IRREVOCABLE.
Many days elapsed before Sara was permitted to see anyone. Then, one
afternoon, Frau Wilhelmi was allowed to call, and sat for a few moments
talking of the most commonplace and least agitating topics. On the
afternoon following that, Ellen cautiously began to prepare the way for
Falkenberg. As soon as she mentioned his name, her mistress said:
‘If Herr Falkenberg calls, I should like to see him.’
This was when she was so far recovered as to be dressed about noon, or
one o’clock, and, half carried, half walking, to make a pilgrimage to
the couch or _chaise longue_ in her parlour, there to remain until the
authorities intimated that it was time to go to bed again.
Falkenberg did call, half an hour after those words had passed between
Ellen and her mistress. Ellen repeated them to him, and ushered him
into the parlour, where Sara lay on the couch, looking infinitely weak
and exhausted, and scarcely able to lift a hand, or to smile faintly,
when the tall, strong man came softly up to her; his face working, his
eyes dim.
‘You have been very good–unspeakably good,’ she said weakly, as he
bent speechlessly over her hand. ‘Ellen has told me of your great
goodness,’ she added, in a stronger voice.
‘There is no goodness–there has been nothing but the pleasure I have
felt in gratifying my own wishes,’ he said, in a husky, broken voice.
‘It is good to see your face again, and to hear your voice, after the
Valley of the Shadow of Death,’ she replied, her hollow eyes dwelling,
with an expression of something like curiosity, upon his face.
‘Do not let us speak of that. You are here once more in the light of
life–to work, and hope, and make us glad again.’
She shook her head slowly.
‘You are far wiser than I am,’ she answered, ‘so I will not contradict
you.’
‘But in the meantime, you disagree with me from beginning to end,’ he
said, regaining his composure gradually. ‘You feel that hope and work
are over for you.’
‘Yes, I feel as if I did not want to see the light of the sun any more.’
‘Nor to talk or think about anything again?’ he suggested, and his
voice trembled; he trembled himself–his heart was in his throat.
‘Yes, just so,’ was the languid reply.
‘And I am here, brutally to disturb and deny that wish of yours. I am
here to give you something to think about, and to tell you of something
I want you to do.’
‘And what is that?’
‘When I say I _want_ you to do it, that is a poor, inadequate word. I
pray and implore you to keep your promise to me, and as soon as may
be–to-morrow, or the day after–to become my wife. I have arranged all
the preliminaries. In consequence of your serious illness, the usual
notice has been dispensed with. I have nothing to do but intimate to
the Bürgermeister the day and the hour for the ceremony, and he, or his
representative, will come here to perform it.’
‘But–but–surely you have reconsidered it?’ she said, flushing
painfully.
‘I have considered it again and again, with the same result always. Mr.
Wellfield’s marriage is in the _Times_ this morning, to Miss Bolton of
Wellfield Abbey.’
Sara winced, and he went on:
‘The Wilhelmis know. The Professor and the Frau Professorin have
promised to act as witnesses.’
‘You have told them?’ she ejaculated.
‘Yes–because I know that _you_ are not a person to go back from your
word,’ he answered steadily, and he knew that he had conquered–whether
because she was weak and feeble, and he strong and determined, or from
what cause soever–he knew the game was his when she said, slowly:
‘You know what people will say of me–that I tried very hard for you,
and married you for your money, and so on.’
‘_Herrgott!_ yes. I know the whole of the jargon they will gabble
amongst themselves. Let them, if they like.’
She looked utterly weary, exhausted and worn out. When she spoke her
voice was scarce audible. He had to lean towards her to catch the
faltering words:
‘If I do–will you–settle everything–no questions–no thinking? I
_cannot think_.’
‘You shall hear no more about it until the Bürgermeister comes to marry
us. A few words then, and the signing of your name, and all will be
over.’
‘Very well. Arrange it all as you wish, and I will do it,’ said she,
and turned her head away, and shut her eyes, as if too tired ever to
open them again.
‘You shall not repent it. I promise that you shall not repent it,’ he
said, carrying her passive hand to his lips.
Then he left the room. Outside he saw Mrs. Nelson, and took her aside
into Sara’s atelier.
‘We shall be married to-morrow, Ellen,’ he observed.
‘Thank God, sir! I believe it will be the saving of my mistress.’ She
paused, and added: ‘I hope you don’t think of separating us, sir–Miss
Ford and me. It would be sorely distressing to us both.’
‘Never, while you both live, believe me. I shall have to leave her in
your hands for a long time to come yet.’
