CHAPTER II.
‘YES.’
Sara laid her cloak on a table, and followed the servant into Frau Wilhelmi’s reception-room. The well-known scene smote upon her eyes with a weird strangeness and sense of unfamiliarity; it was the same, with the accustomed sounds of loud talking, merry laughter, and resounding music. Light and sounds blended together and beat upon her brain in a combined thunder. She could distinguish nothing clearly or distinctly, beyond the faces and the voices of those who actually came up to her and addressed her.
By a vast effort of will she kept her composed, impassive demeanour. When she set out she had a vague idea that on finding herself in the midst of a gay and animated company, she would be able to smile and speak and do as they did, even if mechanically. But the effort failed. Her lips felt stiffened, her tongue tied, so that smiling was impossible, and only the merest ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ would pass her lips.
‘Nun, Miss Ford!’ exclaimed Frau Wilhelmi, taking her hand. ‘You look ill, recht elend und leidend. Have you got a cold?’
‘No–a little headache. I thought it would do me good to come out,’ she murmured.
Had she followed her own impulse, she would have turned and left the house again instantly, but she had an underlying determination to go through with the ordeal, having once braved it, albeit it proved more scathing than she had expected.
Then Luise came up to her, laughing, with some absurd story, to which Sara listened, thankful that she was not expected to speak–interruptions being received unfavourably by the volatile Luise. Luise did not notice Miss Ford’s excessive pallor, or if she did was too absorbed in her own affairs to observe it particularly, or be shocked by it.
Then came Max Helmuth, who saw instantly that something was wrong, but did not feel himself on sufficiently intimate terms with Miss Ford to ask any questions.
To Sara, the whole thing continued to grow more and more like a hideous dream. She thought she must have been there an hour, and that she might plead her headache as an excuse, and go away. Looking at a great Schwarzwälder which hung against the wall of the hall, she saw that it was just ten minutes since she had entered the house.
The rooms were unusually full that evening, and less notice was taken of her than usual; but several pairs of eyes were fixed upon her in wondering astonishment, and she was collected enough to see it, and to desire more strongly than ever to get away. But a mere trifle prevented her–the idea, namely, of the surprise and pity she would see in Frau Wilhelmi’s eyes if she went up to her now ten minutes after her arrival, and took leave. She looked around for a chair, feeling like some hunted creature which would escape, but is paralysed with fear when most it needs all its power of wind and limb.
And as she looked round, some one took her hand, and a voice said:
‘Pardon me, Miss Ford–you look ill to-night. Would you like to sit down?’
It was Rudolf who addressed her. For a moment the horrible strain of the nervous tension under which she was suffering relaxed; as she looked up at him her eyes wavered; her lips and nostrils fluttered for an instant, and she drew a long breath. The end of her endurance was coming, she felt.
‘Yes, please,’ she said, in a voice that did not rise above a whisper.
He drew her hand through his arm, saying, ‘Let us go to the hall–there is a bench there;’ and as he spoke, he glanced casually and unthinkingly down at the hand which a moment ago his own had covered–at Sara’s left hand. She wore a pair of old white-lace mittens–one of the few relics of old prosperity which remained to her, and this allowed her hands and their adornments to be fully seen. As Falkenberg glanced at that hand, he missed something. He paused, as they passed out; his eyes leaped to her face, to her hand; back to her face again. Sara’s eyes had followed his. The first flush of colour that had touched her cheeks since Ellen had brought her message of sorrow, rushed over her face now. She understood the look, the glance which asked, ‘Your ring–where is it?’
‘Yes,’ she said, beneath her breath, and then, as if mastering a momentary weakness, she recovered herself; her face took the same marble whiteness again. She let him lead her to a cushioned bench near a pyramid of ferns and a little fountain, which stood in the centre of the hall. She sat down, but it was only for a moment. Then she started up again, ‘Will you–would you mind taking me home again? I–I feel ill,’ she faltered, her powers of endurance at an end.
‘Surely I will,’ he answered, finding her cloak and wrapping it round her.
Sara gathered up her dress, took his arm, and they passed out of the house.
Five minutes’ walking brought them to the door of her home. Falkenberg rang the bell, and as they waited, he said:
‘Miss Ford, may I come in? There is something I want to say to you.’
