‘AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS.’
THE postman did not call at all the following morning, and Sara, she
scarcely knew why, felt sick at heart. What a martyrdom those four or
five postal deliveries per diem of a great town may and do inflict
upon some of those who are eagerly waiting for _something_ to come,
and it never appears. The postman goes past, or calls, with terrible
regularity. Scarcely has one bitter disappointment been tided over,
than one sees him again, with the bundle of letters in his left hand,
passing along the street, or running up the steps. There is the
sharp fall of a letter in the box, the sickening interval before the
servant comes in with the salver, and on it a circular, an invitation,
a bill—never the thing one is longing for so desperately. Under the
circumstances, give us rather by all means the one delivery during
the day of the dark and barbarous village which is five miles from
everywhere. There one is at least secure of an interval of twenty-four
hours between each ordeal.
Dinner, their midday dinner, was over; and the afternoon was advancing.
Sara could not paint; so, saying she had a headache, she did not enter
her studio, but remained in the other room with a book. Ellen and Avice
were both in the atelier. Ellen with her sewing, which she usually
took there when her mistress was not painting, and sometimes when
she was. Avice was painting. She had a very pretty talent for making
water-colour drawings; and Wilhelmi, out of his regard for Sara, had
given her a few hints on different occasions, by which she had not
failed to profit.
Thus Sara had her book, her parlour, and her thoughts to herself, and
felt the monopoly to be of anything but an exhilarating character.
She scarce saw the printed page; she was so engrossed in her wonder
as to what had really been in Jerome’s mind when he wrote her that
letter, and by the bitter sense of indignity she experienced in
the utter silence of to-day. Not a line; not a word from him. It
was amazing—incomprehensible! She had not answered the letter. She
was wondering whether she should do so, whether she should wait
another day; in the hope of hearing from him that he had been hasty,
ill-advised; that he had decided not to let his sister return with
Father Somerville.
Then some one knocked at the door, and in answer to her _Herein!_
Rudolf Falkenberg entered.
‘Send me away if I disturb you,’ he said, pausing, and looking rather
doubtfully at her.
‘Not in the least. Pray come in, Herr Falkenberg, and try to instil
some of your wisdom into me, for I am a very foolish person.’
‘As how?’ he asked, taking a chair near her, when she had given him
her hand; ‘and what has happened, that I find you sitting here in the
middle of the afternoon, like——’
‘Like a banker on his holiday, or a lady of independent means, or some
other equally enviable person,’ said Sara.
‘You will own that the position for you is an anomaly, at least.’
‘I suppose it is. I cannot paint to-day. I have other things to think
of.’ Her face clouded. ‘I am going to lose my dear little companion.’
She told him this as a fact, though she had been debating within
herself whether to wait till she heard ‘certainly’ from Wellfield.
‘Miss Wellfield! Is she going?’
‘Yes. Her brother is ready for her to come home, and as a suitable
escort offers, he has sent for her.’
‘I see. And that will leave you alone.’
‘When she is gone, and you are gone, I shall be quite alone.’
She looked at him as she spoke with a frank, unconscious regret, openly
expressed in her glance, and in the tone of her voice, before which
he averted his eyes. It was at moments like these that he felt the
‘burnt fingers’ he had pictured to himself, give twinges and pangs of
pain which were hard to bear without either word or exclamation. _Tout
vient à point à qui sait attendre_, had been a favourite proverb with
him, and he still believed in it a good deal, though he was aware,
as most men and women who have passed the boundary of youth must
be, either from observation or experience, that these trite, dull,
hackneyed proverbs have a trick of realising themselves in a fashion
the reverse of delightful. ‘Everything comes to pass for him who knows
how to wait for it.’ But how does it come to pass? The oracle sayeth
not, and he is a fool who asks. ‘And he shall give them their hearts’
desire’—another poetical, grandiloquently sounding promise. But how do
they sometimes receive their hearts’ desire? Often in such fashion as
to break the heart that has been waiting and desiring so long.