With that he hastened away, leaving Ellen in a more contented frame of
mind than she had enjoyed for a long time.
* * * * *
It was afternoon of the following day. Sara was much in the same
state–no stronger, no weaker. She saw, with something like apathy, how
Wilhelmi, his wife, and Luise came into her room together, spoke to
her, and seated themselves side by side.
She had a faint remembrance that Rudolf had said something about
witnesses; she was not quite sure what it all meant, but no doubt it
was right. Falkenberg was there too, seated beside her, and, in an
unconscious appeal to his protecting power, she had moved her hand into
his, and then lay back in her chair, silent and indifferent. He said
something to her, an explanation, it seemed, of the circumstances;
something about–
‘In cases like this, Sara, they dispense with the usual notice, so
there has been no difficulty about getting it done at once.’
She looked rather blankly at him, and in her own mind wondered vaguely
what it meant.
Then some strangers entered–the Bürgermeister and his clerk. Words
were read. Something was brought to her to sign, which deed, with
Rudolf’s assistance, she accomplished. Questions were asked as to her
age, her name, parentage, and occupation. At each of these she looked
helplessly at Falkenberg, or at Ellen, who stood at the other side of
her couch. Then more reading; then a wedding-ring was put upon her
finger, and would have rolled off again had not Rudolf caught her hand
and held it fast in his.
Then the Bürgermeister and his clerk took their hats, murmured
severally, ‘_Empfehle mich zu gnaden_,’ bowed to the assembled company,
and were gone.
Frau Wilhelmi and Luise came up and kissed her tenderly, and she saw
that their eyes were full of tears. Then the Professor came up and took
her hand–the good Wilhelmi–and she remembered his generous kindness
to her, and smiled what was intended for a grateful smile at him,
whereat his eyes too filled with tears, and he too stooped, and kissed
her forehead, and said something incoherent about a _geliebtes Kind_, a
_beste Schülerin_.
Then they were all gone, and she was left alone with Ellen and Rudolf.
And then Ellen left the room too, while he still sat beside her holding
her hand, till at last a little pressure from her fingers caused him to
turn and look at her.
She saw that his eyes were moist, and she paused as she beheld the
expression upon his face–the love that transfigured it. At last she
asked:
‘Are we married now?’
‘Yes, we are married.’
‘I am afraid I have done you a great wrong in consenting.’
‘Are you? It is rather early to begin with such forebodings. What makes
you think so?’
‘I feel as if I should never be worth anything again, and that if I
were I should not make you happy.’
‘My child, it was not happiness I wanted, but you, glad or sorry,
“loving or loth.” Rest content. I shall never repent.’
‘Promise me that.’
‘I promise it fully and freely.’
‘Then I am more satisfied.’
‘That is all I ask of you.’
They became silent, and he still sat beside her, her hand locked in
his; and as the short December afternoon closed in, she shut her
eyes, worn out even with this quiet excitement, and he could not tell
whether she slept or not. In the quiet room there was utter peace and
stillness–a wasted, pallid-looking woman, with eyes wearily closed,
and breathing so lightly her bosom scarce seemed to move; a man
watching beside her, whose strong, calm face never lost its expression
of assured contentment, and whose eyes were full of peace: surely no
very remarkable scene. But the whole of the gossip-loving town of
Elberthal was ringing with the names of that man and that woman.
It happened to be Frau Wilhelmi’s reception night, and great was the
disappointment felt because neither she, nor her husband, nor her
daughter would enlarge upon the subject of the marriage they had
witnessed that afternoon–would say nothing more than that _if_ Miss
Ford recovered, they were sure it would be an excellent thing.
Max Helmuth found his Luise very subdued, and very tender. No sarcasm
and no coquetries greeted him that night. When he asked her why she was
so quiet, tears filled her eyes, and she answered:
‘Ah, if you knew, _Schatz_! I cannot think of anything but this
afternoon. It was like a beautiful legend. Do you know that little
picture of papa’s, which he shows to very few people, and then he
generally tells them it is a head of St. Ignatius Loyola?’
‘I know it–yes.’
‘Yes. But to me he always calls it “The Human Face _Divine_,” and so it
is. Falkenberg had just the same look this morning, in his eyes, and on
his mouth. When I think of that, and then hear these wretches gossiping
about it, it makes me feel–I don’t know how. I know I will never talk
gossip again, Max.’
‘Till the next time, _Liebchen_! But I hope Miss Ford will recover, and
make him happy, as he deserves to be.’
[Illustration]