‘Oh yes! Come in and say what you like!’ she replied; and now that she had found speech again, the impulse to reveal her agony was uncontrollable–or, rather, the power of concealing it, of speaking of other things, had disappeared. ‘Say what you like,’ she repeated. ‘If you had come to say you had brought something to kill me with, I would thank you on my knees.’
‘Yes, I know you would, but I have not brought that,’ he answered, as the door swung open from within, and they entered.
Ellen started up on seeing them.
‘Oh, sir, I am glad you have brought Miss Ford home!’ she exclaimed.
‘Leave us, Ellen,’ said her mistress. ‘Herr Falkenberg wishes to speak with me.’
Ellen left the room. Sara looked at her guest. He, too, was pale, and his eyes full of a deep and serious purpose. His heart, too, was aching, with a pain almost as intolerable as that of her own.
He read the whole story; that which caused his pain was his own powerlessness to help her. He knew her better than she knew herself. He knew that it was not grief which gave the keenest sting to her present agony, but her outraged pride–the blow which had been dealt to her honour and her self-respect. It was upon that feeling that he calculated now, in what he was about to do. It was upon that, that he staked his whole hopes, as he threw. He had told her once that she might, some day, do something which conventional people would call outrageous. He was bent now upon persuading her to such a deed, and he trusted chiefly to that infuriated pride to help him.
‘Well?’ she said, with a harsh laugh,‘ have you come to talk about my missing ring, Herr Falkenberg? Do you want to know where it is, and who has it now? I can inform you that it has gone back to the man who gave it me–because–because he has sent me word that I am free. He thinks of marrying some one else.’
There was a discordant, grating sound in her voice, and she laughed again. The laugh encouraged Rudolf in his purpose.
‘I guessed it was something like that,’ he said, ‘when I saw that it was gone. The man could neither appreciate nor understand you. I have felt it for a long time.’
‘Is that to console me?’ she asked sarcastically.
‘It should console you, in time. Women of such stuff as you are made of cannot grieve for ever for a coxcomb. If they do, they degrade themselves to his level.’
He saw the scarlet colour that rushed over her face and throat, and the strangely mingled glance she threw towards him. He had not miscalculated.
‘You did not know him. You have no right to call him a coxcomb,’ she said. ‘You slight me by—’
‘By supposing you capable of making a mistake? There you are wrong. The only thing that can be infallibly predicted by one human being of another, is that during his life he will make a great many mistakes. I should slight you if I supposed you capable for a moment of breaking your heart for Jerome Wellfield.’
He had spoken the name advisedly. It had never passed between them before. Its effect was to make her cover her face with her hands, and cry faintly and pitiably.
As Falkenberg saw this sight–saw this girl crouching and weeping, and heartbroken and desperate in consequence of having been deceived and deserted by Jerome Wellfield, his heart was hot within him. He went up to her, took her hands from before her face, and as she looked at him she saw that his eyes were full of wrath, and his brow clouded with angry feeling.
‘Sara!’ he said abruptly, and almost sharply, ‘you demean yourself by this behaviour. Listen to me: answer me: You will never cast a thought to that man again. If he were at your feet to-morrow you would turn away from him, for you are no patient Griseldis. Is not this true?’
‘Of course!’ she exclaimed, brokenly; ‘why do you ask me such questions? Do you wish to insult me?’
‘No. I only wanted your word for what I felt to be true. Nothing–no repentance on his part would induce you to—’
‘I will not bear it,’ she exclaimed, passionately. ‘Let me go. You have no right to—’
‘Sara, I have no right to say any of these things to you. I know it too well. Will you give me the right–not to ask any more such questions–but to protect you and stand by you in this and every other trouble you may have? Will you leave Jerome Wellfield to reap what he has sown, and let me try to prove to you that there are men left in this world who know how to set a woman’s happiness higher than their own convenience? Will you be my wife?’
Falkenberg had once or twice tested the extent of his influence over Sara, but he had never pushed the experiment so far as this; and he felt that it was a crucial test: his power over her trembled in the balance; with her final decision now it must stand or fall. As she did not speak, but sat still, gazing at him, while he, stooping towards her, held her hands, and looked intently into her face, he went on:
‘You have been too absorbed to see that it was no mere “friendship” I felt for you. But I tell you now, that I would wait for you to my life’s end–only, I cannot keep up this show of indifference. Choose now, Sara. Promise to be my wife, or dismiss me once for all. It must be one or the other.’