‘I am the bearer of an invitation to you from Fräulein Wilhelmi,’ he
said, not answering her look and tone of regret. ‘Or rather, I might
say, a mandate—a command.’
‘What sort of a command? Luise wishes to command everyone,’ said Sara,
with a languid smile.
‘She has arranged some private theatricals for to-morrow evening, and——’
‘Does she wish me to take part in them?’
‘No; only to be a guest.’
‘And to see her and Max Helmuth in them. I shall have to ask you to
make my excuses, Herr Falkenberg. Until Avice has gone, I shall not go
out. She leaves at the end of this week, and I cannot leave her.’
‘I think you have ample excuse, certainly; though of course I should
wish, so far as I am concerned, to see you there.’
‘Thank you. Luise’s parties have been a different thing since you did
come. I often wonder she does not get utterly wearied of them—I don’t
mean that I feel myself superior to such things, but the monotony of it
all. Luise goes very little away from home, and while at home there is
scarcely one night without some entertainment, either at her father’s
house, or some one else’s. She sees the same people; hears the same
jokes, the same stories; dances with the same partners; receives the
same compliments. It must be unutterably wearisome.’
‘Why so? In it she is fulfilling her vocation, just as much as you by
studying art fulfil yours.’
‘Does she? That never struck me. What do you call her vocation?’
‘To please and attract is her vocation, to become an expert in which
she has studied diligently and practised laboriously since she was a
mere baby, and that under every kind of circumstances, and upon every
variety of subject.’
‘It is true. And she is very fascinating, without doubt.’
‘She is.’
‘Since she practises upon every variety of subject, I suppose she has
practised upon you? Has she succeeded?’
‘In winning me? Yes. I have been her slave for many years; that is,
when I saw that it was necessary to her self-respect that I should
bend the knee before her, I bent it, and have enjoyed the greatest
amiability and kindness from her ever since.’
‘Oh—that! I don’t call that being won,’ said Sara, with rather a
disdainful curl of the lip.
‘No? What, then, is your idea of being won?’ he asked, as he trifled
with the leaves of a plant standing in a pot near to him.
‘In the case of a man or of a woman, do you mean?’
‘Of—say of a man.’
‘Well, Luise has not won you. Have you read any of Browning’s poetry?’
‘Very little. Why?’
‘There is a little poem of his about wearing
a rose. It concludes:
‘“Then, how grace a rose?
I know a way.
Leave it, rather,
Must you gather;
Smell, kiss, wear it, and then throw away.”’
‘That is severe,’ he said.
‘But true. And you are no more won by Luise than the man who could so
write of a rose was won by it. But that is not the way in which she has
won Max Helmuth. And she does not care to win any other in that way.’
‘I believe you are right. She has more power than I thought. Then do
you think she could really win me in the end?’
‘No; I should think not,’ said Sara. ‘I know some one who, I think,
would be much more likely to win you.’
‘Who?’ he exclaimed, so eagerly that she looked at him in surprise. He
was skirting dangerous ground, and he knew it and enjoyed it.
‘Avice Wellfield, if she were old enough.’
‘Miss Wellfield?’ he echoed, and looked at her with a look she did
not understand. ‘Miss Wellfield before Fräulein Wilhelmi, certainly.
Yes, there is a wonderful charm about her. If you were not so strict
in your definition of “won,” I should say she had won me already by
the mystery and poetry which seems to envelop her. But you will not
allow me to say “won,” of a feeling like that. In the same way,’ he
continued composedly, ‘I should say that you had won me long ago by
your simplicity.’
‘By my simplicity?’ echoed Sara, not giving a thought to the serious
and decidedly personal turn the conversation was taking; feeling only
that it was a pleasant break in the far from easy or pleasant current
of her reflections while alone.
