Chapter VIII: ‘content Thee with One Bitter Word, Adieu!’

The morning came, and with it, according to his promise, Jerome came to breakfast, bringing Avice with him. ‘Try to persuade her to be pleased to stay with me,’ Sara had said to him, to which he had naturally replied by an emphatic wonder as to what else than pleasure his sister possibly could feel at the prospect.

Sara was restless that morning. She wandered from her studio to her sitting-room, and back to her studio again. She had told Ellen that the gentleman who had called last night would come to breakfast with his sister, and Mrs. Nelson had busied herself in preparing as _recherché_ a repast as possible, placing fresh flowers on the table, and making everything look bright and festive.

‘The gentleman was English, wasn’t he, Miss Sara?’ she asked.

‘Yes, he was—is, I mean.’

‘Then we’ll show him that we know how to serve an English breakfast, nice, and bright, and choice; rather different from their pots of butter, and baskets of cobs, and a table-cloth, and a coffee-machine—that’s about all they give you for breakfast in these parts,’ said Mrs. Nelson, resentfully, for she had never got over the disgust she had experienced in partaking for the first time, and seeing her young lady partake, of a German breakfast, in the native boarding-house style.

Accordingly, the breakfast-table, in the shady corner of the room, was a refreshing spectacle; but Mrs. Nelson’s eyes, despite her seeming engrossment in her work, kept wandering towards her mistress, whose restlessness she had not failed to observe.

‘Only the gentleman and his sister, Miss Ford?’ she asked tentatively.

‘Yes. And—Ellen!’

‘Ma’am?’

‘I want you to like Miss Wellfield very much, for she is coming to stay with me, for several months, at least.’

‘Is she, ma’am? About how old is the young lady?’

‘About sixteen. Ellen, you know how I trust your judgment—what confidence I have in you?’

‘You have often proved it, Miss Sara, and I hope I shall always deserve it.’

‘I know you will. Well, you will wait upon us at breakfast, and I wish you to notice both Mr. Wellfield and his sister well. I want your opinion about them.’

‘I will do so, Miss Sara,’ said Mrs. Nelson, to whom such proofs of confidence on her mistress’s part were by no means new. She had been the girl’s closest attendant, most faithful servant, and most trusty friend from her earliest infancy. Mrs. Ford had committed her child to Ellen’s care on her death-bed. She loved her lady with the devotion of a mother, and with the dog-like fidelity, as well, of an old, trusty, conservative retainer. Sara was accustomed to consult her upon all imaginable matters, save only those concerning the toilette, in which, she told Ellen, her tastes inclined to the sombre, ‘to the good, old-fashioned dining-room furniture style, Ellen. Your dress always reminds me of maroon rep curtains.’ Ellen knew as well as a woman can know, that there must be something between her mistress and this Mr. Wellfield of the nature of a love-affair. How far it had gone, she did not know. She shrewdly suspected that, sooner or later, she would hear more on the subject. It pleased Sara to enlighten her, at the present moment, on another point.

‘Mr. Wellfield has had a great misfortune lately,’ she said. ‘His father is dead, and he has lost his whole property and estate. He does not know what he may have to live upon, or if anything will be left. He is going to England to settle his affairs, and I have invited Miss Wellfield to stay with me in the meantime.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Ellen had just replied, when the two rings, following quickly one upon the other, announced the expected visitors. Ellen went downstairs to admit them. Sara paced up and down her parlour, thrilling with the sensation that Jerome was far more formidable now, when he had her secret in his keeping, than before, when at best he could only have guessed it.

They stood within the room. Sara felt her heart beating and her eyes swimming, but she discovered where Avice stood, and holding out her arms said, in a faltering voice:

‘Has he told you? Will you come to me?’

‘Oh, how good you are!’ sobbed the girl, springing forward, throwing her arms about her neck, and hiding her face on her shoulder. ‘How very good you are!’

That was a pleasant meal, despite the cloud which hung over them, despite the unwelcome nature of Jerome’s errand to Manchester. It was a pleasant, and almost merry meal; and yet a nervous one, as the minutes flew relentlessly by, and the time for departure approached more inevitably.

‘I must see your atelier before I go. I came here on purpose, you know,’ said Jerome; ‘and we must go now,’ he added, looking at his watch, ‘for my time is short.’

They were alone in the studio. It was light, but sunless, for it faced north. It was bare, and yet furnished, like all studios. Two or three easels stood about—a number of unfinished canvases—some of the plaster masks and casts known as ‘gyps;’ and on a pedestal, a great jar of the blue and grey pottery they make about Coblenz, full of roses.

