DOUBTS.
‘I pray you, is death or birth
The thing that men call so weary?’
The days of her convalescence passed to Sara like a long, vague
dream. Slowly, very slowly, she recovered strength–as if some inner
instinct made her unwilling to return to her place amongst that common
humanity which had lately dealt her so bitter a blow. December was
waning–Christmas was close at hand–before she had gained sufficient
strength to walk from one room to the other. That feat was first
accomplished with the assistance of Rudolf’s arm. Then she was able to
do it alone. It was after this that she gained strength daily, and with
physical strength also returned mental strength. She had drifted on,
seeing no visitors save one, and even that one, Rudolf, had been absent
for some days, on the plea of business. He had left no word as to when
he should return, or what his plans were.
It was the 22nd of December. Falkenberg had been absent for five days,
and it was now that doubts and fears began to distress Sara’s soul.
For the last few days she had been reflecting, deeply and uneasily, as
Ellen saw, watching the face she loved. She dreaded the result of those
meditations. Falkenberg’s cause was her cause, and she wished he would
return. But this afternoon she had a duty to perform, and, seeing Sara
sitting lost in thought, and that thought apparently of no pleasant
nature, she said:
‘You look a deal better, ma’am, this afternoon. Do you think you would
be equal to looking at the letters that have come for you while you
were ill?’
‘Letters! Are there any letters for me?’ she demanded eagerly, her
whole aspect changing. ‘Bring them at once. Why did you not tell me
before?’
‘The doctor said you had better not have them, and Herr Falkenberg said
I was on no account to give you them till you were stronger,’ said
Ellen, unlocking a drawer, and taking them out. Her back was turned to
Sara, or she might have seen the sudden start of the latter at this
decided mention of Falkenberg’s name, and this close connection of him
and his orders with her and her affairs. Her colour changed, and she
bit her lip. But she did not speak as Ellen put the letters into her
hand. Her cheek flushed as she turned them over. There was one with
the postmark Nassau upon it, and a countess’s coronet on the flap.
That was from Frau von Trockenau. And there was one directed in Avice
Wellfield’s hand. Her face changed as she looked at them, and observed
the dates on the postmarks. They had both been written lately–the
countess’s since her marriage, for it was addressed–Sara turned hot
and cold and trembled as she saw the superscription–to Frau Rudolf
Falkenberg. She opened this letter first, and read it:
‘DEAREST SARA,
‘How can I describe the feelings with which I have heard of the
strange things that have happened to you–of your illness (thank
God that you are now restored to us!)–and of your marriage to Rudolf
Falkenberg? I knew he loved you. I flatter myself that I was the
very first to discover how suitable and delightful such a marriage
would be. I can only offer to both of you my most hearty, unmixed
congratulations. _Ja, ich gratulire vom ganzen Herzen, und mein Mann
auch._ I think, if ever there was a noble, generous, good fellow, it
is the man you have married. I should say he was perfect if I were
speaking to an ordinary person, but I know you agree with me that
perfect people must be so very horrid, and it always sounds to me more
of an insult than anything else to call a person perfect. But it is a
perfect arrangement all the same. How seldom, dear Sara, do we find
the ways of Providence exemplified thus clearly and simply–everything
working together for good in so palpable a manner that he who runs
may read.’ [The countess’s moral reflections had been wont, in former
days, to excite Sara’s intense amusement. Even now, in the tumult of
her feelings, she could not help smiling at this specimen of them.]
‘It does my heart good–it does indeed. I feel as happy as I did
myself when I had just been married to Fritz. Write, or get your
husband to write, as soon as possible, to tell me how soon you will
come to see us, and what your movements are going to be. How I long to
see you both!
‘Yours,
‘CARLA VON TROCKENAU.’
Sara drew a long breath as she finished reading this effusion, and the
colour rushed over her cheeks and brow and throat. Now, for the first
time, she began to realise what the step meant that she had taken.
In vain she tried to reassure herself by recalling Rudolf’s promise
that she should not repent, and that he would never repent. She could
not be calm; she could not view the matter indifferently. She could
not rid herself of the idea that she had hurried and hastened to take
an irrevocable step; that in her agony of outraged pride and love
repulsed, she had promised, and in her after state of helpless weakness
and weary indifference she had done that which might mar a good man’s
life, and make her own even more miserable than she had expected it
would be.
What was she to do? How to meet him? When he came she must brace
herself to the task of coming to some explanation, and she shrank in
anticipation from what must be so intensely painful an interview.
Thus meditating, her eye fell upon Avice’s letter. At first she could
only look at it, she could not open it. With the sight of that familiar
handwriting there came rushing over her mind a vivid recollection of
all the past sweetness and bitterness connected with Avice and those
belonging to her. There came the recollection of Jerome–a memory
which had slumbered since her illness, and which she had never allowed
to awaken. Now it sprang forth again, irresistible, strong, and
overpowering. Again she felt his influence, recalled to mind the love
she had borne him, the–what was this feeling she experienced even now?
