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]