Chapter XI: Gefunden

When Wellfield left her, Sara sat down, trembling and unnerved. But that sensation was not of long duration. Soon she recovered, and was astonished at the sudden lightsomeness of heart which she felt. It was as if some thunder-cloud had burst, had discharged its flood of storm-rain, and dispersed, leaving a sky behind of a blue etherealised and idealised. It was not the effect she would have expected–the very reverse; it gladdened her as unexpected joy does gladden. She did not mention, even to Ellen, the visitor she had had. She had a plan in her mind, which came there spontaneously; she found it there; it gladdened her, thrilled her, filled her eyes with happy tears. She would make it the pretext for telling Rudolf that she loved him; she would so tell the incident of Jerome’s unlucky and reckless visit to her, that no doubt should remain in her husband’s mind as to what she meant, for as to speaking out the words to him which she had said with such boldness and composure to Wellfield–the very idea of it was impossible.

Ellen, as she helped her mistress to undress, wondered greatly what could cause the frequent smile, and the brightened eyes which she instantly noted.

The next morning was a clear, glorious autumnal one; a white mist enveloped the valley, and covered the river and the fields which bordered it, and the long rows of poplars between which it flowed, while the tops of the hills stood out, clear and distinct, bathed in a flood of golden sunshine, and the sky above was like a sapphire for clearness and depth of hue.

Sara drank in deep draughts of the sweet, bracing air, and as she looked around, her heart swelled within her, and an impulse which for months had slumbered–had been as though it had never inspired her, animated her once more–the desire, namely, to take her brush in her hand, and picture that scene as once she would have had great joy in doing. But after first arriving at _Mein Genügen_ she had had such an impulse often, and nothing had come of it; when she had tried to reduce it to action, she had been so disheartened with the dulness, the utter absence of life, of the old strength and craft, that it was now long since she had renewed the attempt. This morning, though the impulse was at first strong within her, she shook her head, and decided not to make an attempt which must end in disappointment. She opened her book, and tried to be interested in that.

Soon the effort succeeded. It was an Italian history, which she had found amongst Falkenberg’s books, and the page at which she opened it pictured that scene in which _il rè galantuomo_, contrary to the advice of his great minister, and other wise and potent counsellors, had insisted on preserving in the speech from the throne which he was to utter on opening parliament, an allusion to the sufferings of his people, and his own sensibility to them. That ‘cry of anguish’–that _grido di dolore_ of which the King spoke, has now become historical. Sara did not remember even to have read of it before, or, if she had, she had passed it by, and forgotten it. What drew her attention to it on this occasion was a mark in pencil beside the sentence, and at the foot of the page, on the margin, the words, in her husband’s handwriting:

‘Surely a fine subject for a picture, treated either allegorically or literally.–R. F.’

Sara’s hands, with the book in them, sank gradually, and she raised her face, full of musing and reflection, towards the clear hill-tops, whose bases and all beneath were swathed in mist.

‘It _would_ make a grand picture,’ she mused, ‘for all who knew the allusion. _Il grido di dolore_.... When Victor Emmanuel spoke those words they were prophetic of the release of his people–of their salvation. There spoke the deliverer. The scene should not be all a cry of anguish; there should be a tone of hope as well. It would be best treated allegorically, I believe. I suppose, if I treated it as I should wish, I should be called narrow and feminine in my idea. No doubt I should make it personal–turn Italy into a human being–bring my own experience to bear upon it–what has my language been of late but a _grido di dolore_; more shame for me, no doubt! I wonder how _he_ thought of its being represented. I wish I knew. Surely any real representation of the thing should show not only the lower creature crying aloud in its agony, but the strong spirit which has heard its cry and will raise it up.’

Again she looked across towards the hills. The mist had almost all cleared away. The river was now perceptible, winding in silver links towards Coblenz; the poplars and the fields, the red-roofed villages and the peaceful homesteads, all came into view. Upon her spirit, too, fell a peace which it was long since she had experienced. She went into the house, and found that the post had come in, and that breakfast awaited her. There was one letter for her, and that was from Falkenberg. Throwing off her hat and shawl, she eagerly opened and read it. It was from Rio–so far had they progressed in their wanderings–and it gave her a graphic account of their recent expeditions, of the glowing beauty of the Brazilian scenery, and of the odd, eccentric habits of his companion.

