CHAPTER VIII.
FATHER SOMERVILLE GATHERS THE THREADS
TOGETHER.
Sara had a short visit on the following morning from Father Somerville, paid ostensibly for the purpose of telling her his arrangements, and asking if Avice could be ready by a certain hour on the following day.
‘Yes,’ replied Sara; ‘if you will be at the Bergisch-Märk’sche station at the hour you mention, Miss Wellfield and my servant will meet you in ample time.’
Somerville’s countenance changed a little.
‘Surely there is no need for you to inconvenience yourself by parting with your servant,’ he began.
‘Allow me to judge what is necessary. Miss Wellfield will not leave me except under my maid’s care, who will see her to her brother’s house, and can then return to me.’
He bit his lips and apologised, saying that no doubt Miss Ford was perfectly right.
In the evening, despite her protestations against it, she was made to go to the Wilhelmis’. Luise ‘made a point of it,’ and Sara, weary of striving, and wishing also to avoid painful conversation with Avice, who insisted upon having all kinds of messages given for Jerome, who she was sure would be dreadfully disappointed if she presented herself to him without such proofs of affection—Sara, sad and spiritless, went about eight o’clock to the big house in the Königsallée.
All the beautiful rooms were thrown open: there was talking and laughing, music and dancing going on. As Sara entered, looking pale and indifferent, but splendidly handsome, as usual, in her cream-coloured cashmere and pale roses with glossy leaves, Luise Wilhelmi came dancing up to her, looking sparklingly beautiful, and glowing with life and excitement. She was followed of course by her gigantic Max, smiling, handsome, devoted, ineffably happy, as usual.
‘Oh, Sara, your Father Somerville is delightful!’ exclaimed Luise. ‘I have quite lost my heart to him. If he were not a priest I should run away with him—do you hear, Max?’
Sara saw nothing in this even to smile at. What was a light jest to Luise Wilhelmi, was deadly pain and misery to her. Max Helmuth laughed a mighty, not very meaning laugh. Was he not in honour bound to laugh at all the jokes or would-be jokes of this sprightly little lady, who, so everyone said, was so much cleverer than himself?
‘Look how amiable he is!’ pursued Luise; ‘even making himself agreeable to the poor Goldmark there.’
Sara turned hastily, and looked across the room to where indeed Somerville was seated beside Frau Goldmark; his pale, handsome face leaning a little towards her, in marked contrast with her flushed excited countenance.
‘Really, Luise, I wonder that Frau Goldmark persists in coming to these large parties under the circumstances!’ she exclaimed involuntarily.
‘It does look rather odd, doesn’t it? But who would grudge her a little amusement? she will soon have to work hard enough.’
‘Certainly; but I think if my husband had been dead not six weeks, and I had cared at all for him, I should not be very anxious for amusement.’
‘I think Fräulein Ford is right,’ said Max, audaciously hazarding an independent remark.
‘Max! He only says that because he has the greatest veneration for you, Sara, and thinks all you say and do is right.’
‘Does he?’ said Sara, with rather a feeble smile, while her eyes wandered restlessly around, as they had done ever since her arrival. ‘Ah!’ she added, a light breaking over her pale face, ‘there is Herr Falkenberg; I wondered where he was.’
He came up to her and shook hands, and remained beside her. Luise and Max moved off, she lightly leaning on his arm and whispering in his ear:
‘ Nun, mein Lieber, what do you think? Will you still say there is nothing between them? Did you not see how dismal she was—quite verstimmt, I declare, until Falkenberg came up, when in a moment everything became couleur de rose. As for him, I really begin to think that the unapproachable and fastidious Rudolf has fallen a victim at last.’
‘And what wonder?’ murmured Max, peaceably.
‘Not much, I confess. But say what you like, it is a tremendous match for her.’
‘Why so tremendous?’ inquired Herr Helmuth, who appeared not quite so complaisant as usual this evening. ‘I am sure even Falkenberg never met a more beautiful or charming woman.’
‘Even Falkenberg! I can tell you, Herr Bräutigam, that if it had not been for a certain long-legged, stupid fellow, who has not a word to say for himself, and on whom I took pity because I could not bear to see him look always as if he were on the brink of tears or suicide—if it had not been for this fellow, I say, who put me into this predicament, I would have shown you whether even Falkenberg was impervious to everyone except a stony Englishwoman like Miss Ford.’
Highly delighted, and completely restored to acquiescence and submission, Max laughed again, a mightier laugh than ever, and they repaired to the dancing-room.
Father Somerville had a very long conversation with Frau Goldmark, relating entirely to Miss Ford and Herr Falkenberg. He had won her heart by telling her that at Brentwood there was a small but beautiful picture of her husband’s—a St. Agatha.
‘Ah, die heilige Agathe!’ replied Frau Goldmark, artlessly. ‘Yes, a very handsome housemaid of ours sat for it—an Elsässin, die Lisbeth. It made a beautiful picture.’
This opened the way to a conversation about the pictures in general of the late Herr Goldmark, then to a description of the lebenden Bildern, and the pictures in which Sara Ford had taken part: to the fact that in ‘Yes or No’ she had looked so beautiful, that Herr Falkenberg had bought the picture the very next morning.
‘Oh! he bought it, did he? That is he, I think, talking to Miss Ford now.’
‘Most certainly, that is he. He appears to spend most of his time in talking to Miss Ford. We have all come to the conclusion that the only thing which keeps him so long in Elberthal is Miss Ford’s presence.’
