JEROME.
‘There is nothing more galling than to receive pity where we would
fain inspire love.’
There had been a long and stormy meeting of creditors–fierce disputes
over the accounts which were brought forward, much vituperation, much
gesticulation, and Jerome Wellfield had sat through it all, like a man
in a dream, scarcely hearing a word.
He leaned back in his chair, his hands in his pockets and his face set,
his eyes fixed frowningly upon the green leather top of the table at
which he sat. Two sentences which he had heard, earlier in the day,
exchanged between two gentlemen in the coffee-room of his hotel, had
banished all other subjects from his mind.
‘When is Falkenberg going to be back from that immense _Reise in’s
Blaue_ that he undertook in May? and has he left his wife alone all
this time?’
‘Oh, I fancy no one knows when he will be back. His wife is at his
place at Lahnburg. She is very quiet, they say, and people think they
have had a quarrel. Don’t know how much of it is true, I am sure.’
He had heard every word of it. The two speakers had sat at the next
table to his as he breakfasted that morning. Ever since, heart and head
alike had been in a tumult. Not an hour’s journey distant from him, and
alone! Of course he must not go to see her, it would be the height of
folly and presumption and wickedness; but could he not get one glimpse
of her, take one glance into her face unseen by her; have a view of
her, perhaps, as she walked in her garden–or behold some outline of
her form at the window. That would be enough. There would be nothing
wrong in that; he could see her, and she would not see him; having seen
her, he could return home with a quieter heart.
The mention of her name, the knowledge of her proximity to him, had
revealed, as such incidents do reveal, his own inmost soul to himself,
and shrined there he found Sara Ford still, and knew not whether to
rejoice that he yet loved her whose equal he had never seen, or whether
to mourn that he could not cast that love aside, and content himself
with the things that were his.
Thus he debated and debated within himself, endeavouring to find
reasons why he should go to Lahnburg, while all the time, deep in
his heart there was the full consciousness that he ought on no
consideration to go near the place, that to do it would be an insult
to Sara and to his own wife, and could bring nothing but misery to
himself.
The meeting had been held at Frankfort in the forenoon, and was over by
two o’clock. Jerome, when it was over, went into the hall of his hotel,
and looking round, found what he had come for, though he had not even
in his own mind confessed so much–a railway time-table fixed against
the wall. He studied it, and saw that there were many trains on the
Lahnburg line; one at five o’clock from Frankfort, arriving at Lahnburg
at six. Three hours were before him in which to decide, and he said
within himself:
‘I will have some lunch, and think about it, but I don’t think I shall
go.’
Yet, when he had ordered some lunch and sat in the coffee-room waiting
for it, he caught himself thinking what a long time it would be before
the time came to set out for the station.
Should he go, or should he not? He ate and drank something, and
strolled out of the hotel into the town, and passed by the people who
wanted to show him the sights, and he thought he was trying to decide
not to go. He repeated to himself all the arguments against going, and
they were numerous and cogent. Then he caught himself wishing ardently
that he had something to keep him in Frankfort–some engagement that
would prevent his leaving the town that evening. Then he went back to
the hotel and compared the clock there with his watch. A quarter before
five. The station was close at hand–must he go, or must he stay? A
man came up to him–one of the merchants who had been present at the
meeting, and with whom he had a slight acquaintance, and said politely:
‘Mr. Wellfield, if you are staying in the town, and have no other
engagement to-night, will you do me the honour of dining at my house?
we are having some friends, and I should be delighted to introduce you
to my wife and daughters.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Wellfield, after a scarcely perceptible pause;
‘you are very kind, and I should have been delighted, but I have an
engagement out of town, and must go to the station now, if I am to
catch my train.’
The die was cast, and he went quickly out of the hotel, and down the
street to the station. Ten minutes later, he was in the train, on his
way to Lahnburg.
When he arrived there it was dusk, as it is in October at six o’clock.
He knew the place well, though he had not been of the party on that day
of Sara Ford’s first visit there. He knew the way, too, to Falkenberg’s
house, and quickly he walked there, and pushed open the gate, stood
in the garden, and surveyed the old mansion. Behind one or two of the
blinds he saw lights. Everything was very still in the dank, sad air
of the autumn evening. Not a sound came from the house. The trees
stood drooping and motionless, saturated with the autumnal dew, which
is heavy and soaking and dank, not lying lightly like a gossamer mist
as that of summer does. He could see the lights of the town twinkling
here and there, and a faint hum came up from that direction; but to
the right and straight before him there was only a great veil of mist,
hiding field and hill, river and distance, alike.
