had come about, which -had brought the crash. He was a little surprised, -and his theory as to Jerome’s want -of character was shaken, when the young -man said:</p> - -<p>‘It seems to me that in any case, on my -father’s death, I should have been reduced to -poverty, for, had the money been remaining, -I should have made it my first object to regain -the Abbey—if I had had to spend every -farthing to do so.’</p> - -<p>‘You would have found it no easy task, -Mr. Wellfield. Mr. Bolton is greatly attached - -<span class="pagenum">[215]</span> - -to the place, and I don’t think any price -would tempt him.’</p> - -<p>Jerome winced—it was galling in the -extreme to have to hear of this man in possession -with so firm a grasp upon what he -had always regarded as his. He hated the -thought, and once again, stronger than ever, -the desire rushed over him to oust the usurper -from his place. And once again succeeded -the recoil, the miserable sense of poverty and -helplessness, of impotency, which made his -temples throb and his blood boil. He sat, -with knitted brows, in moody silence, till at -last he asked abruptly:</p> - -<p>‘And this Monk’s Gate—is it habitable?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I should say so. I believe there is -even some antiquated furniture in it.’</p> - -<p>‘I shall go over and see it, at any rate, -before I decide upon anything else.’</p> - -<p>‘Very well. The key is in my keeping at -my office. You shall have it. You shall -judge for yourself. Meantime, don’t be in -any hurry to leave me. Turn things well -over in your mind before you decide to live - -<span class="pagenum">[216]</span> - -at Monk’s Gate, or anywhere else. I will do -all I can to help you forward.’</p> - -<p>‘You are very kind,’ said Jerome, still -absently, his mind still vaguely reaching out -after some path from his difficulties.</p> - -<p>Before going to sleep, he added a postscript -to his letter to Sara.</p> - -<p>‘Netley tells me he thinks there will be a -pittance left, which makes my mind easier -with respect to my sister. Ah, my love, I -never realised till this night, the <em>power</em> of -money. The want of it makes me feel unscrupulous.’</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[217]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_II"> - <img src="images/p217_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II. -<br><br> -<small>MONK’S GATE.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p217_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">It</span> was a glorious afternoon in the -beginning of August, on which -Wellfield left Manchester for his -two hours’ journey to Wellfield, to arrive at -which spot he had to pass through some of -the roughest, dirtiest, richest and most prosperous -of the numerous manufacturing towns -of Lancashire.</p> - -<p>Burnham was the last of these towns—a -place of great size, great riches, and of an -absolutely stupendous ugliness—a great collection -of ugly, grimy buildings, paved streets, -and ghastly-looking tall chimneys, the whole -planted at the bottom of a hollow which had - -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_p218">[218]</span> - -once been as fair as valley could be, in the -rough, stony moorland style of sparkling -stream and rugged rock. Even now, when -the veil of smoke permitted one to see them, -high and beautiful hills might be perceived, -blue, calm and eternal. The prospect of -them gave one a longing to ascend them, and -from their summits to breathe an air which -should be free and pure.</p> - -<p>After Burnham came one or two little -wayside stations, and then Wellfield. The -railway here ran over a high viaduct, much -raised above the village. Jerome felt his -heart throb as he looked out, and saw below -him on the right, slumbering amid orchard -trees and some fine old elms, some ancient -brown walls, two vast and massive gateways—a -broken line which showed where the -cloisters had formerly run beside the river. -That was the Abbey, which, with its grounds, -took up pretty nearly as much space as all -the rest of the village put together. He saw -the calm river gliding by; then raised his -eyes to where in sturdy pride old Penhull - -<span class="pagenum">[219]</span> - -stretched his great carcase, shutting all in to -the east. It was a fair land—it was a goodly -heritage, and his heart was bitter within -him.</p> - -<p>The train stopped, and he got out and -stood on the platform. He was a stranger -there. No one took the least notice of him. -He found himself at the farther end of the -little platform, and before walking forward to -leave the station, he paused and looked -round him. From the place where he now -stood, the Abbey was not visible. He was -looking in another direction, towards the -north-west. Behind him rose the great wall -of Penhull, over which his ancestors in the -good old days had helped King Jamie to -hunt witches with vigour and malignity. -Before him he saw a more level country, -spreading towards an ancient town called -Clyderhow, with its quaint old castle. Farther -to the west came some other long-backed -fells, on the other side of which was St. -George’s Channel: and nearer, on the brow -of one of the said fells, some three miles - -<span class="pagenum">[220]</span> - -away, he saw faintly the grey tower of an -ancient church, and just above that, where -the ground began to rise towards the western -fells, a long, large, imposing building of -whitish stone, exquisitely situated, and from -its commanding position, a landmark for -miles around. This was the great Jesuit -college of Brentwood, which had once -belonged to a branch of the Wellfield family, -in the days when they were great men and -devout Catholics.</p> - -<p>Jerome’s eyes fell upon it, and with the -sight of it came the remembrance of his -having, years ago, met a certain priest belonging -to that establishment.</p> - -<p>‘That was more than seven years ago,’ he -reflected, ‘before the Abbey had been sold to -this <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">roturier</i>. I must have been a mere -lad then, but how well I remember him! -What was his name? Somerville, surely. -Yes. Pablo Somerville. I remember. He -was half Spanish—there was some mystery -about his father, I recollect. What -a musician he was—and a gentleman, if - -<span class="pagenum">[221]</span> - -ever there was one. Will it be my luck, -I wonder, to renew the acquaintance? One -might meet with a worse fate than some -of those fellows at Brentwood have, after all, -for——’</p> - -<p>‘Ticket, sir, please,’ said a curt voice at -his elbow. Jerome roused himself, took his -eyes off Brentwood, and went along the -platform, down a little slanting path, which -brought him into a road. Here he met a -man, and asked him if he knew where Monk’s -Gate was.</p> - -<p>‘Dun yo mean th’ heawse, or th’ yate -itsel’?’ inquired the man.</p> - -<p>‘I mean the house.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, yo’ mun go through th’ yate for to -get to th’ heawse. Yon’s t’ shortest road,’ -he pointed down a grassy lane with trees on -either side. ‘Keep down thur, and then -turn to th’ left, and yo’ conna miss th’ Monk’s -Gate, ’cause it straddles o’ across th’ road, -and yo’ mun go under it, and turn in at th’ -first gate to your left. Yon’s t’ Monk’s Gate -House. But it’s empty, and locked oop,’ he - -<span class="pagenum">[222]</span> - -added, looking inquiringly at the person who -had an errand to Monk’s Gate.</p> - -<p>‘I know. I have the key.’</p> - -<p>‘M’ appen you belong to ’t?’</p> - -<p>‘It belongs to me,’ responded Jerome. -‘Good-day, and thank you.’ With which he -walked on, leaving his interlocutor to stare -after him, scratch his head, and remark to -himself:</p> - -<p>‘Well, I’m dom’d! It mun be John -Wellfield’s lad. Eh, but I mun go and tell -’em about this ’ere down at th’ Black -Bull.’</p> - -<p>Jerome, meantime followed the directions -he had received, and soon found the cavernous-looking -remains of Monk’s Gate, ‘straddling,’ -as his guide had said, ‘o’ across t’ -road,’ a huge, grim, ivy-covered portal, showing, -by its distance from the rest of what -were now the Abbey grounds, what a great -and glorious possession this said Abbey had -once been.</p> - -<p>A little way on the other side of the archway -to the left, was a gate, leading into a - -<span class="pagenum">[223]</span> - -garden; there was a gravel drive going up -to a low quaint-looking grey stone house. -This, then, must be Monk’s Gate.</p> - -<p>It was a wilderness of a garden, with a -large, irregularly shaped lawn, of a velvety -softness and greenness, which neglect had -not yet ruined. In the very centre of this -lawn rose a high, thin old pear-tree. Scattered -about were other kinds of fruit-trees. -Broad borders of all sweet and old-fashioned -flowers were filled with a rank luxuriance of -plants, some blooming, some not yet in -bloom; others almost choked to death by -their more flourishing neighbours. On the -left of the broad walk was a high wall, and -behind the wall fine beech-trees which cast -the shade of their ample boughs far into the -garden of Monk’s Gate. The house itself -stood back; it looked a small house for such -a large, luxuriant garden. It was very low, -Jerome saw, with odd-looking windows half-hidden -by roses and clematis, while all over -the left side of the house, a flourishing ivy -revelled healthily. He approached nearer. - -<span class="pagenum">[224]</span> - -Just before the house was a great bush of the -Gloire de Dijon rose—the fragrance of its -second crop that year filled the air for yards -around.</p> - -<p>Drawing forth the key which Mr. Netley -had given him, he applied it to the door, and -its rattle in the lock was the first sound to -break the almost oppressive hush and stillness, -and deadly calm of everything around -and about. The lock turned somewhat -rustily and unwillingly. It required him to -exert the strength of both his hands to induce -it entirely to yield. Then he pushed the door -open, stepped in, and stood beneath all that -he could now call his own roof-tree. A -narrow passage—a door to the left, which he -passed; the passage was only a few feet -long; one stepped out of it, without door or -other intervening ceremony, into a large, low, -raftered room, with a high old wooden -chimney-piece, deep oaken cupboards sunk -in the walls, a long, very low window, with a -deep, roomy seat in it—a heavy oaken table -in the centre of the room, and, at one side, - -<span class="pagenum">[225]</span> - -an ancient, shabby, comfortable-looking settee. -In a remote corner there was a pile of old -furniture, which in its dirt and shabbiness -looked remarkably like lumber.</p> - -<p>Jerome gazed round the room. Despite -the age and decrepitude of all in it, it had a -certain attraction for him, from its quaint, unconventional -shape and arrangements. The -stairs, with old oaken rails and balustrade, -led straight out of it. A door which he -opened, showed him a roomy kitchen, with a -back-kitchen beyond. Turning back, he -opened the door to the left of the passage, -which he had not yet explored, and found a -second sitting-room, smaller than the first, -but just as quaint, low and irregular. This -room, too, had the agreeable peculiarity of a -corner fireplace, and it contained more furniture -than the other; very old drawing-room -furniture—thin-legged chairs and tables, and -a strange-looking thing which was at once -cupboard, cabinet, and press, to match the -rest of the furniture, which was mahogany. -The aforesaid thin-legged chairs were upholstered - -<span class="pagenum">[226]</span> - -in a sickly, faded drab damask—relic -of a bygone day. The whole place -looked like some grave, and yet a grave -about which lingered gentle memories, like a -soft perfume; recollections of old-fashioned -ladies who must have spent countless hours -at their tambour-frames, embroidering those -elaborate and now pale and faded semblances -of pink-cheeked shepherds and blue-eyed -shepherdesses which adorned some spindly-looking -stools and spider-legged ‘occasional’ -chairs. Whose slender fingers had accomplished -that triumph of worsted-work which -covered a large settee beneath one of the two -little deep square windows—a piece of -worsted-work with a whole picture upon it, -of an elaborate landscape; figures, fountains, -sheep, and marble vases?