EINE REISE IN’S BLAUE.
It was May, and the whole land smiled under the consciousness of
thraldom removed–of winter finally passed away. The old house was
beautiful in the sunshine; its grey walls set in a frame of trees, all
bursting into the first exquisite spring foliage–of hyacinths and
primroses, late daffodils and early wallflowers, all nodding their
heads in the borders and on the flower-beds, and singing, most plainly
to be heard by those who understand their language–
‘Der Lenz ist gekommen,
Der Winter ist aus!’
Sara, after breakfast this sunshiny morning, threw a shawl around
her shoulders, and went out into the garden to read a letter. As she
paced about the sheltered, sunny south terrace, it was plain to see
that she was at least restored to bodily health. There was almost
all the splendid beauty of former days, yet somewhat paler and more
refined. But the face was perceptibly changed. It was an older, sadder
face–grander, but, as it looked now, far more sorrowful; for there was
not the inner contentment which gives the outward expression of peace.
The eyes, which now and then were raised to survey the smiling spring
landscape, were not filled with a deep, secure content. They were
troubled, clouded, dissatisfied.
But presently she became absorbed in her letter. We may look over her
shoulder and read. It was one of those English letters, whose advent
Ellen did not love.
‘MY DEAR SARA,
‘At last the day comes round on which I may write to you. No doubt
you were perfectly right to say I must not write oftener than once a
fortnight, and I am sure, by doing so, you saved yourself from being
fearfully bored; but it makes me wild with impatience sometimes. It is
such a comfort to feel as if I were almost speaking to you–to feel
that in a few days you will be holding this that I have written in
your hand, and that for a time at least you will be _obliged_ to think
of me.
‘Since I wrote, something very sad has happened. Poor Mr. Bolton is
dead. He died last week, very suddenly, of heart disease. You may
imagine that it has been a fearful blow to poor Nita, unhappy as she
is already. Even Jerome felt it, I think, or believed he did. Mr.
Bolton has always been so good to him, and I defy anyone not to have
respected him. It made me very sad, too. I had got so fond of him.
Some of my happiest hours were spent with him at Monk’s Gate, helping
him with his Italian. He did so want to finish his translation of the
“Inferno,” and have it published. Nita liked me to go there. Jerome
always wanted her to stay in in the evening, and I think she did not
want her father to see how sad she looked sometimes. She is goodness
itself, but oh! so altered, so subdued, and so sad! I am sure she
knows by some means–though how, I can’t imagine–how dreadfully
Jerome had deceived her all the time she thought he loved her. At
least, I know that now she knows he does not love her as she loves
him, and as he _ought_ to love her. I know I am a fool sometimes. I
say such fearfully indiscreet things every now and then. The other
day, when Nita told me that she hoped she would have her baby before
next winter, I exclaimed, “Oh, Nita, how glad I am! That will make
it all right.” She looked at me so strangely for a few minutes, and
then burst into tears, and said, “Who knows? who knows? It is as God
shall dispose it.” I am glad she can think so. To me it seems very
strangely disposed, but then, as you know, I never could say, “Thank
God!” for the things that make everyone unhappy all round, and I don’t
believe they are providential at all. I believe they happen because
people are wicked and selfish. But Nita is very good, though she never
talks about it. I know she thinks people don’t have troubles without
deserving them, and she is under the impression that she must in some
way deserve her troubles, though even she cannot say how.
‘But I was telling you about Mr. Bolton’s death. Everything seems very
strange without him. Do you know, only the day before he died he gave
me a lovely pearl ring, which he said was to be in remembrance of _my
kindness to him_! How I did cry when I thought of it. And poor Mr.
Leyburn, who, I am sure, never _will_ learn when to speak, and when to
be silent, said that I ought to be glad, and not sorry, to know that I
had been of any comfort to him. Now, _did_ he expect me to burst into
a fit of delighted laughter? But of course he means well.