‘I think you would like him, though. He has real original genius beneath all his whimsicalities, and some of his sketches are masterly.’ Then he went on to say that their movements were undecided; they did not know whether to make a further journey or to return to Europe.

He made many inquiries after her health, her pursuits, her happiness, and begged her to write very soon. ‘You cannot tell with what eagerness I look for your letters. You will not quarrel with me for saying this, since I am such a long way off. Sometimes the longing to see your face is so intense that I feel as if I must start up, and be off then and there–_auf der stelle_; but do not be dismayed. The aberration, when it comes, is only temporary. You need not dread my bursting in upon you suddenly, without preparation; that is, if you will keep me pacified by some more letters like your last one.’

She finished it breathlessly, and, as if by a sudden, irresistible impulse, pressed the paper again and again to her lips, with passionate earnestness.

‘Oh!’ she murmured to herself, ‘would that you were here! Will anything step between us? anything come to keep you and me apart _now_? I cannot think that the end of this story will be all that it should be. And now I shall tremble always, till I see you–and–perhaps even then. Who knows?’

Later in the forenoon, she felt again irresistibly impelled to try once more if her old craft had not come back to her. She took a canvas, and her palette and brushes, and tried to sketch in some representation of the scene which had haunted her ever since she had seen the pencilled words at the foot of the page. Again she opened the book, and again read the words: ‘I am not insensible to the cry of anguish–_il grido di dolore_–which arises from my faithful people in all parts of my kingdom.’ As she drew, her heart beat ever faster and faster. It was a man’s figure that she outlined; the figure of a king, it was intended for–of one who, by nature and by circumstance, was a ruler. Her crayon moved more slowly as she tried to infuse into this figure some of the royalty of bearing and look with which, in her own mind, she invested the form of this ‘deliverer.’ When, after a couple of hours’ diligent drawing, the outline stood out clearly before her, she looked at it, and saw that it was good; it _was_ kingly, dignified; majestic and benevolent too. She had not failed. She was not to be robbed for ever of her old power. Her art had been restored to her.

That, she felt, was enough for one day. She had not been aware with what intense eagerness she had longed that she might prevail–that life and skill might be restored to her hand, until, when she at last saw that ‘it was so,’ she broke down, and burst into a passion of tears–but tears which, if stormy at first, soothed and healed in the falling.

It was evening of the same day. Sara sat down in the quaint old salon, in the flickering firelight. There was an open English grate in which pine-logs were burnt, for the appearance of comfort; and there was likewise a porcelain stove to produce the reality of it. She had sent away the servant who came with lights, saying she would ring when she wanted them; and now, with her cheek propped on her hand, she sat and gazed into the fire–into the red map of the land of dreams. It was indeed a vague, aimless dream in which she was lost; and yet there was an undercurrent of passion about it, a solid basis to the vision. That letter from Rio, which she had had that morning, which lay open in her hands now, which she had just been reading, and which had wafted her on its thin pages away from this place altogether. She pictured to herself tropical climes and South American forests. Could he be perhaps wandering with his friend in the solemn, desolate splendour and luxuriance of such a forest, even now? At least, wherever he was, he was hundreds of leagues away from her. She had visions of stately vessels borne onwards by soft south-western gales–gentle gales. So, equally, she could see, in the map that was constantly changing its boundaries by a process of crumbling, visions of fair and busy cities–foreign cities, full of pleasure and gaiety, most beautiful to behold, but all a very long way off–hundreds, yea, thousands of miles away.