‘Oh, do not leave me here alone!’ she cried, involuntarily.
‘Then consent to what I ask. You told me once that you had faith in me, that you believed in me. Have you lost it all?’
‘Not a jot.’
‘Then take my word when I tell you that you shall not repent. Let me call you my wife. Give me the duties of your husband; I ask for no privileges. I will wait–wait twenty years, and never repent. Neither shall you.’
‘But you know–you must know–I do not love you. I am not sure that I do not love him, even yet–may God help me!’
‘Yes, I can understand it all. But decide, Sara, now–at once. Once again I give you the alternative; it depends on you whether I go or stay.’
This was intimidation, and he knew it. He used it because he had a great end in view, and he saw no other way of gaining it.
‘Speak!’ he added. ‘Do you consent?’
A long pause, till she answered coldly, and turning, if possible, a shade paler than before:
‘Yes.’
‘I thank you from my very soul,’ he answered, kissing first one and then the other of the cold nerveless hands he held. ‘And now I will leave you. You would prefer to be alone, I know. Good-night! Remember, all I am and have are at your service.’
She made no answer, and the deathly hue of her face never changed or altered. She did not reply to his good-night, nor take any notice of him, as he went out of the room. He found Ellen, and sent her into the room, saying:
‘I think your mistress will be ill. If she is, send for me. She will quite approve of it.’
Wondering, Ellen went into the sitting-room, and her heart echoed Falkenberg’s words when she saw her mistress. Ellen had come to feel that the most utter breakdown–fever, delirium, or raving–would be better than this prolonged conscious suffering. She could almost have found it in her heart to pray for death or madness to come and relieve her darling from this torture.
‘May he be paid his just wages!’ she kept wishing within herself, ‘measure for measure–not a grain more or less; and he’ll have had about as much as he can endure. I ask no more.’
The end of that long-drawn agony came at last, as come it must. After Falkenberg had gone, Sara began to pace about the room; once or twice the consciousness of what had passed between her and him, crossed her mind, and a vague accompanying idea, which scarcely attained the consistency of a positive intention–that when she was better, and better able to reason, she would tell him that she had made a mistake; that what he bargained for was out of the question; she would do him no such wrong. His threat of leaving her had been the last straw; she had been unable to face the alternative. She could not do without him; for in crises like these we see every day the adage belied that ‘vain is the help of man.’ It is man alone that can sustain and comfort man in such an emergency; it is then that there is brought home to us the utter powerlessness of supernatural aids to touch our woe.
Ellen, in her room, towards morning, heard an abrupt pause in the measured footsteps, and something like a long moaned-out sigh. She hastened to the other room, and found that Sara had at last, dressed as she was, flung herself upon her bed, and lay there motionless.
When Ellen spoke to her she murmured some incoherent words, but it was evident that she did not understand what was said to her.
The woman felt a sensation almost of relief. At last she could take matters into her own hands, and her first step of course was to send for a doctor–a doctor to cure a strange disease. Where are such physicians to be found? and when shall we cease our quest after them? She sent for Falkenberg, too, as he had desired her to do; and she heard what he said to the doctor who had come out of Sara’s room, looking grave. Falkenberg asked him what was the matter–was the case a serious one?
The doctor looked from Rudolf to Ellen, and answered by another question:
‘Has the young lady any relations? If she has, they should be sent for.’
‘I do not know how that may be,’ replied Falkenberg; ‘or whether she would desire her relations to be sent for, even if she were in extremity. But she is my promised wife, and that being the case, I beg you will consider me responsible in every matter that concerns her.’
The doctor–a grave man–bowed, also gravely, and said, that that being the case, he might say that the lady was very dangerously ill, and before deciding upon any measures, he would prefer to consult with his colleague, Dr. Moritz.
‘So be it,’ replied Falkenberg, repressing an impatient sigh.
The note was written: the appointment made for an hour from that time. Leaving directions for what was necessary to be done at once, the doctor departed.
‘Sir,’ said Ellen, turning with some agitation to Falkenberg, ‘excuse me, but is it true what you said to the doctor, that my young lady had promised to marry you?’