</p> - -<p>Jerome passed his hand across his eyes, -feeling as if he had lost his identity. Was it—could -it be he, Jerome Wellfield, who was -standing in this chill, pale, silent place, inhaling -the faint, musty, dusty smell, which -carries one back full a hundred years; and - -<span class="pagenum">[227]</span> - -was this dim old place his home—all the -home he now had? He tried to picture -Avice there, and succeeded. It would be no -inappropriate place for her, he felt, when fires -should have dried up all the damp, and when -all this faded furniture should have been pulled -forth, cleaned, and polished, and arranged. -And Sara? Try as he would, he failed to -see her there. And yet, he knew that should -he ask her to come, she would do so.</p> - -<p>He climbed the stairs, and found several -bedrooms, corresponding with the rooms -below—all with the same raftered roofs, and -odd little square windows, made almost dark, -too, by the overhanging trailing-plants which -covered the side of the house.</p> - -<p>He lingered long, unaccountably attracted -and fascinated. In such a quiet nook a man -might drone out his life, and soon be utterly -forgotten—might live on from year to year, -and watch the seasons come and go, the -flowers bloom and fade, and spring again; -might observe the sunlight and the storm-shadows -sweep across the broad sides of - -<span class="pagenum">[228]</span> - -Penhull, and might at last die and be carried -to the graveyard which spread around the -old church—might there be laid to his rest, -and none be the wiser.</p> - -<p>He shivered slightly, as he vividly pictured -all this; then, slowly descending the -stairs, went out—how hot and balmy the -outside air felt, after the dampness of the -house!—locked the door behind him, and -bent his steps towards the Abbey.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[229]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_III"> - <img src="images/p229_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III. -<br><br> -<small>THE NEW MAN AND THE OLD ACRES.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p229_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Wellfield</span> had only a very short -distance to walk before he came to -another great cavernous archway, -the ‘Abbot’s Gate,’ and the second principal -entrance to the Abbey. Great beech-trees -clustered around it. It was quite dark and -cool and gloomy, but a little door in the great -wooden gates stood open, and gave him a -curious little oblong glimpse into a sunny -courtyard, where everything stood still and -hot and quiet, and in which, as he stepped -into it, there was not a sign of life. One -side of the Abbey building, what was left of -it, faced him; the windows looked into this - -<span class="pagenum">[230]</span> - -paved court, and appeared to be windows of -offices, kitchens, etc. Green tubs, filled with -a blaze of scarlet geraniums, made brilliant -spots of colour here and there. To the left -was a high wall, and a fine old stone archway. -He knew the way well. Through that archway -he must pass to go round to the front -entrance of the house, which was chiefly composed -of what had once been the private -apartments of the abbots of Wellfield. He -glanced up at the top of the archway and -saw, on the oblong slab which was let into it, -the legend, ‘J. W., 15—.’ It stood for John -Wellfield, as he knew; the said John having -been the first Wellfield who had taken up his -abode in the Abbey, after its demolishment -under the glorious dispensation of -Henry VIII.</p> - -<p>‘My initials!’ murmured Jerome. ‘I -wonder this man has not rent out the stone, -and inscribed his own instead.’</p> - -<p>This was rather a bitter thought, and, with -his mind full of it, he passed under the archway, -and found himself in a grand old garden - -<span class="pagenum">[231]</span> - -—such a garden as those ancient monks -knew how to make; and a garden which, -since their time, had been lovingly kept up. -It was formal—all laid out in oblongs and -squares, but it had an indescribable beauty -and grace. Great trees took away from the -stiffness; brilliant flowers and intensely green -grass made it gay. Under the trees to the -right were some clumps of tall, fiery-looking -gladioli. Straight before the house the ground -sloped to the river, beside which was a long -grassy walk and avenue, and a little farther to -the right, still beside the river, the hoary -cloisters. Jerome’s heart was exceeding -bitter within him, as he saw and realised all -the beauty of the place, which came back to -him, after sixteen years, with a familiarity -which was startling. The sixteen years were -but ‘as yesterday.’ As he stood there, he -felt it his—his own; the effort to conceive of -it as belonging to some one else was a painful -one—one which did not altogether succeed.</p> - -<p>‘He <em>sold</em> it!’ he was thinking to himself. -‘Sold it in cold blood. Why, if he had told - -<span class="pagenum">[232]</span> - -us the truth, and kept it, he should have been -happy; we would have made him happy here, -let our poverty have been what it might.’</p> - -<p>He walked up the round space of smoothly-rolled -gravel before the deep entrance-door, -and rang the bell.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton, he was told, was at home. -Jerome sent in his card, and was shown into -a room which he well remembered. It had -formerly been the library, and appeared to -be still used for the same purpose, though -greatly changed from its old condition. It -was not very vulgar, indeed one might -almost have pronounced it not at all vulgar; -but all the things were comparatively new, -and evidently ‘of the very best.’ But the -furniture was well chosen and appropriate; -had Mr. Bolton or had his upholsterer chosen -it? Jerome wondered, in a parenthesis as he -looked around, and felt that the appearance -of the room displayed a desire at least, if not -a perfectly accomplished one, on the part of -those who owned it, to be tasteful—a desire -which he felt had resulted in being proper - -<span class="pagenum">[233]</span> - -and philistine. He glanced at some books -on the table, and at one or two in the book-shelves, -and was struck at finding them to be -nearly all confined to two classes—voyages -and travels, and Italian books, the latter almost -all bearing some reference to Dante, or to -Dante’s great poem.</p> - -<p>‘Odd!’ thought Jerome, and as he thought -it, the door was opened, and Mr. Bolton -entered.</p> - -<p>A man of medium height, and of moderate -proportions, with a round, obstinate-looking -head, dark complexion, brown eyes, a mouth -with a protruding under-lip, and an all-pervading -expression of shrewdness, and strong, -powerful common-sense. A prejudiced, one-sided -man, one would suppose, but a man -who required a considerable mental space in -which to display his onesidedness and prejudice—a -man with great faults, and great -virtues, possibly; with a bull-dog expression, -betokening tenacity of mind—what this man -once grasped, he would not easily let loose -again.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[234]</span></p> - -<p>Jerome felt the last fact strongly, if he did -not understand, as indeed he could not possibly -do, the other characteristics. There was -nothing handsome about Mr. Bolton; very -little to be praised in his manner, no grace in -his gestures; but there was a certain rough -dignity about him, which was even imposing. -He was a commanding spirit, if not an enlightened -one.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Wellfield, I think?’ he said, fixing -his deep-set, dark eyes upon Wellfield’s face, -but not betraying, by either look or expression, -that he was particularly struck in any -way by his visitor.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Jerome, bowing; ‘I presume -you are Mr. Bolton?’</p> - -<p>‘The same. Will you not be seated?’</p> - -<p>Jerome had been standing in one of the -windows. At Mr. Bolton’s suggestion he -took a chair, and a feeling curiously akin to -mortification began to steal over him. Mr. -Bolton was so very evidently the master-spirit -here. Wellfield felt himself so entirely reduced -to the level of a stranger—a mere - -<span class="pagenum">[235]</span> - -casual caller, in his old home, that at first he -could hardly speak.</p> - -<p>How was he to introduce himself? How -account for his presence there, for he had -come in his usual half-dreaming manner: with -no set aim or purpose—no clear and tangible -excuse; driven only by a longing to see the -place, and by a half-acknowledged feeling of -defiant unwillingness to be deterred by this -stranger from stepping into the house which -he persistently looked upon as ‘his by right.’ -It has been said that when the elder Wellfield -sent his son into the world, he had not overburdened -him with moral maxims for his -guidance. Jerome had been left to decide -upon his own ethical code—a plan which has -its snares and pitfalls as well as its advantages. -Mr. Bolton’s calm presence of mind, and his -evident ease and pleasure in his surroundings, -caused a strange pang to Wellfield, and roused -a feeling of resentment at once unreasonable -and ridiculous. And yet, he felt, he must -be courtesy itself, or all his own feelings -and ideas as to what was his due would not - -<span class="pagenum">[236]</span> - -prevent the usurper from somewhat unceremoniously -casting him forth.</p> - -<p>‘You may think this a strange intrusion on -my part,’ he began, on the spur of the -moment. ‘Indeed, I begin to think myself -that it is.’</p> - -<p>‘As to that, I can say nothing, Mr. Wellfield, -until I hear your errand. In the meantime, -I do not think it strange at all that -you should call at the Abbey if you were in -this neighbourhood.’</p> - -<p>‘You have no doubt heard of my father’s -death?’</p> - -<p>‘I have, and indirectly, of his losses—which, -I suppose, will be your losses. I -was sorry to learn about them.’</p> - -<p>Jerome bowed slightly. ‘It is in consequence -of those losses that I am here. I -learnt from Mr. Netley, my solicitor, that the -Monk’s Gate house still belongs to me, and I -came over here to see if it could be made -habitable. I could not resist coming on to see -the old place of all—trusting to your kindness -to allow me to stroll round once or twice.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[237]</span></p> - -<p>‘One can hardly call such a visit a strange -intrusion,’ observed Mr. Bolton, and Jerome -had remarked that though his voice was curt, -and his accent provincial, yet that his language -was proper, and even pedantic sometimes, -and his grammar unimpeachable.</p> - -<p>‘You are at liberty to “stroll round,” as -you call it, as much as you please. I don’t -pretend not to know that such an excursion -must be painful to you—if you ever cared for -the place—and from your making this visit, -I conclude you did.’</p> - -<p>‘I did, and do,’ answered Wellfield.</p> - -<p>‘Then, though it may not be agreeable -to you to know it in the possession of -other people, you will not be sorry to find -that it is as well-cared for as if it were -your own.’</p> - -<p>Jerome was not sorry, but he felt galled, -deeply galled, to have to realise so completely -how impotent he was in the matter—how this -man had the power, not only to keep everything -trim, but to alter and change, and upset -everything, if it so pleased him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[238]</span></p> - -<p>‘I am glad to know that,’ he said, and Mr. -Bolton went on.</p> - -<p>‘May I ask if you intend to settle at Wellfield? -Do you mean to live at Monk’s -Gate?’</p> - -<p>‘So far as I can see at present, I do,’ said -Jerome, who, as a matter of fact, had only -begun to think such a thing advisable, since -he had seen Monk’s Gate. ‘But I do not -know. Mr. Netley gives me to understand -that my sister and I will have something to -live upon. I shall, however, seek employment, -which it is not always an easy -matter to find. Until I do find it, I shall -probably live at Monk’s Gate.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton bowed his head. ‘Do you -think of staying here long, now?’ he -asked.