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]