GEFUNDEN.
When Wellfield left her, Sara sat down, trembling and unnerved. But
that sensation was not of long duration. Soon she recovered, and was
astonished at the sudden lightsomeness of heart which she felt. It
was as if some thunder-cloud had burst, had discharged its flood of
storm-rain, and dispersed, leaving a sky behind of a blue etherealised
and idealised. It was not the effect she would have expected–the very
reverse; it gladdened her as unexpected joy does gladden. She did not
mention, even to Ellen, the visitor she had had. She had a plan in her
mind, which came there spontaneously; she found it there; it gladdened
her, thrilled her, filled her eyes with happy tears. She would make it
the pretext for telling Rudolf that she loved him; she would so tell
the incident of Jerome’s unlucky and reckless visit to her, that no
doubt should remain in her husband’s mind as to what she meant, for as
to speaking out the words to him which she had said with such boldness
and composure to Wellfield–the very idea of it was impossible.
Ellen, as she helped her mistress to undress, wondered greatly what
could cause the frequent smile, and the brightened eyes which she
instantly noted.
The next morning was a clear, glorious autumnal one; a white mist
enveloped the valley, and covered the river and the fields which
bordered it, and the long rows of poplars between which it flowed,
while the tops of the hills stood out, clear and distinct, bathed in
a flood of golden sunshine, and the sky above was like a sapphire for
clearness and depth of hue.
Sara drank in deep draughts of the sweet, bracing air, and as she
looked around, her heart swelled within her, and an impulse which for
months had slumbered–had been as though it had never inspired her,
animated her once more–the desire, namely, to take her brush in her
hand, and picture that scene as once she would have had great joy in
doing. But after first arriving at _Mein Genügen_ she had had such an
impulse often, and nothing had come of it; when she had tried to reduce
it to action, she had been so disheartened with the dulness, the utter
absence of life, of the old strength and craft, that it was now long
since she had renewed the attempt. This morning, though the impulse was
at first strong within her, she shook her head, and decided not to make
an attempt which must end in disappointment. She opened her book, and
tried to be interested in that.
Soon the effort succeeded. It was an Italian history, which she had
found amongst Falkenberg’s books, and the page at which she opened
it pictured that scene in which _il rè galantuomo_, contrary to the
advice of his great minister, and other wise and potent counsellors,
had insisted on preserving in the speech from the throne which he was
to utter on opening parliament, an allusion to the sufferings of his
people, and his own sensibility to them. That ‘cry of anguish’–that
_grido di dolore_ of which the King spoke, has now become historical.
Sara did not remember even to have read of it before, or, if she had,
she had passed it by, and forgotten it. What drew her attention to
it on this occasion was a mark in pencil beside the sentence, and
at the foot of the page, on the margin, the words, in her husband’s
handwriting:
‘Surely a fine subject for a picture, treated either allegorically or
literally.–R. F.’
Sara’s hands, with the book in them, sank gradually, and she raised her
face, full of musing and reflection, towards the clear hill-tops, whose
bases and all beneath were swathed in mist.
‘It _would_ make a grand picture,’ she mused, ‘for all who knew the
allusion. _Il grido di dolore_.... When Victor Emmanuel spoke those
words they were prophetic of the release of his people–of their
salvation. There spoke the deliverer. The scene should not be all a
cry of anguish; there should be a tone of hope as well. It would be
best treated allegorically, I believe. I suppose, if I treated it as
I should wish, I should be called narrow and feminine in my idea. No
doubt I should make it personal–turn Italy into a human being–bring
my own experience to bear upon it–what has my language been of late
but a _grido di dolore_; more shame for me, no doubt! I wonder how
_he_ thought of its being represented. I wish I knew. Surely any real
representation of the thing should show not only the lower creature
crying aloud in its agony, but the strong spirit which has heard its
cry and will raise it up.’
Again she looked across towards the hills. The mist had almost all
cleared away. The river was now perceptible, winding in silver links
towards Coblenz; the poplars and the fields, the red-roofed villages
and the peaceful homesteads, all came into view. Upon her spirit,
too, fell a peace which it was long since she had experienced.