</p> - -<p>‘I came without any definite intention, for -I did not know what sort of a place Monk’s -Gate was. Now I think I shall go to the -inn here, if there is one, and stay perhaps a -day or two, until I get things in order. And—they -tell me Burnham is a very large town, - -<span class="pagenum">[239]</span> - -and that trade there is now very good. -Perhaps——’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, you are thinking you might happen -to find some employment there. It is possible. -But pray do not think of putting up at the -inn while there is room at the Abbey. -We shall be glad if you will stay with us, as -long as you find it convenient.’</p> - -<p>‘Who may we be?’ wondered Jerome, as -he hesitated. There was not much cordiality -in the invitation, but a sedate sincerity, as if -Mr. Bolton performed a duty which might -have been pleasanter, and might also have -been more unpleasant. One thing was quite -certain. Whether he would be glad or -not to have Wellfield at his own home, he -would be very sorry to see him at the inn. -He saw the hesitation, and repeated his invitation, -this time more cordially.</p> - -<p>‘You are very kind,’ said Wellfield. ‘It -looks so very much as if I had come on -purpose——’</p> - -<p>‘I do not know why you came, I am sure, -but I trust you will stay with us. Since you - -<span class="pagenum">[240]</span> - -are so near Burnham, it would be foolish to -go back to Manchester without at least -making an effort to seek some employment -there. And there is no one in the world -who knows so much about Burnham as I -do.’</p> - -<p>Jerome thanked him, and accepted the invitation. -Mr. Bolton rose.</p> - -<p>‘That is settled,’ he remarked. ‘Come -into the garden, and we’ll find Nita there.’</p> - -<p>‘Who is Nita?’ again speculated Wellfield, -and he followed his host without a word.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton took his way through the -garden towards the avenue by the river, -which was called ‘the river walk.’ As they -entered this walk, Jerome perceived in the -distance an arrangement of chairs and a -table, some light shawls, books, parasols, and -two female figures, seated in low cane chairs, -under the trees. Both these ladies were -reading, and apparently engrossed in their -books. The footsteps of the men along -the soft grass made no sound, and neither -lady looked up until Mr. Bolton, in a voice - -<span class="pagenum">[241]</span> - -from which all hardness and abruptness appeared -to have melted suddenly, said:</p> - -<p>‘Nita!’</p> - -<p>Then both the parasols were lowered, and -Jerome saw that a very young lady, and a -decidedly elderly one, sat side by side -beneath the trees. The young lady looked -first at both of them, then at Wellfield in -particular, and as she slowly rose, with a -faint, half-smile, her face seemed all large -brown eyes. As he came nearer, he saw -that she had, too, a beautiful forehead, broad, -and rather low; red lips which looked as if -they would readily smile, and pale cheeks. -He saw that she only just attained medium -height; that she was slight, yet not thin in -figure, and graceful, in a certain quaint, picturesque, -unconventional style—a great contrast -to the stiff, upright, elderly figure -beside her, with a grey keen face, compressed -lips, and piercing, cold grey eyes. -The second lady made no attempt at rising. -She sat perfectly still, and bolt upright, -folded her mittened hands one over the other - -<span class="pagenum">[242]</span> - -upon her book, and looked at Jerome -Wellfield in a manner which he felt to be -pointed.</p> - -<p>‘Nita,’ repeated Mr. Bolton, ‘I’ve brought -you a visitor; Mr. Jerome Wellfield, who -will stay with us a short time. My daughter, -Mr. Wellfield, and my cousin, Miss Margaret -Shuttleworth.’</p> - -<p>Nita Bolton smiled, shook hands with the -guest, and said, ‘How do you do?’</p> - -<p>Miss Shuttleworth stiffly inclined her head, -but did not make any overtures towards -shaking hands.</p> - -<p>‘Will you not sit down, Mr. Wellfield?’ -said Nita, pointing to a chair, which he took, -and she went on:</p> - -<p>‘Have you just arrived in Wellfield?’</p> - -<p>‘I arrived about an hour and a half ago. -I have been looking at my house—Monk’s -Gate.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, have you? It is a pretty little -house.’</p> - -<p>‘Very. So humble and unobtrusive-looking,’ -said Jerome.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[243]</span></p> - -<p>‘And damp,’ observed Miss Shuttleworth; -and though she did not speak loudly, she -spoke in a manner which made it impossible to -ignore her remarks. Indeed, whenever Miss -Shuttleworth spoke, an impartial observer -must have said that she put a portentous -amount of expression into her utterances.</p> - -<p>‘You think it is damp?’ said Jerome, -politely turning to her, while Nita’s colour -rose, and her fingers trifled nervously with -her watch-chain.</p> - -<p>‘I know it to be damp,’ responded Miss -Shuttleworth, in a manner which Jerome, -unaccustomed to her as he was, felt imperatively -called for a reply, or another question -of some kind.</p> - -<p>‘So damp as to make it unadvisable to live -there?’ he inquired.</p> - -<p>‘I should say it was a most unhealthy -house to live in. If you <em>wish</em> to become -rheumatic at once, and to grow old before -your years, by all means live at Monk’s -Gate.’</p> - -<p>‘As it is all the home I now possess,’ responded - -<span class="pagenum">[244]</span> - -Jerome, ‘it is probable that I shall -live there, despite the disadvantages you -mention.’</p> - -<p>‘All the home you possess?’ repeated -Nita, and Jerome turned to her with a sense -of pleasure in the contrast between her and -her relative.</p> - -<p>Miss Shuttleworth absolutely revolted him -with her plainness, her hard features, her -metallic voice, and her unengaging manner. -In comparison, Nita, though not a beauty, -looked charming. He met her soft brown -eyes with pleasure, and saw the slight shyness, -the little air of timidity and shrinking, -with feelings of complacency. At this juncture -Mr. Bolton rose, remarking:</p> - -<p>‘Well, I’ll leave Mr. Wellfield to you to -entertain. I have some writing to do. I -suppose I shall see you at supper, Margaret?’</p> - -<p>‘Not to-night, thank you. I have my -Bible class, and shall have to go in about an -hour.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, well, come to-morrow, or as often as - -<span class="pagenum">[245]</span> - -you can, at any rate,’ he answered; and with -a general inclination of the head to the company, -he departed.</p> - -<p>Jerome looked after him, as he went down -the river walk, and realised that the whole -figure, though plebeian, was powerful, not -without a certain air, too, of dignity and command. -He turned to Nita again.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Bolton has very kindly asked me to -stay a few days at the Abbey, until I have -decided what to do with Monk’s Gate, or -rather until I see whether I can find some -employment, which will allow me to live at -Monk’s Gate, as I hope to do.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Nita, with a look of embarrassment; -‘but—but—I suppose I ought not to -say it——’</p> - -<p>‘If it is a personal question, Nita, to a -total stranger, you ought certainly <em>not</em> to say -it,’ here chimed in Miss Shuttleworth’s -voice.</p> - -<p>Nita blushed furiously, and Jerome said, -more in the hope of annoying Miss Shuttleworth -than from any other reason:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"> [246]</span></p> - -<p>‘I am sure it is no question that is -not perfectly justifiable, Miss Bolton, and -therefore I promise in advance to answer -it.’</p> - -<p>‘It was not exactly a question. You speak -of Monk’s Gate as your only home, and of -seeking employment; but I thought you were -rich, Mr. Wellfield.’</p> - -<p>‘So did I, until a short time ago. I am -just now in the process of learning completely -to realise my mistake. I am a poor man, -and am not quite certain that the wreck of -my fortunes will leave me enough to enable -me to bring my sister to Monk’s Gate, and -make her a home there.’</p> - -<p>‘Have you a sister?’ asked Nita, who kept -giving him very rapid, momentary glances, -her eyes leaving his face almost before they -had had time to find it, which glances he met -with a calm, prolonged gaze, which did -not escape the steely eyes of Miss Shuttleworth.</p> - -<p>‘I have a sister—yes.’</p> - -<p>‘Is she with you?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[247]</span></p> - -<p>‘No; she is at Elberthal, in Germany, -with a friend.’</p> - -<p>‘How old is she?’</p> - -<p>‘Sixteen.’</p> - -<p>‘Is she pretty?’</p> - -<p>‘She is considered beautiful, I believe.’</p> - -<p>‘Like you at all?’ inquired Miss Shuttleworth, -with a treacherous suavity in her -tones.</p> - -<p>Jerome burst out laughing, and Nita -blushed fiercely.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, aunt, how uncomfortable you make -me!’ she exclaimed vehemently.</p> - -<p>Miss Shuttleworth made no reply, then -Nita went on:</p> - -<p>‘I hope it is not rude of me, but are you -and your sister alone in the world?’</p> - -<p>‘We are, quite.’</p> - -<p>‘And very fond of one another?’</p> - -<p>‘Y—yes.’</p> - -<p>‘That is, your sister is very fond of you,’ -remarked Miss Shuttleworth.</p> - -<p>‘I hope she is, and that she may never - -<span class="pagenum">[248]</span> - -have cause to be otherwise,’ he replied -politely.</p> - -<p>‘It is very interesting!’ said Nita, with a -little sigh, while Jerome thought, repressing -a smile, what an amusing story it would make -for Sara and Avice.</p> - -<p>‘What is your sister’s name?’ next asked -Nita.</p> - -<p>‘Avice.’</p> - -<p>‘Avice? What a peculiar name.’</p> - -<p>‘It means “refuge,”’ observed Miss Shuttleworth.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, does it?’ said Jerome, ‘I didn’t know -that.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think you will like living in -England?’ pursued Nita.</p> - -<p>‘No, I don’t, under the circumstances.’</p> - -<p>She shook her head, and maintained -silence. Miss Shuttleworth rose from her -chair.</p> - -<p>‘I must go,’ she remarked. ‘And do you -go in too, Nita, soon. The damp rises from -the river in the evening, and you have a -thin dress on.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[249]</span></p> - -<p>‘I shall not be long.’</p> - -<p>‘I am going to take this book with me. It -is a very clever story. Where did you -get it?’</p> - -<p>‘John brought it me from London. I -haven’t read it. I saw a review of it -in the ——, which made me think it was -stupid.’</p> - -<p>Miss Shuttleworth’s lips relaxed into a -smile which was sardonic. This was a topic -on which she evidently felt strongly.</p> - -<p>‘Why do you and John and your father -persist in reading reviews?’ she asked, with -asperity. ‘The book stupid?—as likely as -not it was the reviewer who was stupid. -<em>I</em> know them. It is a very clever book, -but of course if you read that review of -it, it would spoil it for you. I do wish I -could cure you of reading reviews. It spoils -one’s pleasure so, and does not the least -good.’</p> - -<p>‘I’ll try to give it up,’ said Nita, meekly. -‘Shall we go with you to the great gate? -Mr. Wellfield, would you like to come?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[250]</span></p> - -<p>Jerome accompanied the two ladies to the -great gate. Then Nita thought she would -walk on with Miss Shuttleworth to her house, -and Jerome thought he would stroll round -the grounds. Nita told him that they supped -at half-past eight, and she disappeared with -Miss Shuttleworth through the gate. Jerome -wandered back along the river walk, and -through the old gardens, and strolled and -loitered amongst the trees. Presently the -sun declined, and gorgeous hues of purple -and gold and crimson set the western sky -ablaze, and coloured the water of the river -with changing tints. The trees waved softly -overhead—the water murmured placidly as it -rolled by. All was still and quiet, and he -tried to realise that he was here—a stranger. -It was all so familiar as to be almost weirdly -so. These strange faces, strange owners, -jarred upon him. He could not understand -how they came to be so at home there—so at -ease in <em>his</em> home. As for him—when he -should have supplied Monk’s Gate with a -little furniture, just enough to make it habitable, - -<span class="pagenum">[251]</span> - -and established Avice here, his ready-cash -would be almost exhausted, and then -what was to become of him? The pittance—not -certain, but probable—of which Mr. -Netley had spoken, remained. He could not -live upon that—he might die upon it, starve -upon it, go mad upon it; he could not live -upon it—as a man with his ideas, his -hopes, his inborn, inbred habits and feelings, -understands life, even in its narrowest -sense.