Surely she did not love him yet? ‘No!’ cried every voice within her.
And yet, beyond them all, was a whisper, more potent than any of them,
asking what it was that she felt, demanding to know the meaning of this
eager longing, this _Sehnsucht_, this yearning.
‘I am sure I have done wrong. I have made a horrible mistake!’ she
repeated to herself. ‘What am I to do? How shall I repair it?’
With an effort she opened Avice’s letter, and read it with a throbbing
heart. The girl gave a full account of her arrival at home, and of
all that had happened since. She implored Sara to remember that she
had known nothing of all that was going on, and not to punish her for
Jerome’s sin. She related how the marriage was over, how Jerome and
Nita were away, and she was at the Abbey with Mr. Bolton and Miss
Shuttleworth as her companions; how Mr. Bolton was going to live at
Monk’s Gate, ‘when they came home,’ but that she, Avice, was to live
at the Abbey with ‘them.’
With beating heart Sara read Avice’s description of Nita, and
understood at once that it must have been Wellfield throughout, who had
played a double game, and had deceived both the woman he loved, and the
woman whom he had married.
This was no case of a vulgar heiress who was anxious to ally herself
with a man of old name; it was the case of a very simple-hearted loving
girl, who had lost her heart irrevocably, and who would evidently
suffer as intensely in her way, if not so passionately, as Sara Ford
herself had suffered, if ever she knew the truth.
Avice betrayed again and again her liking for her new surroundings–a
liking which she uneasily felt that she could not gratify without some
disloyalty to her friend. As for Jerome–such had been the revulsion
of feeling caused by his conduct, that Avice could not write of
him without a certain tinge of bitter sarcasm cropping up through
her words; and more than once occurred a kind of apology for even
mentioning his name in a letter to Sara.
‘Tell me what to do,’ she concluded. ‘You have been my guide for so
long; I trust you so implicitly that I feel lost without you. Send me
one word, Sara, for whatever you say or do must be right.’
‘Poor child!’ thought her friend, sorrowfully. ‘This must be answered
at once. I must set her mind at rest. And, I suppose, when I tell her
what _I_ have done, she will change her opinion as to all I do and say
being right. Perhaps it is as well that her illusion should come to an
end betimes.’
She determined to make her first essay in letter-writing since her
illness, and began by writing that afternoon to Avice and to Frau von
Trockenau. To Avice she wrote explaining why she had not been able to
answer her letter earlier. Then she told her of her marriage, calmly,
and in a matter-of-fact way, with the remark that she could not enter
into her reasons for the course she had taken, and that Avice would
probably not understand them if she did. Of Jerome she made not the
slightest mention, but she urged Avice to do all in her power to love
and be kind to her sister-in-law. ‘From what you tell me, I am sure she
is good. In being her friend, and doing all you can to make her happy,
you will grow happier yourself. It is the only thing you can do–the
only right thing, that is.’
She felt that she had at least been right in urging this upon Avice;
and then she wrote a brief note to Countess Carla, thanking her for her
good wishes, and adding that she knew absolutely nothing of any plans
for the future–she left everything to Herr Falkenberg; she excused the
brevity of her letter on the plea of illness, and fastened it up.
She had expected to be exhausted by this exertion, but found to her
surprise and pleasure that she was less tired than before. Ellen had
lighted the lamp, and the room was warm and cheerful. Sara began slowly
to pace up and down the room, her thoughts running intently on the
letters she had received, and the ideas they had conjured up. Her long,
plain dress hung loosely upon the once ample and majestic figure, now
wasted to a shadow of its former beauty.
‘The loose train of her amber-dropping hair’
was gathered up into a knot upon her neck; there was a faint glow–the
harbinger of returning health–upon her wasted cheek. While she thus
slowly promenaded to and fro some one knocked at the door.
‘_Herein!_’ she answered, turning to see who it was, and confronting
Rudolf Falkenberg.
She stood suddenly still, colouring highly.
‘You did not expect me,’ he said, pausing, with the door-handle in his
hand. ‘Perhaps I intrude!’
There was a look of disappointment in his eyes, which she saw, and made
a hasty step forward.
‘Indeed you do not. Only this afternoon I was wishing that I could see
you, for I have many things to ask you. Please come in,’ she added,
holding out her hand.
Rudolf took it, and looked at her.
‘You are better,’ he said. ‘You have been writing. I hope you have not
been doing too much?’
‘No, I assure you I have not. I feel better for it. If you will let me
take your arm, I think I could walk about a little longer.’
He gave her his arm, and they paced about for a short time, slowly and
in silence.
‘I have much to say to you, Herr–I mean Rudolf,’ she began.
‘Have you? I also have something to say to you. Well?’
‘To-day Ellen gave me my letters. I had not had them before.’
‘And you have answered them at once?’ he said, smiling. ‘I like a
prompt correspondent. This augurs well for the future, Sara.’