‘Quite true. I wrung it from her last night, by telling her that she degraded herself by grieving for that other fellow. And if she lives, my friend, I intend her to be my wife; therefore don’t distress yourself on the subject. You will keep faith, and are her oldest friend, therefore I wish there to be confidence between us.’
‘Thank you, sir. I hope indeed you may succeed. I wish you well with all my heart,’ she said.
The two doctors looked very grave. It was as Ellen had dreaded–they feared for the permanent loss of her reason, after the long, unendurable strain, and the cruel blow she had had. Falkenberg, without naming names, inspired only by an intense desire for her recovery, had judged it best to be tolerably explicit as to facts. One of the doctors–he named Moritz–looked down at the unconscious face, remarking:
‘Ay! She has been betrayed, and there are natures to which betrayal is death.’
‘But Miss Sara was never one to give way,’ said Ellen, appealingly. ‘She was as strong as a man, sir, and as simple as a child, in her mind.’
‘Then she stands so much the better chance. From what you say I conclude she was not a morbid subject,’ he answered, as he went away.
Falkenberg’s visits were, of course, daily. Wilhelmi called many times. His wife and daughter went once into the sick-room, and came out again; Frau Wilhelmi with all her mother’s heart showing in the pity of her eyes, Luise crying aloud, and vowing that she would never forget it till her dying day. The sight of her proud and beautiful friend tossing senselessly to and fro–of the great grey eyes gazing with meaningless fixity at her–of the vacant stare and smile upon the face that had once beamed with intellect, had shaken her careless girl’s heart, and given her a glimpse into depths she had never dreamed of before.
‘Ach, mamma!’ she murmured, as they went sorrowfully away: ‘I don’t think Falkenberg will ever have his wish–der Arme!’
‘Who knows?’ answered Frau Wilhelmi. ‘I am glad her mother cannot see her.’
It was a desperate battle, if not a very long one. For more than a week life and reason in the one balance, death or madness in the other, oscillated with a terrible uncertainty. But Sara Ford was not doomed to lose either life or reason in the struggle. ‘Strong light,’ says Goethe, ‘throws strong shadow.’ And a strong, intense nature makes a strong, obstinate struggle against all kinds of adversities which ‘the subtlety of the devil or man’ may bring about. There came an evening when the doctors, going away, pronounced her safe–sane, living, if with no more strength than a two-weeks’ child may possess.
It was after they had departed, and while the nurse kept watch over her patient, that Ellen, after literally feasting her eyes upon her ‘child’s’ face, shrunk to a shadow of its former beauty, went into the parlour for a few minutes, to take a moment’s rest, and to indulge in the luxury of some thankful tears. It was quite late, yet she was scarcely surprised to suddenly see Herr Falkenberg, who strode into the room, and, standing before her, asked breathlessly:
‘Is it true, what I heard outside–that she is safe?’
‘It is quite true, sir, I thank God!’
‘Oh!’ he said, biting his lips, and drawing in his breath with a long inspiration.
The next moment he had cast himself upon a chair beside the table, and, with his face buried in his hands, was sobbing aloud.
Awe-struck, Ellen stood by for a few moments, till he looked up and demanded to hear every particular of this recovery, this conquest, this triumph over death, which, though they had always professed themselves so sure of it, came upon him at last with a sense of joy and relief that was almost overwhelming.
‘I must see her as soon as she can see or speak to anyone,’ he said. ‘You said you were my friend, Ellen, and you must manage this for me. If she gets well and strong, she will try to break off her compact, out of mistaken consideration for me–you understand?’
Ellen did not understand, but she had an intense desire to know her mistress Rudolf Falkenberg’s wife, because she was convinced he was good. She knew, from innumerable stories, that he was rich, and, in his way, as great a man as some great nobleman, and therefore a suitable husband for Miss Ford, though not at all beyond her claims. But firstly and chiefly she wished it from a feeling, vulgar enough, and natural enough too, to one of her position, up-bringing, and mental calibre–she wished it as a kind of revenge upon Jerome Wellfield–to show him that a man worth a hundred of him in every respect was only too glad and eager to win the prize which he had cast aside.
From this motive, if from no other, she would strain every nerve to forward Falkenberg’s cause. Therefore, when he said to her ‘You understand?’ she affirmed that she understood perfectly, and so let him go.