</p> - -<p>After a long time spent in such meditations—meditations -which dimmed the beauty -of the sunset, and marred the evening’s glory, -he looked up, and found that the pomp of -the <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Sonnenuntergang</i> was over; the purple and -gold had disappeared; the sky was grey -again. It must be supper-time. He bent -his steps towards the house.</p> - -<p>Entering the hall he saw Nita going across -it, with a large crystal bowl of flowers in her -hand. She had on a black flowing dress -of something soft and gauzy, with knots -of brightly-hued ribbons here and there. - -<span class="pagenum">[252]</span> - -Whether by design or by accident, she had -greatly improved her appearance, and looked -as nearly pretty as it was possible for her to -be; but the air of delicacy and a slight -languor, speaking of a constitution not of -the strongest kind, prevented her from being -really beautiful. But she was agreeable, even -attractive to look at, and had quaint original -little ways which gave a charm to her. If -she did not move with the air of a great -lady, nor shine with the noble beauty of Sara -Ford, she was yet not without her charm, as -Jerome felt, when she paused, balancing the -vase in her hands, looking up at him and -smiling.</p> - -<p>‘You have had a long stroll, Mr. Wellfield, -and I am sure you will be tired. William,’ -she added, to a page-boy who then appeared -upon the scene, ‘show Mr. Wellfield to the -blue-room, and send Mary to see that he has -all he wants.’</p> - -<p>When Jerome came down again, the same -boy appeared, and invited him into the -drawing-room. How well he remembered - -<span class="pagenum">[253]</span> - -it as he had last seen it, and how great was -the contrast between the dim old room of -sixteen years ago and the luxurious one of -to-day, furnished in the richest and most -approved style, with gorgeously decorated -ceiling, and every kind of ‘upholsterer’s -darling’ in the shape of easy-chairs, couches -and lounges, scattered about!</p> - -<p>Nita was there with her work, and Mr. -Bolton with the newspapers, and a third -person, a young man whose face, as Jerome -looked at him, brought back the past with a -vividness, with a rush, as it were, which more -than ever carried him backwards, and made -the immediate past seem like a dream in the -light of sixteen years ago.</p> - -<p>‘John Leyburn, if I am in my right mind!’ -he exclaimed, for him almost eagerly.</p> - -<p>‘I think you may safely assume that your -judgment does not misguide you.’</p> - -<p>‘Though you <em>do</em> say that the evidence -of your own senses is the last thing you -would believe, John,’ observed Nita, with -asperity.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[254]</span></p> - -<p>John laughed, as he shook hands with -Wellfield.</p> - -<p>‘Not the last thing I would believe, but -the first thing I would distrust, if I had -grounds for doubting about anything,’ he -answered.</p> - -<p>‘And how have you been going on?’ asked -Jerome, after the usual fashion of one man -to another. To which Leyburn replied -modestly:</p> - -<p>‘Oh, fairly well.’</p> - -<p>‘Fairly well, indeed!’ retorted Nita. ‘You -have got on very well indeed, John. My -cousin has got a big house and a big mill, and -a huge business, all to himself, Mr. Wellfield. -And he calls that getting on “fairly well.”’</p> - -<p>‘And you?’ asked Leyburn.</p> - -<p>‘I—very ill, as no doubt you have heard. -But that doesn’t matter. I am glad to see -you again. Do you live at Abbot’s Knoll -yet? Do you remember coming down here -to do Latin with my tutor, Phillips? What -an age it seems since then!’</p> - -<p>‘I remember,’ said John, deliberately.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[255]</span></p> - -<p>He was a young man who could not be -called handsome; beside Wellfield he looked -exceedingly plain, with his square-cut, rather -heavy face, and decidedly clumsy figure. Yet -about this young manufacturer, with his want -of grace and polish, there was the charm of a -candid, benevolent, truth-loving nature, which -charm showed in the clear, pleasant light-brown -eyes, which redeemed him from insignificance, -and made him an agreeable companion. -He was quiet, decidedly. Jerome -remembered that in the old days when they -had both been children together, he had -been, not shy, but a silent, reserved, observant -boy, with decided likes and dislikes. -By-and-by, Leyburn went and sat down -beside Nita on the sofa. They appeared to -be on squabbling terms, which naturally implies -intimacy. Mr. Bolton looked benevolently -at them over his newspaper, and -Jerome, with a sudden sense which was not -altogether a pleasurable one, began to wonder -if this were ‘a case.’ No, he did not like the -idea—why, he hardly knew, since it could not - -<span class="pagenum">[256]</span> - -possibly matter anything to him; but it -seemed to shut him more entirely than ever -out from all that should have been his. With -rapid, unreasonable foresight, he pictured -Nita and her cousin man and wife, in safe -and secure possession of the Abbey and its -lands, with perhaps children to inherit them, -and money in abundance to keep it all up. -The idea galled and hurt him excessively, -and he sat silently, and somewhat moodily -pondering upon it until supper was announced.</p> - -<p>It appeared that early hours were the rule -at the Abbey. After supper, Mr. Bolton retired -to one end of the huge drawing-room to -a table on which stood a reading-lamp, and -he was soon lost in a book of travels in the -South Seas. Nita and the two young men -were left to entertain one another as they -chose. Jerome was somewhat taciturn, observing -the incessant conversation, friendly -squabbles and unmistakable real liking -between Nita Bolton and John Leyburn. -About ten o’clock Leyburn said good-night. - -<span class="pagenum">[257]</span> - -By half-past ten all the household were in -their rooms. Jerome opened his window and -looked out. The same moon, only fuller, as -that which had lighted his meditations in -Manchester, shone here, and silvered the old -Abbey gardens, and the ancient walks, and -the motionless trees. His heart was sore as -heart could be. These people were not -what he had expected, and perhaps that -added to the sting of his vexation. They -were not purse-proud, vulgar upstarts. They -were plain and homely, but gentle and -gracious. It was not some vulgar man who -held and who would inherit his patrimony; -it was a man whose whole character and -aspect compelled respect and even admiration, -and a girl in whose eyes dwelt gentleness -and goodness, and whose ways were all -kind and womanly and girlish. He pondered -over it all, and looked again upon the beauty -of it, and muttered to himself:</p> - -<p>‘Mine by right—mine before God! and it -shall be mine again, too.’</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[258]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_IV"> - <img src="images/p258_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV. -<br><br> -<small>NITA’S DIARY.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p258_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">In</span> her room at the same hour sat -Nita Bolton: the door locked, the -lamp lighted. She was attired in -a flowing dressing-gown, her hair falling in -two long, thick plaits over her shoulders. -Nita had beautiful hair—beautiful, that is, in -quality, if not remarkable in colour. It was -of a dull, soft brown, without the suspicion of -a tawny hue in it, or of a glint of gold, but it -was slightly wavy, fine, soft, and abundant, -and she had a harmless pride and pleasure -in it.</p> - -<p>She was seated just now at a very elegant-looking -writing-table, an article of furniture - -<span class="pagenum">[259]</span> - -which had so far been also distinctly an -article of luxury, for Nita’s letters were very, -very few. It was not a letter with which she -was this night engaged. No! Open before -her was a substantially-bound volume, with a -Chubb’s lock, and a little key to open and -close the same—a precaution which lost -some of its value when one considers how -easy it would have been for an evil-disposed -person to carry off the book, lock and all, if -he wished to pry into the sacred contents -thereof. In this precious volume Miss -Bolton was in the habit of inscribing her day’s -adventures, or no-adventures, and her own -valuable comments and reflections thereupon, -together with dark and gloomy musings upon -the sorrows and misfortunes of this present -life; the strange and inexplicable arrangements -of Destiny (with a capital D), and a -chronicle of her mental experiences in -general. Many pages of such lucubrations -filled the earlier portion of the volume.</p> - -<p>To-night Anita’s pen had not run with its -accustomed rapidity over the page. She had - -<span class="pagenum">[260]</span> - -recorded how ‘John returned from London -yesterday morning, and came in in the evening -and brought me some novels, because he -said he knew I cared for nothing else, which -was mean of the dear old fellow.’ How -‘Aunt Margery came to dinner, and sat with -me all afternoon, and was very amusing. -What a clever old thing she is!’ How, -‘about six o’clock, I heard papa’s voice, and -looked up, wondering what had dragged him -away from his beloved Dante, at that hour, -and I saw him coming along with a gentleman, -a stranger, the very handsomest man I -ever saw.’ Then followed a minute description -of the introduction, of every word that -Jerome had said, that Aunt Margery and -papa had said, that ‘I’ had said, and in addition, -what ‘I’ thought on the subject: To -her diary Nita might betray, and did betray -what she would conceal from all others, the -fact that from the moment in which she had -looked up and met Jerome’s eyes, she had -been fascinated, spell-bound, possessed with -the thought of him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[261]</span></p> - -<p>Much unpublished as well as published -rubbish is written every year, and Nita -Bolton’s journal was not an exception to the -rule that most young ladies’ journals are not -worth the time that is spent upon them. -Her cousin John having discovered once by -accident that Nita kept a journal, had ever -since oppressed her at intervals with cruel -remarks upon it, questions as to what she -had written about, insinuating inquiries, ‘Did -you mention how agreeable I made myself -the other night?’ and so on.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bolton had laughed a little when he -heard about it, and had said:</p> - -<p>‘She’s dull. Girls must have some outlet -for their feelings. It’s better to sentimentalise -in a diary than with a curate. I’d rather -she sat up late scribbling, than rose at cockcrow -to get cold at “early celebrations,” and -all that rubbish—eh, Jack?’</p> - -<p>To which ‘Jack’ always and devoutly -yielded his assent.</p> - -<p>Nita, on this particular occasion, had more -and darker reflections to make than usual, - -<span class="pagenum">[262]</span> - -upon the dark and tortuous ways of ‘Destiny.’ -Such effusions might be the result of -a mere surface feeling, or they might be the -indications of some deeper, more tragic -emotion. Who was to say? Nita herself -less than anyone.</p> - -<p>‘I never,’ she wrote, ‘<em>never</em> before saw, or -imagined anyone in the least like him. It -was like seeing a new kind of creature.’