Jerome saw them. ‘I must have one of these,’ said he, turning the jar round. ‘Here is one—this Gloire de Dijon—more than a bud, but not yet fully blown. That is when a rose is more beautiful than at any other time. It is just like you,’ he added, drawing it from the jar, and shaking the water from it. ‘And now, Sara, what of the future?’ he added, drawing her to him. ‘Why do you always look at me as if you were half-afraid of me?’ he added, gazing down into her fascinated eyes. ‘Avice never does. Yours is not “perfect love” if it has not cast out fear.’

‘Avice—you will never have the same rights over Avice that you have already over me,’ she replied, tremulously.

Jerome smiled. The sensation he felt was not one of displeasure. How rapidly his nature had developed during the last six weeks, he little knew. His former cool indifference to most women had passed into passionate love for one—he did know that. What he did not know was that his love was of the masterful kind, not only delighting to inspire devotion, but loving to subdue. He had said, ‘Why do you look half-afraid of me?’ in an almost reproachful tone, but in his own mind he did not reproach her with that shade of fear, or anxiety, or whatever it might be. He did not understand the weight and the force of her nature. He measured what was not shown of it by what was—her utmost capacities by the devotion and humility of her love for him. He knew from a thousand signs and tokens that she was proud to an exceeding degree, and sometimes imperious. The knowledge that he had tamed her, and the deprecating look which told him that here he was supreme, was sweet—boundlessly sweet. He would have given worlds for a week to spare here—a week in which to inhale these fumes of sweet-smelling incense.

‘What claims have I over you, that I have not over my sister?’ he asked, smiling still, looking down into her troubled grey eyes with the look which had haunted her ever since the first time she had met it. ‘Legally, I have far fewer claims, for until Avice is of age, she is as much in my power as if I were her father; whereas you——’

‘I did not mean legally. I meant morally, of course; the rights that love gives, Jerome—the right to my thoughts and wishes, and life and hopes.’

‘You have the same rights over me,’ he said.

‘And yet you do not look afraid of me, you mean. It is different, Jerome. Not that I am really afraid of you,’ she added, looking up more confidently. ‘And you said something about the future,’ she went on, as her fingers played with the little locket and ring which hung at his watchguard.

‘Ah, about the future—yes. Will you trust me, and wait?’

‘Through everything, Jerome, most implicitly,’ she replied, and this time there was no wavering in the glance which met his, full, open, and candid.

‘And would you prefer it to be kept quiet, or made known?’ he added; ‘because I wish to do exactly as you please in the matter.’

‘Let us not mention it,’ she replied slowly, and with downcast eyes. ‘My friends are very few, Jerome. Let us have the comfort—you and Avice and me—of keeping it quite to ourselves. I hate to think of people speculating about it.’

‘As you will. But suppose—how shall I put it? If it is imagined that you are free—Sara, you must know it is most improbable that no other man will ever wish to win you. Some one is sure to fall in love with you, and then——’

‘It is most unlikely—most improbable,’ she began, with a deep flush.

‘That any other man in existence should have the bad taste to admire what I have found so perfect and so desirable,’ he said, sarcastically.

‘My life is so quiet. I go out so little. Now, with Avice as my companion, and you to think of, I shall go still less.’

‘That is sophistry, Sara. Look at me, and tell me you honestly believe that, if you are supposed to be free, no man will ever care for you again?’

‘You are cruel to press it so. If such a thing should happen, it will not be my fault, and I should know how to set him right on the subject,’ she said, proudly.

‘Well—so be it! And now, my love, it must be good-bye, for my time is growing very short. Stay!’ he added, and he unfastened from his watchguard a little ring which hung to it. ‘This was my mother’s betrothal ring. Take it from me, in token that you are mine, and I am yours.’

He slipped it upon her finger. It was a hoop of sapphires—the stones which are emblematic of steadfastness and faith, and it had been given by his father to his mother. With that he took her in his arms, and kissed her good-bye in a long, sorrowful kiss; then loosed her and took her to a chair.

‘Stay there,’ said he. ‘It will only make it worse if you come out. I will send Avice to you.’

He was gone. She knew nothing more until she felt another pair of arms about her neck, and heard Avice’s voice choked with tears:

‘He has gone! What shall I do? Oh Jerome, _mein_ Jerome!’

Then her own tears were loosened. The girls wept in one another’s arms, and were comforted.