‘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]