</p> - -<p>Then there was a long pause, as she laid -her pen down, folded her hands, and pondered. -Then she took up her pen again and -wrote:</p> - -<p>‘He may well look sad and melancholy, -and gaze sorrowfully on the scene around -him. He may well look long and gravely at -<em>me</em> when he speaks to me. Only quite a -short time ago, he supposed himself the heir -to all this place, and now he is dispossessed, -and it is <em>I</em> who shall sometime have it! -What romances there are in the world, far -wilder romances than one reads of in books. -How will it all end? What hand has -brought us together in this strange manner—I - -<span class="pagenum">[263]</span> - -and he, of all persons in the world? This -is indeed one of those dark mazes of life -through which one must wander on trust—one -can <em>know</em> nothing.’</p> - -<p>Having written thus far, Nita carefully -read over the chronicle, closed and locked -the book, and put it away. Then, starting -with a sudden movement, she ran to the -window, opened it and leaned out, looking -forth upon the moonlight. To a romantic -mind and one given to sentimental musings, -Wellfield Abbey must have been provocative -of much moon-gazing and many reveries. -Nita Bolton was romantic, was sentimental, -in no small degree, though these qualities -had been well kept in check by the healthy -and natural though quiet life which she had -lived, and by the perpetual shafts of satire -directed against all sentiment by her three -associates—her father, her Aunt Margery, -and her cousin, John Leyburn. But the -tendency to weaving romance out of her -surroundings, if they would by any means -allow it, was there, powerful, though dormant. - -<span class="pagenum">[264]</span> - -The fire smouldered. It needed but a spark -to kindle it. The sudden appearance of -Jerome Wellfield supplied that spark. Nita’s -innate love of sentiment and romance was -aroused. It appeared as if life suddenly contained -a new, fresh interest. It was long -before the girl undressed, and then it was -long before she slept. At last slumber came, -and dreams in which Wellfield had no part.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum">[265]</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="CHAPTER_CHAPSS_V"> - <img src="images/p265_deco.png" width="600" height="243" alt="Decorated Heading"> -</div> -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V. -<br><br> -<small>WITH THE STREAM.</small><br></h2> - -<div> - <img class="drop-cap" src="images/p265_cap.png" width="75" height="75" alt="Decorated First Letter"> -</div> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="upper-case">Morning</span> again—a hazy, glorious -August morning. When Wellfield -threw open his window, a -draught of air scented with everything that -is sweetest and most exquisite was borne -into the room. The heavy trees outside -stood motionless; the dazzling spikes of gladiolus, -and the parterres of geraniums looked -dim in the morning mist which still hung -white and palpable over the course of the -river. Each day that Jerome passed here -was fairer than the last; each morning and -each evening made more palpable to him -what a goodly heritage had departed from - -<span class="pagenum">[266]</span> - -him, and fallen to the lot of others. This -may have influenced his course: who shall -say what and where is the first upspringing -of that current which, slight at first, presently -grows so strong as to sway our actions and -decide our ‘will’ to some particular course?</p> - -<p>On going downstairs, he found the breakfast-table -spread, and Mr. Bolton seated at it. -Nita was standing in the window, the newspaper -in one hand, while the other caressed -the head of her great dun-coloured mastiff, -Speedwell—another dear friend who, like -nature, ‘never would betray the heart that -loved’ him. Mr. Bolton made a measured -apology for beginning his breakfast, adding -that he had to go to Burnham by the nine -o’clock train, but would be in to dinner in the -middle of the day, and he hoped Mr. Wellfield -would do just what was agreeable to -him, and Nita would do her best to entertain -him.</p> - -<p>With which Nita also advanced, looking -rather pale, but also almost pretty. She laid -down the paper, remarking:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[267]</span></p> - -<p>‘There’s nothing in it, papa. The market -is up, and there is a leading article absolutely -annihilating the Opposition, so let that content -you until this evening.’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose it must,’ said he, rising; and -wishing them good-morning, he departed.</p> - -<p>Nita, when breakfast was over, proposed a -tour round the garden, she had some orders -to give the gardener, and must go to the -farm, or perhaps he would prefer to stay -indoors.</p> - -<p>‘I should prefer to go with you if I -may,’ he said; and they strolled out together.</p> - -<p>Nita appeared quite at home outside the -house. During their progress round the -garden Jerome grew more interested in her, -and with him, to be interested in a woman -was to do his utmost to make himself interesting -to her. Nita was not aware of this -idiosyncrasy; and a man cannot say to a -woman, ‘Do not make yourself interesting to -me, or I shall try in turn to captivate you.’ -The rules of etiquette do not allow such a -statement, but when a man’s heart is given in - -<span class="pagenum">[268]</span> - -one direction, he may intimate that fact, and -make it quite palpable to another woman, -without absolutely saying in so many words, -‘I am engaged; do not fall in love with me,’ -and he may do this without hurting her feelings -or her self-respect. Jerome Wellfield -did not do this.</p> - -<p>‘There is a farm belonging to the Abbey,’ -observed Nita, ‘and papa leaves all the -management of it to me: he only cares for -his books when he leaves business, so I have -the farm and the gardens and the house—indeed, -everything connected with our life -here—to look after.’</p> - -<p>‘Quite alone?’ asked Jerome.</p> - -<p>‘Yes; because I have no brothers or sisters, -and very few friends. I am the only -one, and I am glad of it.’</p> - -<p>‘Are you? Is it not rather lonely?’</p> - -<p>‘I never feel lonely. I don’t know what it -is to feel lonely. And sometimes I think it -is only the heroines of novels who ever do -feel so; but when I once said so to Aunt -Margaret, she said who was I to talk? and - -<span class="pagenum">[269]</span> - -desired me to wait until I had had a little -more experience of life.’</p> - -<p>‘Let us hope you may never have any -experience in that line,’ said Jerome, smiling.</p> - -<p>‘Why, do you know what it is to be lonely?’</p> - -<p>‘No; I have never felt particularly oppressed -by that sensation. But, talking -about brothers and sisters, I should have -thought you would have been—we won’t say -less lonely, since you take exception to the -term—but would have enjoyed life more if -you had had some of them.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t see it,’ persisted Nita. ‘I am -very happy as I am. I like my own way. -I don’t care to be interfered with. A brother -would take the first place in papa’s heart, and -have the first say in everything; and a sister—no, -I would rather not.’</p> - -<p>‘You are exclusive, and contented. Some -day you will have power more undivided -than now, even,’ said Jerome, dwelling with -a morbid persistency on the idea which at -present haunted him. ‘I suppose you like -thinking of that too?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[270]</span></p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Nita, frankly and unthinkingly, -‘I do; I love to think that I am not going -to leave this dear old place, ever. And I -love to think that some day, though I hope -not for a very long time, it will be my very -own.’</p> - -<p>She looked up at him with a smile, as she -finished; met his eyes, read the expression -in them, stopped abruptly, and said, in a -voice of consternation:</p> - -<p>‘Oh dear, oh dear!’</p> - -<p>Her face was covered with a flood of -colour. For a moment she put her hand -before it, as if to cover it, then dropped it -again.</p> - -<p>‘What must you think of me?’ she exclaimed, -in a voice full of tears. ‘Pray forgive -me, if you can!’</p> - -<p>‘Pray do not distress yourself,’ he rejoined, -a curious flavour, half bitterness, half amusement, -in his voice—‘I led up to it; I wanted -to hear you confess it. I felt sure you were -too natural not to feel so. You are quite right; -you and yours have not stolen the place. - -<span class="pagenum">[271]</span> - -You came by it honestly, and have a right to -rejoice in it if you like.’</p> - -<p>He made a step onwards, inwardly wondering -a little why he <em>had</em> led up to this -topic. Nita’s face was downcast, as she said, -in a deep tone of annoyance and vexation:</p> - -<p>‘It does not matter. I am a little fool, I -believe. After all my resolutions that I -would not drop a syllable that could wound -you while you were here—<em>idiot</em> that I am!’</p> - -<p>‘Did you make such resolutions?’ asked -Wellfield, suddenly stopping again, and bending -his eyes beneath their frowning brows -upon her.</p> - -<p>‘Yes. Oh, don’t look so severe, Mr. -Wellfield, or I shall have to go in. Indeed -it was an oversight, my saying such a thing.’</p> - -<p>‘I wish you would not take it so to heart,’ -he said, with a short laugh. ‘It is well that -I should learn to grow accustomed to my -position. You have given me the first lesson, -that is all. Shall we go on?’</p> - -<p>Nita answered nothing, but paced on -beside him. Jerome was fully aware in his - -<span class="pagenum">[272]</span> - -secret heart that his last speech was claptrap; -but if it had the same effect upon Nita as if -it had been fresh from the real well of pathos, -what did it matter? There was a vague -feeling present in his mind, that Nita seemed -to take a good deal of interest in him—a -feeling which gave him suddenly great -interest in her.</p> - -<p>‘You are very fond of the Abbey, then?’ -he asked.</p> - -<p>‘Yes—very.’</p> - -<p>‘Why so? What makes you like it so -much? Stop! I am sure you need not -give orders to the gardener this very moment. -Take one other turn with me on the river -walk. Why are you so devoted to the -Abbey?’</p> - -<p>‘I can hardly tell,’ she answered, a little -shyly. (Evidently she was dreadfully afraid -of hurting him by any second remark like that -one which had already, as it were, exploded -like a conversational bombshell. To her he -was still the lord of the soil, despite her love -for the place, and her keen sense of joy in the - -<span class="pagenum">[273]</span> - -possession of it. He saw the feeling in a -moment, and it gratified him.) ‘I hardly -know,’ repeated Nita; ‘it seems to have -grown part of my life—it is so different -from other places. It suits me. I was so -glad when we came here.’</p> - -<p>‘And you knew when you came that you -were the only child of your father, and you -liked the idea of sometime reigning at the -old place?’ pursued Jerome, tranquilly.</p> - -<p>‘Yes. Oh, do please excuse me. I did -like it very much. But if I had known -about you, I should not have liked it; and -I shall not like it now.’</p> - -<p>‘Known about me!—you mean that you -were unaware of the existence of such a -person?’</p> - -<p>‘No; I had heard of you. But Aunt -Margaret—is a little prejudiced, I think. -She knows all the traditions of the place, -and all the histories of all the old families -in it, and she used to say that—that your -father——’</p> - -<p>‘What about my father, Miss Bolton?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[274]</span></p> - -<p>‘It was not your father in particular. It -was the Wellfield family. She had a dislike -to—no, not a dislike. Aunt Margaret never -has such strong feelings as likes and dislikes. -She said your family were proud and -unscrupulous, that they had never worked -for others, or cared for any but themselves; -that they were—but I have no business to -say such things,’ said Nita, who had by this -time become so nervous and so confused as -not really to know what she was saying, and -who rambled on, fascinated by the calm, pale -face and intent dark eyes of her companion. -She spoke of the old Wellfields as if they had -been a dream, and did not realise that this -man beside her was actually one of the race.