She went into the house, and found that the post had come in, and
that breakfast awaited her. There was one letter for her, and that
was from Falkenberg. Throwing off her hat and shawl, she eagerly
opened and read it. It was from Rio–so far had they progressed in
their wanderings–and it gave her a graphic account of their recent
expeditions, of the glowing beauty of the Brazilian scenery, and of the
odd, eccentric habits of his companion.
‘I think you would like him, though. He has real original genius
beneath all his whimsicalities, and some of his sketches are masterly.’
Then he went on to say that their movements were undecided; they did
not know whether to make a further journey or to return to Europe.
He made many inquiries after her health, her pursuits, her happiness,
and begged her to write very soon. ‘You cannot tell with what eagerness
I look for your letters. You will not quarrel with me for saying this,
since I am such a long way off. Sometimes the longing to see your
face is so intense that I feel as if I must start up, and be off then
and there–_auf der stelle_; but do not be dismayed. The aberration,
when it comes, is only temporary. You need not dread my bursting in
upon you suddenly, without preparation; that is, if you will keep me
pacified by some more letters like your last one.’
She finished it breathlessly, and, as if by a sudden, irresistible
impulse, pressed the paper again and again to her lips, with passionate
earnestness.
‘Oh!’ she murmured to herself, ‘would that you were here! Will anything
step between us? anything come to keep you and me apart _now_? I cannot
think that the end of this story will be all that it should be. And now
I shall tremble always, till I see you–and–perhaps even then. Who
knows?’
Later in the forenoon, she felt again irresistibly impelled to try once
more if her old craft had not come back to her. She took a canvas, and
her palette and brushes, and tried to sketch in some representation of
the scene which had haunted her ever since she had seen the pencilled
words at the foot of the page. Again she opened the book, and again
read the words: ‘I am not insensible to the cry of anguish–_il grido
di dolore_–which arises from my faithful people in all parts of my
kingdom.’ As she drew, her heart beat ever faster and faster. It was a
man’s figure that she outlined; the figure of a king, it was intended
for–of one who, by nature and by circumstance, was a ruler. Her crayon
moved more slowly as she tried to infuse into this figure some of the
royalty of bearing and look with which, in her own mind, she invested
the form of this ‘deliverer.’ When, after a couple of hours’ diligent
drawing, the outline stood out clearly before her, she looked at it,
and saw that it was good; it _was_ kingly, dignified; majestic and
benevolent too. She had not failed. She was not to be robbed for ever
of her old power. Her art had been restored to her.
That, she felt, was enough for one day. She had not been aware with
what intense eagerness she had longed that she might prevail–that
life and skill might be restored to her hand, until, when she at last
saw that ‘it was so,’ she broke down, and burst into a passion of
tears–but tears which, if stormy at first, soothed and healed in the
falling.
It was evening of the same day. Sara sat down in the quaint old salon,
in the flickering firelight. There was an open English grate in which
pine-logs were burnt, for the appearance of comfort; and there was
likewise a porcelain stove to produce the reality of it. She had sent
away the servant who came with lights, saying she would ring when she
wanted them; and now, with her cheek propped on her hand, she sat and
gazed into the fire–into the red map of the land of dreams. It was
indeed a vague, aimless dream in which she was lost; and yet there was
an undercurrent of passion about it, a solid basis to the vision. That
letter from Rio, which she had had that morning, which lay open in
her hands now, which she had just been reading, and which had wafted
her on its thin pages away from this place altogether. She pictured
to herself tropical climes and South American forests. Could he be
perhaps wandering with his friend in the solemn, desolate splendour
and luxuriance of such a forest, even now? At least, wherever he was,
he was hundreds of leagues away from her. She had visions of stately
vessels borne onwards by soft south-western gales–gentle gales.
So, equally, she could see, in the map that was constantly changing
its boundaries by a process of crumbling, visions of fair and busy
cities–foreign cities, full of pleasure and gaiety, most beautiful to
behold, but all a very long way off–hundreds, yea, thousands of miles
away.