‘Mr. Bolton’s death has made Nita, and I suppose Jerome too, _very_
rich, of course; though I don’t understand anything about the
circumstances of it.
‘We are not so quiet here as I should have thought we should be. All
the people round ask us out. Just before Mr. Bolton’s death, Jerome
and I dined at Mrs. Latheby’s. Nita, of course, was invited too,
but she will not go out at present, and she would not let us stay
at home. So we went. There was Mrs. Latheby, and her niece, Miss
Paulina Bagot–a Roman Catholic heiress, who is intended to marry
young Latheby. He was there too, with Father Somerville, who had
come with him from Brentwood, Jerome and myself. We were the only
heretics. Jerome sang, and I played, and young Mr. Latheby applauded
wildly. Then Miss Bagot played, which she does exceedingly well. Mr.
Somerville, as usual, made himself _very_ agreeable. He really is one
of the most delightful people I ever knew. I know you don’t like him,
but I call him charming. Both he and Mrs. Latheby are very polite to
us. Mr. Somerville comes a great deal to the Abbey.
‘Nita is like you–she dislikes him. At first when he came she used to
sit with him and Jerome, and so did I; but she felt so uncomfortable,
she said, that now we always leave them in the library, and we go and
sit in the drawing-room. Very often Mr. Leyburn is there too, for he
does not like Father Somerville either, and has not the good manners
even to pretend to do so, which annoys me very much. Sometimes Mr.
Bolton used to come, and then I used to read to him about the savage
tribes of South America. We were reading the “Naturalist’s Voyage
Round the World,” which Mr. Leyburn brought for us, about the only
thing in which his taste is unimpeachable. Of course he listened with
respect to that, but all the other books he calls “travellers’ tales.”
He professes to go in for natural history himself, or to be, as he
calls it, “a bit of a naturalist,” and he was always interrupting
our reading, finding fault with the botany, or the zoology, or the
something ology of the writers, which is a most exasperating habit.
It is so annoying, just as you are reading a thrilling account of
something, to be suddenly interrupted, “Incorrect! Where did the
fellow get his facts? Not from accurate personal observation, I’ll
wager.”
‘Miss Shuttleworth is just as amusing as ever, but I don’t think she
has done any thing _very_ remarkable since I last wrote.
‘Jerome still goes to business every day, though I know Nita wants him
to give it up. I wonder that Nita never reproaches him! But then he
looks almost as miserable as she does. It is a depressing household,
dear Sara, though I have nothing to complain of. They let me do
anything I like, and I believe I might even come and see you if I
chose. But I have learnt a great many things from the troubles I have
seen since I came here, and amongst others I have learnt that I am of
some comfort to Nita, therefore I will not leave her.
‘I must conclude. You will be tired of all this. Do not be long in
writing to me, if it is only two sides of a sheet of paper.
‘Ever your grateful
‘A. W.’
Sara still walked to and fro, but in profound and painful reverie.
Her very soul pitied her unhappy little successful rival. She felt as
if she would have liked nothing better than to take Nita to her bosom
and soothe and comfort her, so intensely she felt for the girl in her
pain and desolation. Could she by a word, even by some sacrifice on her
own part, have given Nita her husband’s love, and wiped from her mind
all knowledge of his past transgressions, how gladly she would have
done it! for Sara, in her solitude at _Mein Genügen_, had scaled higher
moral summits than she herself knew–she thought she had not completely
cast away the old love, or the effects of it–she did not realise that
the substance of it had been burnt away; what remained was a shadow,
a heap of ashes, retaining the shape of that which was in reality
consumed. It was well that she saw the evil which remained, and not the
good which was accomplished, else had she been in danger of succumbing
to that ‘palsy of self-satisfaction’ which has a trick of seizing upon
and blighting the finest natures.