</p> - -<p>‘Go on, please,’ he said; and Nita continued, -as if it had been a lesson she was -repeating by heart.</p> - -<p>‘That they were selfish and luxurious——’</p> - -<p>‘The last fault will not be laid to their -charge in this generation, at least,’ observed -Jerome. ‘Well, what else?’</p> - -<p>‘I am only saying all this because you - -<span class="pagenum">[275]</span> - -<em>make</em> me!’ said Nita, with almost passionate -protest in her voice, ‘not because I wish to. -She says—but I will tell you no more. I -will not be so odious. If you really desire -to hear such things, ask Aunt Margaret. -She will tell you, and will not spare anything -on account of your name and your race.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you. I shall have a little conversation -with her some day. I can quite -imagine that she thought it was an unmitigated -benefit when the Abbey passed from -the hands of our dissolute race into the -honest and untainted ones of your father.’</p> - -<p>‘I knew you would never forgive me, and -yet you would make me go on,’ said Nita, in -a tone of despairing resignation. ‘I can’t -help it. I wash my hands of it.’</p> - -<p>‘You at least may “wash your hands in -innocency,”’ he replied. ‘Since my old -home is never to be mine, I would as soon -you had it as anyone; and since you wish -for it more than for anything in the -world——’</p> - -<p>‘There is one thing now which I feel - -<span class="pagenum">[276]</span> - -that I wish for more,’ said Nita, in a vibrating -voice.</p> - -<p>‘Is there? What is that?’</p> - -<p>‘That you—that those whose home it -really is, should own it once again. I would -gladly leave it now to let you come into it.’</p> - -<p>‘That is generously said, and I thank you -for it,’ said Jerome, in a voice not altogether -unmoved. His eyes looked gratefully into -hers. He took her hand, and carried it to -his lips. Nita thrilled from head to foot. -Was this the same world as the world of -twenty-four hours ago?</p> - -<p>‘To know that goes as near as anything -can to reconciling me to my inevitable loss,’ -he said, still in a low tone, as they resumed -their way.</p> - -<p>They left the solitary, silent river walk, -dangerous in its beauty and its associations, -for the more prosaic regions of the kitchen-garden. -While they waited for the gardener -to come, Nita said:</p> - -<p>‘Don’t let me keep you here. I shall be -ever so long; and then I have to go to the - -<span class="pagenum">[277]</span> - -farm. You will want to go down to Monk’s -Gate, I daresay.’</p> - -<p>‘I do; but I am emboldened to ask a -favour of you, first.’</p> - -<p>‘What is that?’</p> - -<p>‘When you have quite finished your business -here, will it be too much to ask you to -come down to Monk’s Gate, and give me a -little advice? There is some furniture in it, -but I don’t know whether it can be used. I -am a man, you see, and naturally helpless in -such a case. If you did not mind very -much——’</p> - -<p>‘I shall be delighted. I will come down -as soon as ever I have finished. Shall I find -you there?’</p> - -<p>‘You will find me there. If not in the -house, in the garden; and if not in the garden, -in the house. Thank you, very much.’</p> - -<p>Lifting his hat he left her, and went down -the river walk.</p> - -<p>Adamson, the gardener, found his young -mistress strangely distraite and forgetful—a -phenomenon which puzzled him, for he was - -<span class="pagenum">[278]</span> - -wont to bear admiring testimony to her clearness -of head, and readiness of comprehension, -saying: ‘Eh, but hoo’s a rare sharp un, is -Miss Bolton. Hoo’s a chip of the ’owd -block in more ways nor one, <em>hoo</em> is.’</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>Wellfield, meanwhile, had taken his way -down the river walk, the entrance to which -was in the village street, close beside the -ancient stone bridge. On the other side of -this bridge, a stony, steep, wood-shaded walk -led invitingly up a hill, then bent round to -the left, leaving the rest of that enticing way -to conjecture. This path, as Jerome remembered, -took one to the top of a hill called -Wellfield Nab or Neb, or simply ‘the Nab.’ -He remembered climbing it sixteen years -ago, with his tutor and John Leyburn; and -the glorious view of the surrounding country -which it commanded, he remembered too.</p> - -<p>At the foot of the Nab, almost out of sight -from the bridge, he could just catch a glimpse -of a couple of gables, belonging to the Abbot’s -Knoll house—Leyburn’s dwelling. John rode - -<span class="pagenum">[279]</span> - -every morning to his mill, which was some -two miles distant, on the road to Burnham.</p> - -<p>Down the quaint paved street Jerome -walked towards the church, that ancient -‘white church under the hill,’ which had -weathered so many storms and troubles. A -sleepy place, Wellfield—a place which seemed -forgotten of all men save the few who lived -in it.</p> - -<p>Monk’s Gate was only a very few minutes’ -walk from the church, the clock of which -struck eleven as Jerome opened the gate of -the garden.</p> - -<p>He unlocked the door, and went into the -house again, but did not remain there long. -He felt that he really did require Nita’s assistance, -and must wait until she arrived.</p> - -<p>The quiet and sunshine of the old-fashioned, -untidy garden were congenial to him. He -wandered about it, inhaling the scent of roses -and carnations, and the rich, spicy odours -of picotees and the old-fashioned white -pink. The sun shone pleasantly upon everything, -doing his best towards ripening the - -<span class="pagenum">[280]</span> - -young pears and apples on the trees, and -bringing the flowers into more ample bloom. -Where is the charm that can compete with -that which pervades an old-fashioned English -garden?—the flavour of grace and quaintness, -and the suggestions of a ‘gentle life’ which -hang about such a garden are to be found -nowhere else.</p> - -<p>Wellfield had turned his back to the gate, -and was looking at the great, blunt, boulder-shaped -head of Penhull, and observing the -purple mist of heather which clothed its -mighty sides, when a voice behind him said:</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Wellfield!’</p> - -<p>He turned, a curious thrill shooting through -him. The speaker must, he thought, have -almost stolen up to him, so noiseless had -been his approach. He confronted a tall, -spare man, in the dress of an ecclesiastic. -The voice in which he had spoken was soft -and musical; he took off his hat with a smile, -as Jerome’s eyes met his, and the smile was -a singularly fascinating one, giving an expression -of exceeding graciousness and sweetness - -<span class="pagenum">[281]</span> - -to a pale, finely cut, ascetic-looking countenance. -There was a courtly grace in the -man’s appearance, in his bow and manner.</p> - -<p>For a moment Wellfield paused, then, -bowing in his turn, said:</p> - -<p>‘Surely I cannot be mistaken—you are -the Father Pablo Somerville whom I met -years ago?’</p> - -<p>‘The same,’ he replied. ‘I am glad to -find you remember me. For me, I saw you -as I passed the garden, and concluded it was -you; but had I met you anywhere else, I -should have known you instantly.’</p> - -<p>‘Am I so little changed, then?’</p> - -<p>‘Not much. And,’ with a slight smile, -‘even had you changed a good deal, yours is -not a face one soon forgets.’</p> - -<p>Wellfield held out his hand, saying cordially, -‘I am glad to see you.’ He felt glad. In -Somerville’s presence he felt at ease—felt as -though he were with one of his own kind; a -sensation he had never experienced since -before his father’s death, and which was pleasant -to him, as it is pleasant to return to - -<span class="pagenum">[282]</span> - -European civilisation, with its beloved and -elaborate shams, after wandering amidst the -primitive and repulsive honesty of savages; -as it is pleasant to return to stove-heated -rooms and a perfumed atmosphere, to rich -meats and dainty wines, after a forced sojourn -amongst bare boards, hard pallets, and a diet -of bread and water. Such exactly was the -sensation experienced now by Wellfield, as -he clasped hands with this high-bred, polished-looking -priest and man of the world.</p> - -<p>‘I would ask you into my house, but I -doubt whether there is a chair in it fit to sit -upon. I only arrived here yesterday, and am -surveying now all the home that I have.’</p> - -<p>‘The Abbey has passed away from you, as -I heard,’ observed Somerville. ‘That is a -pity, for many reasons. We at Brentwood -at least regret it. In the old days, when -your forefathers belonged to us, Wellfield -Abbey was noted far and wide for the munificence -of its gifts, and the splendour of its -hospitality. Even in the days when your -people were Protestants, they have always - -<span class="pagenum">[283]</span> - -been gentlemen—Wellfields, despite the Protestantism, -and they have never treated us -churlishly. Down to the last visit of your -late father to the Abbey, we were always -received with hospitality and kindness—then, -especially, for Mrs. Wellfield was there——’</p> - -<p>‘My mother!’ exclaimed Jerome, eagerly, -‘Did you ever see her? Were you at the -Abbey then?’</p> - -<p>‘It is a long time ago. Twenty-four years -ago. I was a lad of thirteen; and I was even -then destined for the priesthood. I have -been at Brentwood all my life. I was taken -by one of the professors, to call at Wellfield -Abbey, and I remember it well to this day. -It was winter weather, and there were roaring -fires all over the old house. Mr. Wellfield -complained of everything being heated -to furnace-heat. Your beautiful young -mother—and she <em>was</em> beautiful—sat crouching -over a huge fire, with you—a little -infant—swathed in warm shawls, in her arms. -I think all the beauty of her beautiful land -was concentrated in her. What wonder that - -<span class="pagenum">[284]</span> - -I sat and gazed at her, and thought her like -the Madonna, and wondered how Father -Leigh presumed to talk, and even laugh -with her?’</p> - -<p>‘You remember all this!’ exclaimed Jerome, -earnestly. ‘Since I came here, almost every -hour has brought back some incident, some -recollection, some remembered face, which -have made the reverse more cruel, and more -terrible to bear, than I had imagined anything -could be.’</p> - -<p>‘I can well believe it. <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">Autres temps, autres -mœurs.</i> Things are changed now, from that -time of gracious hospitality and high-bred -courtesy. The present owner of Wellfield -Abbey’ (a slight sneer played about the -finely-cut lips) ‘detests “Papists” with a -truly Protestant candour and liberality. I -must say, even if it appear like boasting, -that his bigotry is his misfortune, since the -“Papists” he objects to are the only society -worthy of the name in the neighbourhood.’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose so,’ said Jerome, whose face -had grown dark during this discourse. He - -<span class="pagenum">[285]</span> - -was pacing with Somerville up and down the -gravel walk.</p> - -<p>‘Yes. The Lathebys of Latheby—do -you remember them?’</p> - -<p>‘The name I know well enough. What -of them?’</p> - -<p>‘They were formerly on the best of terms -with the Abbey. You must come and see -the exquisite chapel which Mrs. Latheby has -offered to Brentwood. And the Ormes of -Brownhill, and some others—these are the -only gentry, and the only cultivated people -for miles around. But Mr. Bolton does not -care to associate with such popish <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">canaille</i>.’</p> - -<p>He smiled again, more sneeringly than -before, and Jerome felt his heart warm -towards him. This classification of Mr. -Bolton with one world, and of himself with -quite another, was not unpleasant to him.</p> - -<p>‘Many things have happened which go -sorely against the grain with me,’ he rejoined. -‘The mischief of it is, my hands are tied. I -am powerless, because I am moneyless.’