The Wellfields: A novel. Vol. 2 of 3

CHAPTER IX.

ABSCHIED UND RÜCKKEHR.

The morning dawned, and brought the hour at which they were to be at the station. There was the brief time of waiting there, the averted eyes and stealthily-clasped hands. The train came in—another long clinging kiss; then a brief, noisy interval of bustle and shouting—a last wave of the hand from Avice—a last glimpse of Father Somerville’s pale face and deep eyes—then they were gone, and she returned to her ‘sad and silent home.’

The travellers were to arrive at Wellfield late on the afternoon of the following day. Ellen was to have one night’s rest, and to return on the following day to Elberthal, so that Sara could not expect to see her until the third evening after the day of departure. It is best not to go into the history of those days—those three nights and four days which Sara spent by herself. It is enough, that as each day went by, and brought neither word nor sign from Wellfield, she felt her heart wither and die within her. Hope was quenched. She did not hope for Ellen’s return, but she looked to it for information: Ellen would perhaps have made some observation, would have learnt something as to the reason of all this strange mystery, which, while it lasted, so bewildered her that she scarce knew whether she was in her sane mind or out of it. She scarcely hoped for an explanation; she did not see how the case admitted of one, but she waited—waited with a forced patience, a false quiet, which forced her to put an almost unbearable strain upon her nerves, and which consumed her like a fever. She would not reproach; she would not accuse; she would wait, wait, wait, she said to herself, a hundred times, and this waiting was eating out her heart, while her pride was humbled to the dust.

On the second afternoon, Rudolf Falkenberg called. He started when he saw her.

‘Miss Ford! You are ill. What is the matter?’

‘I am not ill, only a little headachy and nervous. I want to see Ellen, and hear that Avice has arrived at home.’

His heart was wrung, but he could not say more; he saw from her manner that she was in no mood for conversation, friendly or otherwise. He went away with a sense of deep depression hanging over him; a disagreeable Ahndung, as if some thunder-storm lurked in the atmosphere, ready to burst upon and annihilate all around.

On that fourth day—the day of Ellen’s return, Sara verily thought once or twice that she was going mad. The horrible strain and tension; the dead, unbroken silence, suspense, waiting; the horrible conviction, which yet she could not prove without this eternity of waiting, that she was being slighted, insulted, betrayed; it formed altogether an ordeal more scorching than any of which her philosophy had hitherto even surmised the existence.

At length, in the evening, she heard a step on the stair; the door was opened, and Ellen entered, looking utterly broken-down and exhausted.

‘Ellen!’ she exclaimed, starting up, and fixing dilated eyes upon her; ‘are you ill?’

‘I’m not very well. Excuse my sitting down, Miss Sara. I can stand no more. I’m not a good traveller, you know, especially by sea.’

‘Poor old Ellen! I’ll get you some wine. Loose your shawl and your bonnet-strings. Did you get a rest at Wellfield? Did you stay all night?’

‘Yes, ma’am; I stayed all night. I might have stayed longer if I’d chosen to. Miss Wellfield begged me to remain another day.’

‘But you preferred to return to me?’ said Sara, her hand trembling so violently as she poured out the wine, that she had to desist.

‘I did, Miss Sara. I could not remain there.’

‘Not remain: why?’

‘I did not like the things I heard there; and besides, Mr. Wellfield gave me a letter for you.’

‘Oh! where is it?’ she almost panted.

Ellen opened a little handbag which she had beside her, and gave Sara an envelope which she took from it. Sara opened it, read the words contained in it, and looked blankly round, with a face which seemed in a moment to have turned ashen-grey. All the days of preparation, of suspicion and suspense, had been powerless to diminish the force of the blow when it came.

‘My God!’ she whispered, crushing the paper in her hand, and then suddenly dropping it from her fingers as if it scorched or stung them.

As Ellen came nearer, alarmed from her weariness, Sara put her hand upon the woman’s shoulder, grasping it with a grip of iron, and confronting her straitly, said:

‘Tell me the whole truth. What have you heard? What has happened? What did you hear of or from Mr. Wellfield, that made you wish to leave? Speak out, Ellen—the whole truth.’

‘I heard that he was engaged to the young lady at the Abbey—Miss Bolton.’

‘And do you think it is true?’

‘I do, ma’am. Miss Wellfield did nothing but cry from half an hour after the time we got into the house. When she said good-bye to me, she said: “Tell Sara—no, I can send her no message; I am not fit to look at her again—none of us are!”’

Her arm dropped from Ellen’s shoulder. She put her hand to her head.

‘Where is the letter?’ she said, wearily. ‘Oh, here!’ And she stooped forward to pick it up; but, as if growing suddenly dizzy, dropped upon her knees, stretched out her arms, and would have fallen had not Ellen, running up, caught her, and pillowed her head upon her breast.

‘My poor child! my darling Miss Sara! Oh, my dear young lady, don’t take on so. ‘There isn’t a man worth it in this world.... Well, cry then; it will do you good.’

But Sara made neither moan nor cry. For a short time, at least, she had in unconsciousness a respite from her woe.

‘That man is a devil,’ observed the old nurse beneath her breath. ‘I suppose he has looked after his miserable self, as men always do; and my young lady may die or go mad of it, for aught he cares. I hated him from the first moment I saw him, with his soft voice and cruel eyes.’