‘Yes; your almost classical simplicity and freedom from every sort of
affectation—a simplicity which extends to your whole nature, and which
is so engrained that you are quite unconscious of it. My telling you
of it will not cause you to lose it. I defy you to lose it. I should
not wonder if some day it led you into doing or saying something which
conventional people would call outrageous.’
‘You are remarkably candid this afternoon,’ she said, much amused. ‘I
do not see why you should have a monopoly of it. I will tell you what
it was in you that “won” me, as you call it.’
‘And what was that?’ he asked tranquilly, though he knew that never in
his life before had he been on such dangerous and difficult ground.
The temptation of hearing her tell him that she liked him, and why she
liked him, was irresistible.
‘First, the unconsciousness with which you wore your riches and your
celebrity—for you are celebrated, you cannot deny it; and next, your
trustworthiness.’
‘Trustworthiness!’ he echoed, as she had done.
‘Yes; you are trustworthy. “My telling you about it will not cause you
to lose it. I defy you to lose it. I should not wonder if some day it
drove you to doing or saying something which more conventional people
would call”—foolish.’
Sara smiled a little as she looked upon him from her deep eyes, and
Falkenberg answered the smile with a thrill of exquisite pleasure. It
was sweet indeed to know this. ‘Two can be steadfast,’ as he had more
than once said to himself. These words of hers simply confirmed his
love, strengthened his purpose. He would still wait. If he waited long
enough, the day might come on which he might be able to serve her.
‘Why, you give me a _quid pro quo_,’ he said. ‘I did not know you could
make jokes.’
‘Do you call that a joke? Perhaps I am not so “simple” as you think me.
Perhaps Luise Wilhelmi and I are in one another’s confidence.’
‘Upon what?’ asked Falkenberg. He was leaning forward, his face resting
upon his hand; his beautiful, steadfast brown eyes looking directly
into hers. He paused in this attitude, waiting for her answer, and,
during the pause, the door was opened, and Ellen said:
‘A gentleman, ma’am, to see you.’
She put a card into Sara’s hand, upon which card its owner instantly
followed. So quickly, that, when she had perused the words:
‘THE REV. PABLO SOMERVILLE, S.J.,
_Brentwood College,
Lancashire_,’
and raised her eyes, he stood before her, bowing, and regarding her
piercingly, but not in the least obtrusively, from his deep-set,
inscrutable eyes.
Sara rose instantly, a deep flush mantling her face, which flush
Somerville did not fail to note; while Falkenberg, whose composure when
he felt himself _bien_, well-off, at his ease, it was almost impossible
to disturb, merely raised his head, and transferred the gaze of his
calm brown eyes from Sara’s face to that of Somerville.
Sara was deeply disturbed and surprised. The visit was totally
unexpected, on that day at least. Like a flood there rushed over her
mind the miserable conviction that Jerome had behaved at any rate
with unpardonable carelessness, if not with deliberate intention of
wrong-doing. She knew nothing of how far this man was in her lover’s
confidence (and Somerville had no intention of furnishing her with
any information on that point). She had not had time to consider and
decide whether she should receive him cordially or otherwise. All this
gave embarrassment and uncertainty to her manner, and made it quite
unlike her usual one; while Somerville, as will readily be supposed,
was as perfectly, as entirely self-possessed and at his ease here as in
the Lecture Theatre at Brentwood, or pacing about the garden at Monk’s
Gate with Jerome Wellfield, and recommending him to marry Anita Bolton.
Being a very clever man, he had formed a theory of his own with regard
to Sara, when Jerome had told him her occupation and given him her
address. He had instantly imagined that she was the woman to whom
Wellfield was ‘in honour bound.’ Now that he saw her, he was convinced
of it, and he was not going to give her any assistance by making casual
observations. All he said was:
‘I fear I come inopportunely.’
‘I heard of your intended visit to Elberthal, Mr. Somerville, but had
no idea you could be here so soon,’ she replied, distantly.
‘My business in Brussels and Bruges was over sooner than I expected,’
was the courteous reply, as he took the seat she pointed to. ‘Mr.