But she knew that no word of hers could give to Nita Wellfield her
husband’s love. She felt, she had gathered from a hundred unconscious
little touches and admissions in Avice’s letters, that Jerome, like
herself, was not free. He loved her–Sara: yet sometimes she could
weep, and wish it were not so. Oftener she felt a half-contemptuous
satisfaction in the knowledge that he had not been able to cast aside
her power over him with his promises to her. But oftener still she had
the feeling, which she instinctively felt to be a far more dangerous
one, of a restless wonder what would happen if they were to meet; a
wonder that sometimes grew into something nearly akin to a longing.
Before this feeling she trembled, trying to release herself from it,
but it had a trick of seizing her unawares, and mastering her. And it
was in such moments that she felt what a slight division lay between
her present calm, monotonous existence, and the great abyss opening
under the feet of those who yield to reckless impulses, or to what are
euphoniously called ‘ungovernable passions.’
Such thoughts, and her meditations upon Avice’s letters, ran like
a key-note through her mental life at that time–tinctured all her
thoughts, her reading, her work; for since she had begun to believe
that she was never to paint again, she had had resort to needle-work,
and was copying some curious old Flemish lace, under the tutelage of
a nun from a neighbouring cloister. Under her auspices, too, she had
discovered some poor in and around the town, and not only poor, but
ignorant; and she found some occupation in helping and teaching them.
‘That high-and-mighty Miss Ford turned lace-maker and sister of
charity–buried alive in the dullest place in the world, and crying
her eyes out from pure _Langeweile_, because she has displeased her
husband, who is jealous, and has shut her up there!’
Such was the account given by Frau Goldmark (who had a cousin in
Lahnburg, with whom she corresponded) to that very Fräulein Waldschmidt
who had been disabled by scarlet fever from taking a share in the
_tableaux vivants_. When it is remembered what language Frau Goldmark
had formerly used in speaking to Sara Ford of this very young lady, it
becomes almost impossible for an impartial mind to acquit her entirely
of a spirit of time-serving.
Sara had been pacing about the terrace for a long time, now and then
reading over again portions of Avice’s letter, and anon lost in her
own mournful reflections. At last, raising her eyes as she turned in
her walk, she saw Falkenberg’s figure advancing towards her. The first
impulse that rushed across her mind was to conceal the letter she held
in her hand, after which she found herself blushing hotly at the idea
of doing so, and thinking, with a sudden prophetic fear, that it would
be an evil day–if ever it should dawn–on which she could not meet his
eyes. The uncomfortable sensation remained, however, that she had been
cherishing wrong thoughts–thoughts best described by the hackneyed
term ‘improper.’
She advanced to meet Falkenberg, and held out her hand to him. She
wished she could have smiled and looked glad to see him, in answer
to the long and wistful look he gave her; but she felt more unhappy,
more constrained in his presence than ever, and it was with a look of
profound gravity that she greeted him.
‘You did not expect to see me?’ said he.
‘I always feel that you may or may not come any day,’ said Sara.
‘You are better. So your letters have told me–so you look,’ said he.
‘Better–I am well in body,’ she rejoined; and as she spoke, the same
look of deep dejection returned–to her eyes the same cloud as that
which of late had constantly been there.
‘Not in mind?’ asked Rudolf, gently.
She shook her head.
‘I wish I could say that I even felt as if I were becoming better.
Everything seems as dark, or darker than it was before. Do you see this
letter?’
She held it up, and her face was dark as she spoke.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It is from Avice Wellfield. I will tell you the truth. It cannot be
more bitter to you than it is to me. These letters are the events of my
life, the only things I really care for. I look forward to them with an
eagerness I cannot express, and when they have come, I live upon the
recollection of them. I cannot find my place in this new life. I will
not deceive you,’ she added, with a vehemence almost passionate. ‘I
have not sunk so low as to even wish to do that; but I feel degraded,
humiliated, miserable, to think that I cannot cast aside my weakness,
that it dwells with me. And as for returning to my old pursuits–to
my painting–to the joy I used to have in even holding a brush in my
hand–I do not believe it will ever return to me again. I believe it is
destroyed. I have heard of such things happening after a great shock or
a serious illness. I have had both; why should it not be so with me?’