‘Ah! you think he wishes to marry Miss Ford.’
‘It looks like it. What is quite certain is, that she would be overjoyed if he asked her.’
If Frau Goldmark could have caught the expression in Father Somerville’s half-veiled eyes at that moment, she might have changed her opinion as to his extreme affability. The look said: ‘How dare a little insect like you presume to pass judgment on that woman!’ The man had no good designs towards Sara and her happiness. She stood between him and the accomplishment of a purpose which had now crystallised in his mind into a set scheme and plan, which he was resolved to do all in his power to carry out; but though he would crush her himself, and smite down her life, no spite would enter into his arrangements. He perfectly comprehended what she was, and knew that had he been other than he was, he would have sacrificed all he had for the chance of winning her; he knew that she had about as much desire to captivate Rudolf Falkenberg as he had himself; and he knew that the woman beside him had a small mind which could not rise to the level of those who had roused her enmity, by first doing her great kindnesses, and then, perhaps, snubbing her a little.
That was nothing to the purpose. He encouraged Frau Goldmark to ramble on, giving him one proof after another of the attachment existing between Falkenberg and Sara. The latter he felt to be a mistake. Sara did not love Falkenberg—she loved Jerome Wellfield; but the former he believed and grasped at. Every sign of devotion on Rudolf’s part put a weapon into his hands for the furtherance of his plan. He heard glowing accounts of Falkenberg’s riches and great possessions; of his status in the world of finance; of his interviews with royal and imperial personages and their ministers; of what changes a word of his could work in the state of the Börse; in short, every word that Frau Goldmark said convinced him that here was a splendid alliance, waiting for Sara Ford to ratify it; that nothing prevented that ratification, except the insignificant fact that she was bound to Jerome Wellfield, and, incidentally, of course, that she loved him as her life.
He left early, excusing himself on the plea that he had to travel early the following day, and that he had one or two important letters to write that night—which was true. He repaired to his hotel, to his own room, drew out writing-materials, and wrote:
‘I am going to send this off by the midnight post, and as it is now nearly eleven, I have not too much time. By doing this, you will receive it twelve hours before my arrival with Miss Wellfield. I called at Miss Ford’s house yesterday, and found her at home. Do you know, once it came into my head that Miss Ford might be the lady to whom you told me honour bound you, but I very soon abandoned that idea, for all the world credits her with being betrothed, or about to be betrothed, to Rudolf Falkenberg, the great Frankfort banker. You know whom I mean. If I may judge from my own observation, I should say report was right. He was sitting with her when I arrived, and I saw that I was unwelcome to both. He certainly pays her most devoted attention, and she, I should imagine, was far from feeling indifferent to him. These envious German women say: “What a match for her;” but I think you will agree with me that an Englishwoman like Miss Ford (for I take it for granted that you do know her pretty well) is more than worthy of anything that any man of any nation may have to offer her. She certainly is a magnificent being. But enough of this. Your sister will no doubt regale you with the same news, for she appears devoted to Miss Ford. The latter sends her maid to travel along with Miss Wellfield. I suppose we shall arrive at Wellfield about five in the afternoon. I have been wondering how your affairs are progressing. How glad I should be to hear on my arrival that the thing I so wish for were accomplished, and that you had decided to take that place which you assuredly ought to have. Well, I shall soon see you, I suppose. By the way, on our way through London we shall call at the Great Western Hotel to breakfast or rest, that will be the morning of the day after to-morrow. If you have any communication telegraph to me there. Time presses, so, until I place Miss Wellfield under your brotherly protection, farewell.
‘Yours ever,
‘Pablo Somerville.’
Somerville himself sallied forth with this to the General Post, ascertained that it was in time for the night-mail, and that it would reach its destination on the following evening. Then he returned to his hotel, sighed, undressed, stretched himself upon his couch, and slept that sleep of the labouring man, which we are told is sweet.
Sara Ford, too, had left the party early, and, accompanied by Falkenberg, had walked home. They maintained an almost unbroken silence till they arrived at the great doorway of her home. Then they paused, and Falkenberg said:
‘After to-morrow morning, I suppose, you will be alone for a few days.’
‘Yes; till Ellen can go to Wellfield, have a night’s rest, and return to me.’
‘Then I must not call so often, I fear.’
‘Perhaps it will be better not. This place is a very nest of gossip and scandal, and though I do not ever allow such things to interfere with anything I may choose to do that I feel to be right, yet I never could see the sense of going out of my way to make them talk. But should you have any reason for calling, Herr Falkenberg, or anything particular to say to me, pray defy the gossips of Elberthal, and come. I shall be only too glad to see you.’
‘Thank you. And—forgive me. From things you have said to-night, I fancy you are in some trouble of mind.’
‘I am,’ she answered briefly.
‘Will you remember that I am your friend and servant, and that any service in my power, I would render you with delight, whether it gave rise or not to gossip?’
‘Thank you. You are a friend indeed. If I require help or counsel, I will come to you. But so long as I can, I must fight out my trouble alone.’
They exchanged a handshake, and separated; he to go back to the Wilhelmis’, and bear his part as best he might in the merriment; she to her room to slowly undress, and bitterly to decide that to write to Jerome under the circumstances was out of the question, to realise with a rush, the great, sad change and dreariness which had suddenly crept over everything, and to recollect Rudolf Falkenberg as one lost in a wilderness recollects some group of strong, sheltering trees, seen on the far horizon; distant, but safe when one should attain them.