Wellfield asked me to call here immediately on my arrival, and said he
would write to you.’
‘Yes, I have heard from him,’ replied Sara, reflecting with a cruel,
bitter pang on the strange style of that communication, distracted
how to act. Somehow she could not accept as final Jerome’s letter of
yesterday. She still clung to an idea—a hope that she should hear from
him countermanding the abrupt mandate. But she could not betray as much
to this priest, for, from his entire manner, it was evident that he at
least was following up arrangements which had not been contradicted.
‘I thought it best to call now,’ pursued Somerville, pleasantly,
perfectly conscious of her disturbance, ‘as I am absolutely obliged to
leave for England the day after to-morrow, and felt that you ought to
be informed of the fact.’
‘The day after to-morrow? Mr. Wellfield in his letter spoke of the end
of the week.’
‘When I left Brentwood, I quite supposed it would be the end of
the week. But I am not my own master in this journey. I am under
instructions.’
‘Which, of course, have to be obeyed?’ observed Falkenberg,
nonchalantly.
‘Exactly so,’ answered Somerville, turning his eyes upon him with the
rapidity of lightning. Falkenberg met them with the same utter calm and
unconcern. He had not moved from his chair close to Sara’s side.
‘Mr. Wellfield’s last wish would be to hurry or incommode you,’
continued Somerville, again turning to Sara, ‘but if Miss Wellfield
could be ready by the time I mention——’
‘Miss Wellfield will be quite ready when she is required to go home,’
said Sara, with crushing coldness; her pride in mad rebellion at what
she called to herself the insolence of this strange man in telling
_her_, of all persons, what were Jerome Wellfield’s wishes in respect
to his sister.
‘Here is Miss Wellfield herself,’ she added, as Avice came in, and
she introduced her to Somerville. Avice looked and felt cold and
constrained, though Somerville’s charm of manner soon removed her
objections to him personally. He began to talk to her, pointedly
going into details about her brother, and his great desire to see her
and have her with him again, which details soon began to interest
Avice exceedingly. Sara writhed (mentally) at this conduct, yet she
could not speak, for from all Somerville’s demeanour she came to the
conclusion that, however friendly Jerome might have been with him, he
had not confided to him the fact of their engagement. It was therefore
perfectly natural that the priest, if he were unaware of this, should
look upon the sister as more interested than the friend, and should
turn to her with all his remarks and details.
Somerville himself saw it all, and his own reflections were:
‘_Mon Dieu!_ A rare piece of pride and beauty, I must own. He might
well turn upon me in the way he did when I suggested his marrying the
little Bolton heiress. This is a prize not lightly to be resigned,
though I think his hold upon it now is loose enough. How she chafes
at the treatment she has had lately, and what would not this other
man give if he could carry her off? Well, perhaps his wish may be
gratified. I am sure I have every desire to further it.’
By-and-by Ellen brought in coffee, and while they were drinking it,
Wilhelmi and his daughter called. Introductions and explanations
followed, given by Sara in the coldest of cold tones; but Wilhelmi,
seeing only some one in some way connected with his favourite
pupil, invited Somerville to spend the evening at his house, and
Luise, perceiving an opportunity of maintaining her self-respect
by captivating a stranger, added the prettiest entreaties, and the
invitation and the entreaties were accepted by the object of them. Sara
steadily refused to leave her own home until after Avice had gone, and
Luise, her attention diverted by Somerville’s appearance on the scene,
was less insistent than usual when her will was crossed.
Then they all went away in a body, not without Somerville’s having
observed that Falkenberg lingered behind the rest to touch his
hostess’s hand, and look earnestly and inquiringly into her face. His
lynx-eye saw the faint, sorrowful smile which answered that look; and
as he went away, he said triumphantly in his heart:
‘The way is clear, friend Wellfield. Surely you would not be so selfish
as to stand between her and such a marriage as is waiting to be
accepted by her!’
[Illustration]