The great distance, the feeling that if anyone asked her, ‘Where is he
now?’ she could only answer, ‘I know not!’ weighed her down with an
unspeakable despondency. Then, like a flash of fire across this chill
mood of resignation, darted a longing, intense and uncontrollable, to
have him there, at that very moment. Oh, if he would but come! If he
would but come! Could he not understand the meaning her last letters
had tried to convey? Could he not read, ‘I love you,’ between the
lines? This intense, concentrated longing for the bodily presence
of some deeply-loved personality is a painful thing when one longs
and goes on longing in spite of the secure knowledge that no amount
of longing will bring that person to one. Thus it was with her. She
covered her face with her hands presently, and her heart throbbed. Did
he in this moment experience half of the same feeling? If she could
have thought it, she would have felt almost satisfied. But how could
he? She raised her head, and looked round the room–her favourite,
because it was into it that he had led her and Countess Carla, on that
far back, happy red-letter day whose full worth and meaning she had
only within the last weeks began really to realise.
‘Could not a miracle happen?’ she thought; ‘could not he have followed
quickly on the footsteps of his letter, and–but heaven forgive my
presumption! Why should such notice be taken of _me_?’
Even as she thought it, a cloud seemed to come before her eyes; her
very breath to stop. Yet she was rising from her chair, advancing to
meet the ghost–to prove the miracle, which seemed to waver and flicker
before her eyes; if she touched it, if she stretched out her hand,
or found her voice, would it not melt away? Surely it would. He was
in South America. She unsteadily moved out a hand, as one who gropes
in the dark. But that was no ghost’s touch–no phantom fingers which
captured it, drew it, her other hand, all of her, into a close embrace;
nor was it any unearthly voice which said:
‘The aberration conquered at last, Sara. Your last letter came
immediately after I had posted mine to you. I took it to mean that I
might come.’
‘You understood, Rudolf, at last?’
‘At last, thickhead that I am, I thought I understood.’
‘Ah!’ said Sara, ‘when I saw you come in, I thought you were of the
same nature as a phantom–a dead man, who visited me last night, an
evil spirit which I exorcised by the use of your name. I thought I saw
your ghost, Rudolf.’
[Illustration]
L’ENVOI.
Six months later Jerome Wellfield was formally received into the Roman
Catholic Church, in the large chapel at Brentwood; and six years later
Nita’s child was sent to the college of that name, there to begin his
studies under the polished and accomplished supervision of the Fathers
of the Society of Jesus.
Green wave the trees to this day over the river walk of Wellfield
Abbey, and placidly that stream flows past the ruined cloisters, and
under the wooded ‘Nab.’ The Abbey farms are as fat, and the Abbey lands
as productive now, as they were in the days of its proudest fame.
Once, years after these things had happened, a carriage, with a lady
and a gentleman in it, drove through the village of Wellfield, over the
bridge, away from John Leyburn’s house. The persons in the carriage had
been to pay a flying visit to John Leyburn’s wife. As their carriage
drove slowly up a steep hill just outside the village, they saw below
them to the right the whole of the Abbey–the river, the avenue, even
the ancient, hoary front of the house, and the lawn before it. It was
a brilliant July evening, and they saw, slowly walking about that
garden, three figures–that of a tall man, who held the hand of a
slender, graceful-looking boy, whose face was turned towards his guide,
and beside them, the figure of a priest, who appeared to be speaking
earnestly, and who raised his hand now and then, as if to enforce his
argument. The two travellers looked long at this group, and at the
slender shadows they cast upon the dazzling green of the grass–as
long as they could see it, until a bend in the road shut it all
abruptly from their view: and then they looked, each into the other’s
face.
‘What a life! What an ignominious slavery!’ observed Falkenberg, with
more than a tinge of contempt in his tone.
‘If he finds peace in it, Rudolf?’
‘_He!_ And what about the poor child whom your friend was telling us
about–what about his wife?’
‘I have often asked myself that question, and I can find nothing that
gives me any answer to it–neither religion, nor irreligion, nor faith,
nor unfaith. I told you long ago that Jerome Wellfield was as a dead
man to me. And think of what he must feel himself dead to, before he
could come to this. But he had no deliverer.’
They became silent until they drove into Burnham, from which town they
were to take the train to London, on their homeward way. This was the
last glimpse into Jerome Wellfield’s life which Sara ever obtained or
asked for.
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD.
_J. S. & Sons._
Transcriber’s Notes.
1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical
errors.
2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.