The great distance, the feeling that if anyone asked her, ‘Where is he now?’ she could only answer, ‘I know not!’ weighed her down with an unspeakable despondency. Then, like a flash of fire across this chill mood of resignation, darted a longing, intense and uncontrollable, to have him there, at that very moment. Oh, if he would but come! If he would but come! Could he not understand the meaning her last letters had tried to convey? Could he not read, ‘I love you,’ between the lines? This intense, concentrated longing for the bodily presence of some deeply-loved personality is a painful thing when one longs and goes on longing in spite of the secure knowledge that no amount of longing will bring that person to one. Thus it was with her. She covered her face with her hands presently, and her heart throbbed. Did he in this moment experience half of the same feeling? If she could have thought it, she would have felt almost satisfied. But how could he? She raised her head, and looked round the room–her favourite, because it was into it that he had led her and Countess Carla, on that far back, happy red-letter day whose full worth and meaning she had only within the last weeks began really to realise.

‘Could not a miracle happen?’ she thought; ‘could not he have followed quickly on the footsteps of his letter, and–but heaven forgive my presumption! Why should such notice be taken of _me_?’

Even as she thought it, a cloud seemed to come before her eyes; her very breath to stop. Yet she was rising from her chair, advancing to meet the ghost–to prove the miracle, which seemed to waver and flicker before her eyes; if she touched it, if she stretched out her hand, or found her voice, would it not melt away? Surely it would. He was in South America. She unsteadily moved out a hand, as one who gropes in the dark. But that was no ghost’s touch–no phantom fingers which captured it, drew it, her other hand, all of her, into a close embrace; nor was it any unearthly voice which said:

‘The aberration conquered at last, Sara. Your last letter came immediately after I had posted mine to you. I took it to mean that I might come.’

‘You understood, Rudolf, at last?’

‘At last, thickhead that I am, I thought I understood.’

‘Ah!’ said Sara, ‘when I saw you come in, I thought you were of the same nature as a phantom–a dead man, who visited me last night, an evil spirit which I exorcised by the use of your name. I thought I saw your ghost, Rudolf.’

L’ENVOI.

Six months later Jerome Wellfield was formally received into the Roman Catholic Church, in the large chapel at Brentwood; and six years later Nita’s child was sent to the college of that name, there to begin his studies under the polished and accomplished supervision of the Fathers of the Society of Jesus.

Green wave the trees to this day over the river walk of Wellfield Abbey, and placidly that stream flows past the ruined cloisters, and under the wooded ‘Nab.’ The Abbey farms are as fat, and the Abbey lands as productive now, as they were in the days of its proudest fame. Once, years after these things had happened, a carriage, with a lady and a gentleman in it, drove through the village of Wellfield, over the bridge, away from John Leyburn’s house. The persons in the carriage had been to pay a flying visit to John Leyburn’s wife. As their carriage drove slowly up a steep hill just outside the village, they saw below them to the right the whole of the Abbey–the river, the avenue, even the ancient, hoary front of the house, and the lawn before it. It was a brilliant July evening, and they saw, slowly walking about that garden, three figures–that of a tall man, who held the hand of a slender, graceful-looking boy, whose face was turned towards his guide, and beside them, the figure of a priest, who appeared to be speaking earnestly, and who raised his hand now and then, as if to enforce his argument. The two travellers looked long at this group, and at the slender shadows they cast upon the dazzling green of the grass–as long as they could see it, until a bend in the road shut it all abruptly from their view: and then they looked, each into the other’s face.

‘What a life! What an ignominious slavery!’ observed Falkenberg, with more than a tinge of contempt in his tone.

‘If he finds peace in it, Rudolf?’

‘_He!_ And what about the poor child whom your friend was telling us about–what about his wife?’

‘I have often asked myself that question, and I can find nothing that gives me any answer to it–neither religion, nor irreligion, nor faith, nor unfaith. I told you long ago that Jerome Wellfield was as a dead man to me. And think of what he must feel himself dead to, before he could come to this. But he had no deliverer.’

They became silent until they drove into Burnham, from which town they were to take the train to London, on their homeward way. This was the last glimpse into Jerome Wellfield’s life which Sara ever obtained or asked for.

THE END.

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD.

_J. S. & Sons._

Transcriber’s Notes.

1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical
errors.

2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.