‘I–I wish you to read them,’ she said, with a heightened colour. ‘Read
this of Avice Wellfield’s first.’
She gave it to him, and he read it; then said:
‘Poor little girl! she is in great distress. Is it allowable to ask
what you replied, and whether you intend to keep up the correspondence?’
‘Not if you object in the least,’ said Sara, hastily.
‘I? No. I would not insult you with such an objection if you wrote to
and heard from her twice a day,’ he replied, with a rather proud smile.
‘Thank you. And now this from Countess Carla. It has disturbed me very
much.’
He read that too, and his countenance also changed.
‘This disturbed you–why?’ he asked.
Sara withdrew her hand from his arm, and sat down.
‘I ought to speak about something,’ she faltered; ‘about the future.
Everyone–all the world knows that I am married to you. I cannot go on
living here just as if nothing had happened, and yet—’
‘What business had you to be thinking about things?’ he asked, with a
half smile. ‘Part of the bargain was that I was to do the thinking, as
you must remember. You cannot surely suppose that I have let all this
time elapse without thinking upon the subject as well?’
‘Oh! if you would decide, and tell me what is best, I would so gladly
do it!’ she exclaimed.
‘I have decided everything. The plan is ready, and only waits your
approval to be carried out.’
‘And what is it? If I could _only_ get away from here!’
‘You remember Lahnburg, and my house there?’
‘Where we spent the day when I was at Nassau? _Mein Genügen_–oh yes, I
remember it.’
‘You are so much stronger than I had dared to hope or expect, that I
think you could bear the journey there at any time almost, if I have
a special carriage for you, and take care that you don’t get cold.
Christmas will be here, you see, directly. To-morrow is the last day
before the festivities begin.’
‘Yes. And people will come and want to see me, and I shall not be able
to refuse some of them; and yet it would almost kill me, I think.’
‘Of course it would. Well, Lahnburg is a quiet, out-of-the-way place
enough. If I took you there to-morrow, and settled you there with
Ellen, you would avoid all the bustle here. It is a beautiful place.
You don’t care to go out, and are not fit for it if you did. I don’t
think you will find it duller than this, and certainly less painful;
for you will not be under the constraint of feeling that you are known
and observed. What do you think?’
‘I should like that,’ said Sara, slowly; and then, after a long pause,
she asked in a low voice:
‘And you?’
‘I,’ replied Falkenberg, with an assumption of indifference, ‘oh, I
never _live_ in the country in winter. I detest it. Frankfort must
be my _Hauptquartier_. My manager is loading me with reproaches
for my neglect of money-matters, and I feel there is justice in
his complaints. I shall be very much engaged for at least a couple
of months to come. I may find time to run over to Lahnburg and see
you, once or twice; but you must not expect me to be very attentive.
You know,’ he concluded, smiling, and glancing at her again, ‘six
weeks–or, rather, two months ago, I did not suppose I should be
married to you, and I made all sorts of engagements, public as well as
private–the former at least must be kept. Well, what do you say to my
plan?’
‘What do I say?’ she repeated, in a voice full of emotion; ‘I say that
you are too generous, Rudolf, too chivalrous. Believe me, if I had not
so lately gone through what I have done, I would offer you more than
words of gratitude–I would lay my very life at your feet.’
‘Don’t agitate yourself; that is forbidden,’ he replied, trying to
smile with cheerful indifference. Perhaps a ray of hope had inspired
him–some faint idea that she might say, ‘Are not you also coming to
_Mein Genügen_?’ If that had been the case, he promptly repressed the
feeling, and added:
‘All I ask of you is to get well, and try to be contented, _in your own
way_. Do not think of me. Perhaps that may come in the future. Nay, do
not cry, Sara. I cannot bear to see _that_.’
‘Do not scold me. I almost think I begin to see my way now. They say
that much is granted to those who watch and pray.’
She spoke the last words half to herself.
‘That is true, in a sense, if not literally,’ he replied. ‘Well, I
will see after a carriage to take you by the noon train to-morrow to
Lahnburg; so tell Ellen to have everything ready. Now I must go. I will
take your letters, if they are ready.’
Sara wished he would not go at that moment, but something prevented
her from speaking out her wish, and he departed.
‘I must be in some wonderful dream,’ she repeated to herself, when
she was alone. ‘It is too wildly impossible to be true. And yet, how
well I know that he has been here. He never comes without bringing
with him a purer, rarer atmosphere. He looks at things, and tells you
how he sees them, and they are never quite the same afterwards. Now
with Jerome–Hyperion to—’ She paused abruptly, biting her lip, and
thinking, ‘After all, I never saw which was Hyperion. I have no right
to sneer. Shall I ever love him? Surely, at any rate, the remembrance
of that other love will wear off enough for me to be able to say to my
husband, “Come, let us travel hand in hand at last!” Heaven send it, at
least!’
[Illustration]