She spoke bitterly, though composedly, and beat her hand with Avice’s
letter.
‘And you do care for those letters?’ he asked.
‘Yes–oh, if–do you object, Rudolf? Would you like me to give over
writing?’ she asked, with something like a ray of hope dawning upon her
face.
‘Give it up–my dear child, I would not deal such a blow to your
poor little friend, or offer such an insult to you, as even to hint
such a thing. To me, you are above suspicion, Sara. If I heard you
were corresponding with Jerome Wellfield himself, I should feel no
uneasiness. I know you and your pride and simplicity too well.’
‘Ah, if only you had not been so chivalrous and so mistaken as to marry
me, Rudolf. I fear it has been a terrible error on both sides.’
‘Do you think so? We had better give it a little longer trial, I think,
hadn’t we?’ he asked composedly, while he glanced rather keenly at her
face. ‘Do you, perhaps, feel tired of this place? Would you like change
of scene or company? Is there no one you would like to have with you?
Miss Wellfield, for example?’
‘No. Avice has found a life at home. It is astonishing how she
develops, how quickly she is growing into a woman, and a thoughtful
one. She finds that her sister-in-law needs her presence greatly,
and I gather from her letters, though she evidently has no idea of it
herself, that she also will marry before long, and that happily.’
‘Then you will not ask her to come and see you?’
‘No, thank you. I have thought about it, and I am sure that this is the
best place for me. Solitude will not drive me mad. Let this be _Mein
Genügen_–I will make it so for a time longer, if you will allow me. If
I am to find peace anywhere, and a path through life, it will be here.’
‘So be it. And since such is the decision you have come to, I may tell
you the more freely that I have come to-day to say good-bye for a long
time. I am going on a journey, and before I go I want to have a little
talk with you on business, if you don’t mind.’
‘Going away!’ uttered Sara, startled. ‘Where?’
‘Oh, to wander about indefinitely–_auf eine Reise in’s Blaue_, as
my own people would say. I am not going alone. A friend of mine, an
artist, Rupert Schwermuth, goes with me, or rather, I offered to join
him when I heard he was intending to travel and study. He means to
go to Greece amongst other places, China, and Japan: he raves about
Japanese art. I am going to rough it with him, by way of a change.’
Sara found she had absolutely nothing to answer to this. To object
would, she felt, be worse than absurd; to say she was glad would not
be true, for with the knowledge that he was going so far away, came a
sudden chill sense of prospective loneliness and desolation; yet she
must say something, she felt, and at last managed to stammer out:
‘I think you do wisely. I hope you will enjoy your tour. But ... will
you write to me?’
‘If you wish it,’ he said. ‘You seem tired; take my arm. Do you mean
just bulletins from the successive stages of the journey, or do you
mean something more like letters?’
‘I mean letters. I should like them exceedingly. I hope you will write.’
‘I will write. And you–will you answer my letters?’
‘What news can I possibly have to send from here?’ said Sara, slowly.
‘Tell me what you do every hour, from the time you get up till the time
you go to bed, if you have no other news. It is not fair that it should
be all on one side. And if you are anxious for letters, what shall I
be, do you suppose?’
‘I will write,’ said Sara, in a rather low tone.
‘That is decided, then. Now, do you mind coming into the house, for my
time is short, and I want to tell you something about money-matters.’
They went into the house, sat down at the writing-table, and Herr
Falkenberg from his breast-pocket drew forth a cheque-book.
‘Do you see this?’ he said. ‘I have left directions with them at
the bank to honour all your cheques, so long as you don’t overdraw
my private account,’ he added, smiling. ‘And this little book is to
procure you the means of subsistence while I am away.’
‘I will not be extravagant,’ said Sara.
‘No, don’t, or I shall of course be exceedingly displeased. “Freely,
but not extravagantly,” is an excellent motto; and you were born to
devise and carry into execution schemes of economy.’