</p> - -<p>‘I have heard of your losses,’ said Father - -<span class="pagenum">[286]</span> - -Somerville, ‘and regret them. You will -believe me, Mr. Wellfield, when I say that -we at Brentwood would have welcomed you -back in any case, rich or poor, with the -Abbey or without it, as a gentleman and a -civilised being. We shall welcome you as it -is, if you decide to settle amongst us—welcome -you heartily. And you will think no -wrong when I say that had you been coming -amongst us to take that position which in the -sight of heaven you ought to have, we should -have welcomed you, not more sincerely, but -perhaps more openly and ceremoniously.’</p> - -<p>‘You flatter me,’ said Jerome, a flush of -something like pleasure on his cheek. ‘Such -a welcome can by no means be indifferent to -me. As to settling here myself, it seems the -only thing for me to do at present. At any -rate, even if I should have to leave, I shall -bring my sister here, and she will live here.’</p> - -<p>‘Your sister! How old is Miss Wellfield, -if I may ask?’</p> - -<p>‘Sixteen. She is at present in Germany -with—a friend.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[287]</span></p> - -<p>‘I see. When you have settled things, -you will bring her here. And yourself—pardon -these inquiries, and do not answer them if -you think them not allowable, but——’</p> - -<p>‘They are more than allowable. They -are very kind; and I feel it a privilege to be -able to speak to you of my affairs,’ returned -Wellfield, with some animation. ‘Myself, I -consider destitute until I have found some -employment. What little remains of my -fortune, I shall devote entirely to my sister’s -use. With strict economy, and in this quiet -place, I may make it suffice for her wants. -They say trade is good. I may succeed in -finding a clerk’s place in some office, in -which a “thorough knowledge of several -foreign languages” is a desideratum, though, -to tell the truth, I should first have to learn -the entire technique of any business I entered. -I should be a bad bargain at first for any -employer, whatever glories I might attain to -later in the matter of book-keeping or correspondence. -Still, I may earn enough to -keep me—what do I know?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[288]</span></p> - -<p>He threw up his head, and laughed a little, -plunging his hands into his pockets. Father -Somerville watched him narrowly and unobserved. -The study pleased him, interested -him, made him curious to pursue it further.</p> - -<p>There was a pause till the priest said:</p> - -<p>‘If I remember aright, you are a good -musician, Mr. Wellfield.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes. It is the only thing I have—the -only talent my God has given me. Of much -use it appears it will be to me!’</p> - -<p>‘Hush, hush, sir! As you say, your God -has given it to you, and He doubtless had -some purpose in so endowing you.’</p> - -<p>‘I beg your pardon,’ muttered Jerome. -‘It is not my habit to speak in that manner; -but I have been harassed almost to madness -by the embarrassments and difficulties of -my position. Sometimes I have wondered -whether the last Wellfield was sent into the -world to make a name and a fortune on the -stage.’</p> - -<p>‘I can well understand your feelings. -Where are you staying?’ he added, suddenly. - -<span class="pagenum">[289]</span> - -‘At an inn? Will you not come and take -shelter with us at Brentwood. They would -be——’</p> - -<p>‘I thank you. I am staying at the Abbey.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, at the Abbey? Then you simply -came down here for a stroll. Will they turn -you out of the Abbey as a polluted thing if -you enter Brentwood to take a meal there?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t suppose they would; but at this -moment I am waiting, and must continue to -wait until she comes, for Miss Bolton, who -has been kind enough to promise me her -assistance in deciding what part of the lumber -inside here is fit to keep and which is good -only to be cast into the fire.’</p> - -<p>‘You know Miss Bolton, then?’</p> - -<p>‘I made her acquaintance, and that of her -father, yesterday; and they asked me to stay -with them until my business here was done.’</p> - -<p>‘Her father is enormously rich.’</p> - -<p>‘Is he? I knew he must be rich from the -sum he paid my father for the Abbey. I did -not know his wealth was “enormous.”’</p> - -<p>‘But it is, without any exaggeration. He - -<span class="pagenum">[290]</span> - -has been one of the most successful manufacturers -in Burnham, and does an immense -foreign trade: perhaps your knowledge of -foreign languages might be useful to him. -Knowledge <em>is</em> power, you know, let fools say -what they may against it,’ observed Father -Somerville, who had a way of throwing out -hints which suggested the largest possibilities, -in a casual careless way which was quite -peculiar to him.</p> - -<p>‘It is no small thing to be one of the -wealthiest manufacturers of Burnham,’ he went -on. ‘In plain English, it means an income -like that of a nobleman—an income which in -this case is not one quarter spent, but which -goes on accumulating in excellent investments.... -And Miss Bolton is sole heiress?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes—so I understand,’ said Jerome, -absently, his mind occupied with the priest’s -suggestion that perhaps his knowledge of -languages might prove useful to Mr. Bolton. -Why not? It would be well for him if it -should turn out to be so. The natural indolence -of his half-southern temperament made - -<span class="pagenum">[291]</span> - -the idea of strenuous exertion in search of -employment, which hardly could in the nature -of things be remunerative, utterly abhorrent -to him; and he grasped with the more eagerness -at the idea suggested by Somerville’s -words.</p> - -<p>The latter was tempted to smile at what -at first appeared the obtuseness of the young -man. But he was a man of the world. -Wellfield’s absence of mind, and his unconsciousness -of the hint which lay behind that -remark about the sole heiress, might be an -innocence which would certainly be refreshing -in one who must have been the object of -so much matrimonial angling as Jerome -Wellfield, in the days when he had been the -supposed heir to the Abbey and a fortune; -but it also might not be innocence at all. It -might be that some deeper reason caused that -obtuseness. Probably young Wellfield was -in love already. With his disposition, and -with the life he had led, it was most unlikely -that he should have travelled so far in life -without ever having had his heart touched.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[292]</span></p> - -<p>Pablo Somerville knew when to be reserved -and when to be open, even cynically open and -candid. He judged this a fitting occasion on -which to display the latter qualities.</p> - -<p>‘She knows it, I should imagine?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Yes—of course, yes. She told me this -morning how pleased she often felt at the -idea of one day owning the Abbey,’ said -Jerome, still not awake to the palpable bearings -of the case.</p> - -<p>(‘<i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">Quelle bêtise!</i> -—how like a <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">roturier</i>!’ -flashed rapidly through Somerville’s mind; -‘if she likes the Abbey, no doubt she would -like the owner—the once owner!’)</p> - -<p>Aloud, he said, striking at once me, and -sharply:</p> - -<p>‘Has a <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">mariage de convenance</i> never occurred -to you as a way out of your difficulties?’ -he inquired, in a thoroughly matter-of-fact, -composed tone.</p> - -<p>Jerome abruptly came to a dead stop. His -eyes leaped to the other’s face. The priest -looked at him with a slight cool smile, half -rallying, half surprised.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[293]</span></p> - -<p>‘Never,’ at last replied Wellfield, almost -frigidly. But his heart was beating fast and -suddenly.</p> - -<p>‘I am surprised at that. I should fancy it -would be very easily arranged. And then, if -you really wish for employment, nothing would -be easier than to find it. It is always to be -bought, if you will pay dear enough for -it. Were you but a Catholic, I know -of one—two marriages of that kind, which -might soon be negotiated through our influence. -As it is, I am not Jesuit enough to -pretend that I would connive at marrying a -Catholic heiress to a heretic, even where the -heretic is Jerome Wellfield.’</p> - -<p>Jerome laughed a little. ‘It would certainly -be a good deal to expect,’ said he.</p> - -<p>‘It would, since you would probably not -only marry the heiress, but convert her, if -you wished to. But why should you not -think of Miss Bolton? You would soon win -her, and, with her, regain your patrimony and -your home.’</p> - -<p>He did not expatiate upon the subject. - -<span class="pagenum">[294]</span> - -Jerome, engrossed by his real love, had absolutely -not once thought of Miss Bolton in -the light in which she was now held up -to him. She was very rich. Some time she -would be the mistress of Wellfield Abbey. -He rather liked her, in a superior, patronising -kind of way, but otherwise she was utterly -indifferent to him; whereas every fibre of his -heart was powerfully drawn in another direction.</p> - -<p>‘Impossible, Father! The circumstances -make it out of the question,’ said he, coldly -and decisively.</p> - -<p>‘The course is clear,’ said the priest, -calmly. ‘Miss Bolton is not engaged. She -is anything but disagreeable or stupid. Considering -her training, she is a marvel of -refinement; and if you married her you could -make her into what you pleased. You have -no rivals, and if you had, none here who -could for a moment compete with yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘Pardon me; I know nothing of Miss -Bolton’s feelings, of course, but unless I am -much mistaken I have—should have, I - -<span class="pagenum">[295]</span> - -mean—a rival in her cousin, John Leyburn, -as good a fellow as ever breathed.’</p> - -<p>Father Somerville laughed—laughed as a -man laughs who has heard a jest full of a -quaint conceit which delights him. He had -a musical laugh, and there was nothing offensive -in his manner.</p> - -<p>‘A good fellow enough, and liberal minded. -I have encountered him once or twice on -local business. But a girl like Miss Bolton -wants something more than a good fellow for -a husband—something different, at least. -She lives alone, reads novels and poetry, has -known Mr. Leyburn all her life, while you—bah! -my dear sir, the idea of a rivalry is -absurd.’</p> - -<p>‘Your imagination is vivid. I say again, -it is out of the question. No. Wellfield is -gone from me, and I must abide without it as -best I may.’</p> - -<p>(‘A woman in the case, assuredly,’ thought -the priest, ‘or he would never hesitate. No -Wellfield ever did hesitate at so easy a means -of making himself at ease again. It was - -<span class="pagenum">[296]</span> - -honest work that always made that race kick -and plunge.’)</p> - -<p>Before he could speak aloud the gate had -been opened, and Nita, accompanied by -Speedwell, her mastiff, entered the garden.</p> - -<p>‘We must drop that topic,’ murmured -Somerville with a slight smile, as he bowed -low to the girl, who returned the salutation -very slightly, saying with marked coolness of -manner to Jerome:</p> - -<p>‘You are engaged, Mr. Wellfield. I am -intruding, and will come another time.’</p> - -<p>‘By no means,’ said Somerville, quickly. -‘I must go—I was on the point of taking -leave.’</p> - -<p>‘But I shall see you again,’ said Jerome.</p> - -<p>‘Certainly, and often, if I consult my own -inclination,’ said Somerville, with his strange, -sweet smile. ‘Call at Brentwood, and ask -for me at any hour after vespers, and I shall -receive you with pleasure.’</p> - -<p>Nita, followed by her dog, had walked into -the house while these farewell amenities were -taking place.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[297]</span></p> - -<p>‘Will you not come to-morrow?’ added -Father Somerville.</p> - -<p>‘Thank you. I shall be glad to do so.’</p> - -<p>‘That is well. Then, <i xml:lang="de" lang="de">auf Wiedersehen</i>!’