UNAWARES.
‘What’s this thought,
Shapeless and shadowy, that keeps flitting round
Like some dumb creature that sees coming danger,
And breaks its heart, trying in vain to speak?’
PERHAPS Sara Ford was the solitary person who never gave a thought
as to why Rudolf Falkenberg paid so long a visit to the Wilhelmis’.
Everyone else, from Frau Goldmark upwards, had arrived at the
same conclusion, and felt a just and honourable pride in his own
astuteness—the conclusion that Herr Falkenberg was what is euphoniously
called, ‘paying attention’ to Miss Ford. He knew the report well
himself, and knowing that to the principal person concerned—herself—it
was as if it had not been, and not caring a straw what was said or
thought about him, he took no trouble to enlighten anyone on the
subject. He came and went like an old friend in and out of Sara’s
presence. He was perfectly certain that Jerome Wellfield was kept fully
informed of all that was said and done in their interviews, and that
being so, he felt that he had no other person to account to for his
action in the matter. And he knew that his presence invigorated and
did her good. She had cast aside all her dreamy fancies, and had gone
humbly to Nature, as he had bidden her do, and Nature had not betrayed
‘the heart that loved her.’ Sara had made some studies, on seeing
which, Wilhelmi, all unconscious of what had gone before, had drawn
a long breath of relief, saying, ‘_Was, Kind!_ You are again coming
to your senses.’ Falkenberg had not frowned, if he had not smiled at
them; he had said:
‘So you have laid hold of the clue at last, which leads back to the
narrow path?’
‘I shall never rest,’ said Sara, cheerfully, ‘until I have done
something which you will not scorn to hang up somewhere near the roof
of your picture-gallery. Then I shall feel sure that I not only have
the clue, but am back on the stony road again.’
‘Some day you will do something which the world will not allow to be
buried in any picture-gallery of mine. Patience, patience, and ever
patience!’
It was the morning after they had held this conversation. Sara and
Avice were seated at breakfast.
‘I wonder,’ observed the latter, ‘whether Jerome will come over here
for Christmas? Do you think he will? Does he ever say anything to you?’
‘Never,’ said Sara, with a smile. ‘But I have very little doubt that he
will come.’
‘It would be so delightful—a real German Christmas at the Wilhelmis’,
with a tree, and everything proper.’
‘For that matter, you may have a tree here, if you like. But—ah, here’s
the postman. And a letter from Jerome,’ she added, as she took it from
Ellen’s hand, and read it.
‘DEAREST SARA,
‘I write in exceeding haste to tell you that an excellent opportunity
offers for Avice to come to England. My friend Father Somerville,
of whom I have so often spoken to you, is travelling at present in
Belgium on business connected with the college. He has to visit
Cologne before his return, and means to travel by way of Elberthal,
Rotterdam, and Harwich, and he has offered to take charge of my
sister. He will be about two days in Elberthal, and I asked him to
call upon you at once, to explain his arrangements. I expect it
will be the end of this week before he arrives. This had all been
arranged in such haste that I could not possibly let you know before.
And now I have no time to write as I should wish to do. I have had
troubles—money troubles. I will explain as soon as I am able to write
to you. Meantime this must go to the post. Excuse its hastiness. Give
my love to my sister, and believe me,
‘Your devoted
‘J. W.’
When Sara had finished reading this letter, she passed her hand over
her eyes, trembling strangely. She could not understand it. It was
like some hateful, inexplicable nightmare. That the hand which had all
along caressed, should thus suddenly strike—and strike hard—passed
her comprehension. The voice which had been so tender was in a
moment shouting out a harsh command. No reasons given—no one word of
explanation as to why Avice was so suddenly to be taken away from
her. It was incredible. There had never been any spoken or written
agreement, but always a tacit understanding that Avice was to remain
with her until she and Jerome were married, and that then she should
share their home. It seemed it was not to be so.
‘What is the matter, Sara? Has anything happened to Jerome—tell me!’
For all answer, Sara handed her the letter. She could not speak—could
not explain it.
‘What—why?’ exclaimed the girl, in a tone of dismay. ‘I do not
understand.’
‘Nor I, dear!’ was the answer. ‘I know exactly as much about it as you
do.’
‘I am sure I don’t want to go travelling with this strange man—carried
off as if I had done something wrong,’ said Avice, less and less
charmed with the prospect.
‘If you have to go, I shall see that you do not go alone,’ was all
Sara could answer. She could eat no more. She rose from her chair.
Leaving Avice with the letter, to follow her own devices, she retired
to her atelier, and there tried to reason it all out, and comprehend
it—and failed. It grew more inexplicable, and more horrible, the more
thought she gave to it, until at last an idea flashed into her mind,
which left her cold and trembling and miserable, with a misery such as
she had never known before. Had any change come over him?—did he love
her less? She laughed at it, put it aside, argued it away, and at last
did attain to a pretty certain conviction that she was wrong; but the
misery remained. It was there, like a dead, leaden weight at her heart.
She might argue away her first impression—the first subtle intrusion of
the idea, or the shadow or the ghost of the idea, false, but she could
not get rid of the wretchedness caused by the fact that the idea had
intruded—that something had happened so strange as to open the door for
it to enter by.
She tried to paint, but could not. She passed a morning of
misery—heavy, unrelieved, and indescribable. When she returned to
Avice, she found her too dejected, puzzled, unhappy.
‘I don’t want to go,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what Jerome means, or
wants. If I go to England, he ought to come and fetch me.’
He had said no word of coming, as Sara remembered, with a heartache.
‘He wrote in haste, and promised to let us hear again,’ she replied.
‘There is sure to be a letter to-morrow explaining.’
‘I don’t see how it is to be explained,’ said Avice, despondently. ‘But
if Jerome thinks he can tyrannise over me, he is mistaken.’
Her lips closed one upon the other with an expression of obstinacy.
‘Hush! as if he had any thought of such a thing!’ said Sara, coldly;
but this exchange of ideas had not resulted in lightening the heart of
either one or the other of them.
[Illustration]