He went up to the door, and rang the bell. A man-servant opened the
door, and Wellfield began:
‘Is–’ but his tongue refused to say Falkenberg’s name. ‘Is the
_gnädige Frau_ at home?’
She was at home, he was told; and Wellfield entered, and told the man
his name. The servant perhaps did not catch the sound of the strange
name, but seeing a gentleman, composed and calm, asking for his
mistress, he concluded it was right, and opening the door of the salon,
announced:
‘A gentleman asks to see the gracious lady.’
Wellfield saw the lighted room, the figure seated, writing, at a table.
A moment afterwards he was alone with her; she had risen and stood
looking at him with a strange, alarmed, alien expression, which sent a
dismal chill to his very heart. She did not speak. She stood looking at
him, and, as he could not help seeing, with an expression of aversion,
of shrinking distaste. Her hand grasped the back of the chair from
which she had risen, as if for support.
His voice first broke the silence:
‘Have I startled you, Sara? Forgive me, but I—’
She drew a long sigh, as if then first realising that she was not in
some strange dream.
‘What–what brings you here?’ she asked in an almost inaudible voice.
‘I was in Frankfort,’ he said. ‘By accident I heard your name, and
heard that you were here and alone. I tried to fight against it, but
the impulse was too strong. I felt as if I should repent it all my life
if I did not see you once more, while I could.’
‘You seem to forget that your visit must be very unwelcome to me; and
that you had no right to come. Had I known of your intention I should
have ordered my servant not to admit you. You must know that you are
acting very wickedly.’
‘_Wickedly!_’ he repeated, scornfully and bitterly, ‘of course I am
wicked. Have I not been wicked all along? Do you suppose I do not know
it?’
‘I do not know, I am sure,’ she repeated, in the same low, almost
frightened voice, and with the same look of aversion in her eyes, and a
sort of alarmed wonder, which expression galled him beyond what words
can express; ‘I do not know how wicked you have been, but I think you
forget yourself strangely in thus forcing your presence upon me. Will
you go away, please, and leave me? You can have nothing to say to me
that I can listen to, and I have nothing at all–not one word–to say
to you.’
‘Not one? Have you no feeling for me, Sara? Do you suppose that I am
happy–that I enjoy my life? Look at me! I look happy, do I not?’
‘I pity you from my soul!’ she replied. ‘And if my pity can be of the
least use to you, take it. I should indeed be inhuman if I withheld it.’
She spoke very gently, never losing her expression of pain and
aversion. Wellfield saw it; saw that she was bewildered, tortured by
his presence. The scorn and the withering contempt he had expected were
not there. What was there was far more hopeless for him–much harder
for him to bear. He had had wild visions of falling at her feet and
forcing her to own that she, too, loved him as he loved her. Such a
course was now out of the question. He felt degraded and humbled, and,
worse than that–a fool–ridiculous and absurd.
‘At least hear me when I tell you that I shall never cease to repent
what I did in my madness. I shall never know happiness again, in
feeling that I have destroyed yours, Sara.’
‘You are quite mistaken,’ she replied, suddenly and clearly, as she
stood up without support, folding her hands before her, and looking him
full in the face. ‘You have not destroyed my happiness; it is out of
your power to do so. You turned it into bitter wretchedness for a time,
I own. I am not superhuman. I loved you devotedly, and trusted you
implicitly; and when you betrayed me, I suffered as I hope few women do
have to suffer. But you did not destroy my happiness, for that consists
in loving and trying to do what is good and noble and honest, and you
are none of them. But you cannot destroy those things, nor my joy in
them, do what you will. Surely that is enough. Please leave me now, or
I must ring the bell and ask them to show you out.’
‘You mean to tell me that you will be happy married to Rudolf
Falkenberg? how do you account for that?’ he asked, unheeding her
words, and advancing a step nearer to her, with eyes fixed upon her
face, and breath coming and going eagerly.
Sara drew herself up, recoiling a step from before him. Then, looking
at him with a glance devoid of the slightest feeling for him, she
replied, in a deep, calm voice:
‘Because he is all those things that you are not; he is good and noble
and honest; he is faithful, and would be faithful unto death–because
he saved me when you had almost killed me and quite driven me mad–and
because he is my husband, and I love him.’
‘You love—’ he began, and stopped abruptly; then, with a short,
miserable laugh, said: ‘After that I will go, certainly. And for the
future I beg you will spare me your pity. I do not need it. Good-night.’
He turned on his heel and left the room. He did not know how he groped
his way to the door and opened it, for he could see nothing. At last he
found himself in the dank, soft, misty outside air again, just entering
the market-square of Lahnburg, repeating her last words to himself over
and over again, blankly, vacantly, and mechanically: ‘Because he is my
husband, and I love him.’
[Illustration]