</p> - -<p>He lifted his hat, and was gone. Jerome -entered the house, and found Nita standing -at the window of the larger parlour, motionless, -her eyes fixed upon the retreating figure -of the priest in his long black soutane. -Speedwell, his forepaws upon the window-ledge, -looked too. Nita did not hear Jerome. -She was too absorbed in her watch, but as he -entered, he saw her pat her dog’s head and -heard a low ‘Ss --s!’ from her lips.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Bolton!’ he exclaimed, in astonishment, -while Speedwell’s low, thunderous -growl was exchanged for two deep, angry -barks.</p> - -<p>Nita started, turned, and laughed.</p> - -<p>‘Are you shocked?’ she said. ‘I do so -hate that man. I call him the “Polished -Panther.” I should not wish to be rude to -him if he is a friend of yours, but for myself, -I cannot stand him, and that is all about it.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[298]</span></p> - -<p>‘I can hardly call him a friend, though he -is an old acquaintance. Do you know what -post he has at Brentwood?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you know they go through a course. -They don’t keep on teaching the same thing. -I heard the other day that he was teaching -history—Jesuit history, of course, which -proves beyond dispute that the Jesuits -always have been right, ever since the first -one first founded the order, and that everyone -else always has been and will be wrong. -That is what Father Somerville is teaching -at present, I believe.’</p> - -<p>‘You speak with heat, and surely with a -little prejudice,’ said he, smiling, but—insensibly -it seemed—his manner towards her had -changed, had taken a shade more of interest, -of familiarity; there was a subtle difference -both in his feelings towards her, and the -behaviour which expressed those feelings. -‘Father Somerville is an accomplished——’</p> - -<p>‘Deceiver! Oh yes; I know he is. He -would deceive anyone less clever than himself. -I dislike him exceedingly, and so does - -<span class="pagenum">[299]</span> - -Speedwell. Well, shall we look at your -furniture, Mr. Wellfield?’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you,’ said Jerome, accepting the -hint, if hint it were—‘if you don’t mind.’</p> - -<p>They began with the room in which they -were standing, and Nita soon displayed capacities -for arranging and settling and turning -things to the best advantage, which perfectly -astonished Jerome. Numbers of things -which he was about to cast aside as being -utterly useless, she quickly reclaimed, remarking -that they only wanted such and such repairs -to make them serviceable and even good.</p> - -<p>‘And it would be sinful to throw away a -scrap of this old furniture,’ she added. ‘You -can’t buy any like it except for fabulous -prices, and then you are never sure that you -are not being cheated. I am convinced that for -fifty pounds or so, you may make the house -very nice—at least if you will let me dispose -of the fifty pounds for you,’ she added, colouring -a little; ‘for I am sure you would be -like a child—so helpless—if you went alone -to a furniture shop.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum">[300]</span></p> - -<p>‘I do not doubt it, and would accept your -offer gratefully if I did not think it was imposing -on your kindness.’</p> - -<p>‘Not at all. We will drive into Burnham -to-morrow, and see about it,’ replied Nita. -‘Meantime, it is nearly dinner-time, and papa -will be waiting. Shall we go back to the -Abbey?’</p> - -<p>Jerome accompanied her to her home, with -new agitation in his breast, and a vague -wonder whether, for the future, Monk’s Gate -were to be his home.</p> -<br> -<br> -</div> - -<p class="center">END OF VOL. I.<br><br></p> - -<hr class="r41"> -<p class="center small">BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD.</p> - -<p class="pend"> -<i>J. S. & Sons.</i><br><br></p> - -<hr class="chap"> -<br> - -<div class="footnotes"> -<blockquote> -<p class="footnote"><span class="smcap"><b>Footnote.</b></span></p> -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[A]</a> -<i xml:lang="de" lang="de">Mein Genügen</i>—‘my content,’ or ‘my delight.’</p> -</div> -</blockquote> -</div> -<br> - -<div class="tnotes"> -<p><span class="smcap">Transcriber’s Notes.</span></p> -<p> 1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical - errors.</p> -<p> 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="full"> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELLFIELDS ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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/69428-h/images/a005_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/a005_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 798a301..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/a005_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/a005_deco2.png b/old/69428-h/images/a005_deco2.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index b7a270e..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/a005_deco2.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/69428-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index fb6aa5e..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/leaves_rule.png b/old/69428-h/images/leaves_rule.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 572e86c..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/leaves_rule.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p001_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p001_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index c6a606a..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p001_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p001_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p001_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index c99b505..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p001_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p016_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p016_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 1ee30cb..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p016_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p041_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p041_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f511726..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p041_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p041_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p041_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 47113b7..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p041_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p072_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p072_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f9aee29..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p072_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p072_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p072_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index aed2a59..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p072_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p116_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p116_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index ff7115c..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p116_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p116_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p116_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index c6b43ff..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p116_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p133_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p133_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 9239cb2..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p133_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p133_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p133_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 8b6fd05..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p133_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p155_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p155_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f511726..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p155_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p155_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p155_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 436a575..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p155_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p163_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p163_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index c20ce9c..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p163_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p163_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p163_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 9232f63..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p163_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p183_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p183_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 2ffa76f..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p183_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p183_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p183_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 213e44d..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p183_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p195_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p195_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 1277755..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p195_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p195_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p195_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index bf65ca7..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p195_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p204_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p204_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 8aa65bf..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p204_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p204_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p204_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index edf8e4e..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p204_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p217_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p217_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 5d2da4a..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p217_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p217_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p217_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 2006738..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p217_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p229_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p229_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 5e3b5ae..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p229_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p229_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p229_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index c8a0cd1..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p229_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p258_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p258_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index bdaa60f..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p258_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p258_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p258_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 71bf10f..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p258_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p265_cap.png b/old/69428-h/images/p265_cap.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 49551c7..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p265_cap.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/p265_deco.png b/old/69428-h/images/p265_deco.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 51dd8d7..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/p265_deco.png +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/69428-h/images/title.png b/old/69428-h/images/title.png Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 398234b..0000000 --- a/old/69428-h/images/title.png +++ /dev/null |