‘Now you are laughing at me,’ said Sara.
‘Sometimes I cannot help it.’
‘But why do you do it?’ she asked, piqued.
‘Heaven forbid that I should tell you why. You would never give me the
chance of doing it again, and that would afflict me sorely. Now I must
go,’ he added, looking at his watch, and rising.
‘Go! No, you will stay for the Mittagessen, at least. You have never
taken a meal in this house since I came into it–you, the master of it.’
‘I wish I could stay. But you see, Rupert was to meet me—’
‘Let him wait!’ said Sara, with a heightened colour. ‘Rudolf, I beg
you to remain. You are not starting off to-day. Please do remain till
afternoon.’
‘_Wie du willst_,’ he replied, using the _du_ for the first time, as
Sara instantly noticed.
‘Thank you,’ she answered; ‘and here they are to say that lunch is
ready. Shall we go to the dining-room?’
‘I shall have to go directly afterwards, though,’ said he, ‘for poor
Rupert will be cooling his heels at my house, wondering what has become
of one who _never_ fails to keep an appointment.’
‘On which day do you think of setting off?’ asked Sara, as they sat
down to the table.
‘To-morrow,’ he replied.
‘To-morrow! There is something remorseless about to-morrow.’
The meal was not a long one. Sara was somewhat flushed and excited. She
hardly knew what had prompted her to insist so strongly upon Rudolf’s
remaining, but she was glad she had done it.
He sat grave and composed as ever. Having made up his mind to the
wrench of parting from her, he felt it rather increased his difficulty
than otherwise when she displayed this sudden momentary gleam of–what
was it?–a latent tenderness, or an amiability called forth by the
fact that she was on the point of being rid of him for some months to
come, and felt that the least she could do was graciously to ‘speed the
parting guest.’
Very soon after lunch was over he said, very decidedly this time, that
he must go.
‘Must you, really? And–from what place will you first write to me?’
‘Suppose we say from Trieste?’
‘From Trieste–very well. I shall expect a letter from there.’
Both were speaking composedly, but Sara was on the verge of tears, and
he was not unmoved, though he successfully concealed the fact.
‘Good-bye, then,’ he said.
There was a pause.
‘I have a horror of saying good-bye,’ said Sara at last, forcing
herself to speak with an appearance of calm.
‘Have you? It is one of the pains that attend the pleasures of life, I
suppose.’
‘Pleasures?’
‘The pleasure of travelling, I mean. You can’t go abroad without saying
good-bye, unless you wish to be thought a monster.’
‘Ah, you can joke about it. I cannot. And in a case like this, when you
are going such a very long way off. Suppose–anything happened in which
I wanted advice.’
‘In that envelope you will find full directions, and the address of my
confidential manager and head man–indeed he is more than that, and as
he is a gentleman in every respect, you will be able to apply to him as
you would to me.’
‘Indeed I shall not, Rudolf!’ she exclaimed, almost sharply.
Another pause.
‘I am afraid my going will vex you; upset you. Would you like me to
give it up?’ he asked slowly.
‘Oh no! no!’ she answered hastily. ‘Not for worlds! It was but a
momentary folly. Let it pass! I hope you will have every kind of
enjoyment on your journey.’
‘Ah, Sara, I wish that momentary folly would recur oftener! But there!
don’t distress yourself. Remember this’–he clasped both her hands,
and looked with an earnestness that was almost solemnity into her
eyes–‘_wherever_ I may be, however I may be, so that I am able to move
at all, one word from you will summon me back. _Here_, in this house,
or wheresoever you are, is _mein Genügen_–my joy and my pleasure and
contentment.’
Sara could not speak. As their eyes met, she could not tell whether
it was a great joy or a great sorrow which that long, earnest look
foreboded. Falkenberg stooped and kissed her forehead, said to her,
‘_Lebewohl!_’ and was gone.
[Illustration]